Page 47 of A Spell of Midlife Mayhem

‘Now, wait a second—’

I hung up. I’d listened to Terry for far too long. It was three thirty, and I wanted to go back to sleep.

Of course, he rang back straightaway. ‘Why won’t Rose tell me where you are? Are you living with some new man?’

‘No, and even if I was, it wouldn’t be any of your business. We’re separated.’ Another fist-pump. If I wasn’t so tired, I might enjoy myself even more than this.

‘Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about that too, but we got cut off. Look, Heather, I made a mistake. A terrible mistake, yes, but we all make mistakes like that, don’t we?’

‘I haven’t.’

He coughed. ‘Well, that’s true, but I’m sorry. Is that what you want to hear? I shouldn’t have done it, but please understand. I was depressed from having lost my job and being out of work. I had all that time on my hands, and my colleague was in the same position and we just, you know...’

‘Fucked?’ A little thrill raced through me. I’d said the f-word, not just thought it.

‘If that’s what you want to call it, sure. A few times. Maybe twenty or so. But it meant nothing. You know, affairs never mean anything. It’s you who I married, and it’s you who I love. I think we should call off the house sale, get back together and get back to our lives. I talked to the school this morning, and they’re willing to give you your old job back. They miss you too.’

I bet they do. ‘I’m not interested, Terry. It’s over.’

‘Where are you? Can I come over? Let’s talk about it like sensible adults.’

‘No, I’m in a much better place now, and I’m not going back to that old life. Goodbye, Terry.’

I hung up again and put the phone on silent, but when I tried to go to sleep, rest evaded me. My mind raced with a plethora of thoughts and concerns: Rose, Terry, Raven, Aunt Ruth, and even Countess Chirtle occupied my thoughts through the hours until dawn.

Chapter 17

I GOT UP EARLY BECAUSE I couldn’t sleep and quietly made breakfast. Aunt Ruth was still asleep. Raven wasn’t up yet, if he’d come back at all. His bedroom door was closed. Maybe he was like the early bird—off getting worms, or whatever ravens ate.

My shift at Chirtlewood House didn’t start until 8.30 a.m., but I was ready an hour before that, so I went anyway, stopping to buy the pastries from our favourite bakery on the way, which opened at 7 a.m. I let myself into the house, left the pastries in the office and went upstairs to the library. I could browse the shelves for a while before my colleagues arrived and we got ready for the day.

A tall, elderly man sat in one of the leather chairs in the library, staring into space. He was dressed in a buff coat with scarlet doublet sleeves and a matching baldric and cape. A white linen shirt poked through his open-seamed sleeves. A short linen collar and leather boots with the cuffs rolled over finished his outfit. A pipe protruded from his mouth. It didn’t seem to be lit, but the smell of burnt tobacco permeated the air.

I stopped inside the doorway. ‘Who are you, and how did you get in here? The house doesn’t open until nine. And there’s no smoking allowed.’

The man gave me a derisory glance before resuming his blank stare. ‘Begone, maid.’

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