get stranded in sunlight. Not that there was a lot of chance of that in February, but…
“The car protects me.”
“You should have just dropped me and driven home. I’ll be fine.”
Stella shook her head. “I wanted to be able to assure Tom, if he asks, that I saw you safely on the train.” But he’d still throw a hissy fit. Another reason to get back quickly.
A signal failure outside Birmingham added fifty-seven minutes to the six-hour journey. By the time Angela stepped down onto the platform at Totnes, she was ravenously hungry. Train food wasn’t the sort to sustain a ghoul. She had to find meat, probably should look for her hotel, and wanted above all else to scour the leather shops. The town looked small. How hard would it be to find one shop?
Harder than she anticipated.
The clerk at the Royal Oak, a woman called Sarah, hadn’t heard of Mariposa but admitted she didn’t live in Totnes. She drove in every day from Kingsbridge. She suggested Angela walk up Fore Street and look for herself, and gave her a small street map. Seemed there were only three main streets—Fore, High, and Castle. Mariposa had to be on one of those. With a bit of luck she’d find it this afternoon, return in the morning, be back before Justin, and never be missed.
Food was her next most pressing need. Catty-corner from the hotel, near the river, was a butcher shop, not a full-scale grocery store but a narrow shop front with a window display of sausages, chops, roasts, and steaks set out on a marble slab. Couldn’t be handier.
Angela indulged in local venison steak, lamb chops, and organic corn-fed chicken. Famished as she was, she hauled her booty back to her hotel room. Chewing on a raw steak in public was not the way to pass as mortal. Putting aside the chicken and half the chops for later, she ate, her energy returning as she chewed and swallowed. Rounding off with a cup of coffee, courtesy of the kettle and supplies in her room, she wrapped up the leftover bones—no point in leaving them in the room for a curious maid to find—and set off. Armed with her map and resolution, she started up Fore Street in a soft Devon drizzle.
It was later than she realized. The afternoon was already fading, and some of the shops were closing. Interesting old shops lined the steep street, but none was called Mariposa. A clock arch spanned the street halfway up. Different enough. Surely she should remember it? She didn’t. It was a fascinating curiosity—something England seemed to be full of—but as a trigger for her fragmented memory, it was useless. She walked on up the hill, promising herself she’d stop at the used bookstores after she found the all-important Mariposa.
At the top of the hill, Castle Street veered off to the right. Twice she walked up and down the steep, twisting street with its mix of old cottages and shops, but there was no sign of a leather shop. She darn well was not giving up. Tomorrow, when the shops opened, she’d ask in every single one. Even if, as she was beginning to suspect, Mariposa had closed, someone would remember it.
It was close to full dark, and the drizzle showed no signs of stopping. She might as well save her efforts for the morning and get out of the dark and the rain.
She was halfway back up the street, and more than ready to be back in the warmth of her hotel room, when she passed a little shop she’d half-noticed earlier: Crystals and Dreams. Angela paused briefly to look in the bow window hung with crystals, candles, and hand-painted scarves. No leather jackets, but there were two pairs of soft leather slippers in a corner.
A bell jangled as Angela pushed the door open and stepped into a cluttered shop that smelled of joss sticks and pot. She looked around, not sure how she recognized the two smells but certain the hand-rolled cigarette in the woman’s hand wasn’t made of best Virginia Bright. Not that she had any idea what Virginia Bright was; like so many snatches of memory, it just poked her mind. But Angela felt pretty certain Virginia Bright was a whole lot more legal that the sweetly smouldering contents of the gray-haired woman’s toke.
“Can I help you?” She smiled at Angela but didn’t move from the bentwood rocker.
Angela postponed her mission to find a leather shop as she glanced around the little store. “I’d like to browse, if you’re not closing.”
“Not to worry, my love.” The rocker creaked in the quiet. “You have a good look around. Anything special you want?”
Other than her true identity? “I’m not sure.” Something about this cramped shop that made her feel—comfortable, as if she belonged. Odd thought! She’d been comfortable at Stella and Justin’s. They and Sam treated her like another member of their family. Tom’s London house had impressed her. She’d wandered from room to room, marveling at the size and luxury, but not overwhelmed. She’d felt at ease among the Adam fire surrounds and the antique furniture. But in this overstocked shop full of the scents of incense and cannabis, she felt surrounded by familiar things. Obviously, she was affected by secondhand inhalation of illegal substances.
Angela moved from a display of crystals to boxes of candles in all colors, jars of dried flower petals, and sachets of herbs. The smells of lavender and rosemary, pine and anise, tugged at her blocked memories. Or perhaps her senses were heightened in the close atmosphere of the overheated shop. Outside, a gust of wind blew rain against the small windowpanes. Better in here than getting drenched outside, if the owner didn’t mind her using the shop as a place to stay dry.
Moving away from the shelves of herbs and jars, a display of tarot cards twanged Angela’s fogged memory. As she reached for a deck, recognition came in a rush. She read cards! Not these pictorial ones, but true cards. She could because…The floor seemed to shift under her feet. She grasped the table as she fought to stay upright and retain the fading shreds of memories.
“Hang on!” a voice called from a distance. “Came over funny did you? Here, have a seat.” With more strength than her gray-streaked hair suggested, the woman had Angela by the waist, steadying her until she plonked down in the rocking chair. “Keep your head down a mo…” She pushed Angela’s head between her knees.
Ungainly and undignified, but effective. Her head cleared fast, and as the pressure on her shoulders eased, Angela raised her head to meet a pair of worried, dark eyes. It was the first time she’d actually looked closely at the woman. Her complexion was almost Hispanic in tone, and her long, dark hair was abundantly streaked with gray, but her face was alert, intelligent, and wise.
“Take it easy, my love. You came over faint.”
“I’m okay.” It was a lie but…
“You sit tight there and I’ll bring you a cup of tea.”
“Please don’t bother.” Surely she could stand up and go. It wasn’t that far back to the hotel.
“No bother!” The woman shook her head. “I have a pot brewing in the back room. I made it just a minute before you walked in. I always have a cup this time of day. You stay put.” The last came out as an order. Angela stayed put. Maybe a nice, warm drink would help. She’d learned one new thing this afternoon—ghouls could faint.
Angela sat back, the chair creaking in a reassuring way as she rocked. She looked down at her lap and noticed the deck of cards in her hand. Not these. She wanted simple telling cards. Ones like she’d always used…
“Here we are.” The woman returned with a small tray. “Milk and sugar?”
“Please.” Angela let go of the cards, and took the mug, closing her hands around its warmth. The woman pulled in a straight-backed chair from the room behind and sat beside her.
“Cheers,” she said and drank. “Since we’re sharing a cuppa, I’m Meg Merchant.” She set her mug down and held out her hand. It was strong and her handshake was steady.
“I’m Angela Ryan.”
“Welcome to this part of the world, Angela. Come far, have you?”
“From Yorkshire.”
Meg nodded and sipped her tea.
Tasting