Page 93 of The Secret Christmas Bookshop
Sophie didn’t miss the amusement in May’s voice, and she hoped the other woman saw her scowl before she turned on her heel and, using her phone to guide her, left the lounge and went back into the hall, then through to Harry’s study.
She felt better in here, because it was such a familiar room to her now. But it was freezing, and the sound of heavy rain hitting the windows, the wind screaming through the trees outside, was overwhelming. She tried not to think about what the sea might look like right now; how big and terrifying the waves must be.
She padded over to the fireplace and crouched next to the log basket. She picked out a couple of the larger logs, and was about to stand up when there was another noise. It sounded as if it was inside the room, a creak, followed by a rat-tat-tat. Sophie shivered. She knew there were rumours of a ghost at the manor, but she’d been here so many times now, and had never felt anything remotely eerie.That’s because you’ve always been with Harry, said a little voice in her head.
She glanced over to the far corner of the room, but she couldn’t see anything except shades of grey and black, shapes that looked like they were moving, but couldn’t be. She returned to her task, choosing a couple more logs. The noise came again, louder than before. A long, slow creaking, as if something was gradually ripping open. All the hairs prickled up on the back of her neck, and goosebumps covered her skin.
Sophie put the logs down and raised her phone toilluminate the far side of the room, where there were floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Was there a mouse, or some other small creature? Was this room falling apart? Harry had told her it wasn’t finished, but she thought he meant it needed new furniture. It had always seemed structurally sound when she’d been in here.
She panned her light over the bookshelves, and froze. There was a gap, right in the corner of the room. Shining the light on it, she could see a black, impenetrable void. It made no sense, but there was agapbetween the bookshelves. The rat-tat-tat came again, followed by another creak, and Sophie swallowed her fear and got to her feet.
She tiptoed across the room, holding her phone up in front of her. She got closer, closer … and then she saw what was going on. Part of the bookshelf was also a door. The shelves were real, the books arranged on them were real, but a portion of it was on a hinge, and the door was ajar, revealing a void behind it.
Sophie pressed her palm against the books and pushed, and the door moved slowly inwards. She was hit with a waft of cold, damp air that was nothing like the air in the study.
She blinked, her brain trying to make sense of what she was seeing, and then there was a flash, and all the lights came on: the side lights in the study lit her from behind, and in this new, hidden space there was one large standing lamp and a smaller lamp, both of which were now glowing, illuminating everything.
The first thing Sophie saw was that this was an annex, a single-storey room bolted onto the side of the house, and that it had been damaged in the storm. A thick branch musthave snapped off a tree in the high winds and crashed through the roof, landing in the centre of the space. Rain fell through the gap, swirling to the floor, drenching everything inside. The next thing she noticed was Felix, standing frozen next to the fallen branch, as if unsure how he’d ended up there. Sophie swallowed, wondering how close he’d come to being hit by the bit of tree. He was wearing a blue jumper covered in silver snowflakes, and when he saw her he let out a plaintive bleat.
Sophie held out her hand to him, but her attention was snagged by the walls, all of which were lined with books, rows and rows of them, on built-in shelves. Some looked new but a lot of them were old, tatty, falling apart. Some didn’t have covers, their spines visible, glue covering the pale lines of the sewn signatures.
Her eyes fell on the wall to her right, and the pine desk that looked like a workstation. It was covered in tools that Sophie was so, so familiar with. There was a carpenter’s square and an awl, a cutting board, a ruler, and a sharp-looking craft knife. She could see a wooden book press and a roll of mull, the fabric used to strengthen the spines of books, fixing the adhesive but leaving them flexible so they could open properly. These were all things she used to create her casebound leather journals, and seeing them here, in a secret room in Harry’s house, made her brain stutter.
And then, right in the middle of the desk, spot-lit by the lamp sitting on a shelf above it, there was a single, beautiful book.
Sophie’s breath stalled.
It was bound in a rich blue cloth, and had bronze foil details – they looked like dandelions – scattered over thecover. The colours were different, but it was so similar to her copy ofJane Eyre, to Winnie’sMrs Palfrey at the Claremont. On the front was written, in bronze foil to match the dandelions:Northanger Abbeyby Jane Austen.
Her heart in her mouth, Sophie stepped forwards and picked it up, tipping it so she could see the spine. The title and author were printed down the side and then, at the very bottom, there was the same logo she’d puzzled over on her own book, wondering what it meant.
Suddenly, it was obvious. The little house with two chimneys, its roof a perfect, symmetrical triangle, was an H laid over an A. H for Harry. A for Anderly. Her book had come from him: he had lied to her. She gently placedNorthanger Abbeyback on the desk, her thoughts scrambling as she turned away from it.
Harry was standing in the doorway, holding his shoulder, his expression a confusing mix of pain and panic.
‘Sophie.’
In that moment, all her hopes of staying in Mistingham with him fell away, leaving behind anger, and hurt, and sad resignation.
‘What is this?’ she asked, emotion clogging her throat.
She stood there, with Felix’s warm, damp body pressed against her leg, and waited for Harry to somehow explain all this away, so she didn’t have to give up on the future she had only just found the courage to hope for.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
‘It isn’t what you think it is.’ The moment he said it, Harry made a face, as if realizing that was the least promising start to his defence.
‘Right.’ Sophie’s voice sounded so flat, she almost didn’t recognize it.
A crash of thunder made them both jump, and Harry held his hand out. ‘Let’s go into my study. I don’t think it’s safe here.’
‘What about your precious books?’ Sophie flung her arm out behind her.
She saw him waver for a split-second, his gaze flicking over her shoulder, then he shook his head. ‘Come on.’ She let him pull her out of the annex and into the study. He shut the door firmly, then went straight to the fireplace, even though the lights – and so presumably the heating – were working again.
‘You got the generator going, then,’ Sophie said, because even though she was angry and confused, she hated thesilence between them: hated that he’d been out in the rain with an injured shoulder.
‘It took me and Dex longer than we’d like, but we did it.’ He arranged paper around the wood, nestled the firelighter in the middle and lit it, staying on his knees until it was flaming. Then he hauled himself up and dragged one of the armchairs across the rug, so they were closer. He gestured for her to sit down, then sat right in front of her.
