The Library of Lost and Found. Phaedra Patrick

of a kettle and an orange light glowed. ‘I thought you might be interested in my message…’

      Martha wasn’t sure how to tell him that she didn’t know what his message was. But then he might think her showing up on his doorstep at night was very strange. So instead she said, ‘Yes. Very much.’

      Owen peered into a cup then shook in instant coffee from a jar. He poured in hot water, then added a glug of milk and a spoonful of sugar, without asking how she took it. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘This should warm you up.’

      Martha wrapped her hands around the cup and waited for it to cool down. Owen leaned casually against a stack of boxes that was taller than him. ‘Better?’ he asked. ‘Do you want a slice of toast?’

      She shook her head and a raindrop trickled down her forehead. ‘No, thank you. About your message…’ she hinted.

      ‘It’s a gorgeous title, isn’t it?’ Owen said.

      ‘Yes, it’s lovely.’

      ‘Very evocative.’

      ‘Yes. Um, what was it again?’

      Owen shrugged. ‘Blue Skies and Stormy Seas. Dexter had to do a fair bit of searching around to find it. He left me a message this afternoon and I called you straight away.’

      ‘I was hosting a reading group, at the library.’

      ‘And you got my message and came over,’ he said with a smile.

      ‘Something like that.’

      ‘Dexter thinks the book was definitely self-published. He’s going to see if he can find where it was printed and the date.’

      ‘And did he find out the author’s name?’ Martha asked casually, as she blew into her coffee.

      ‘It’s by E. Y. Sanderson,’ Owen said. ‘Dexter doesn’t think he’s written anything else.’

      Martha’s fingers twitched. Her cup shook and coffee ran, hot, over the back of her hand. It dribbled along her wrist and down her sleeve.

      ‘Whoops.’ Owen ripped off a piece of kitchen towel and handed it to her. ‘Are you okay?’

      She nodded.

      ‘You kind of threw coffee… at yourself.’

      Martha dabbed at her wrist. ‘I think the author is a she,’ she said quietly.

      Instinctively, she knew deep inside that there could only be one possibility for the book’s authorship.

      ‘Excuse me?’

      ‘E. Y. Sanderson is a lady,’ she told him. ‘Ezmerelda Yvette Sanderson. It’s my nana’s full name.’

      Owen insisted on driving Martha back home. She sat in his car stiffly, aware that her wet coat would dampen the seat. The footwell of his old Ford Focus was full of stuff – screwed-up carrier bags, paper bags and car park receipts. ‘Sorry about the mess,’ he said, as he batted an empty sandwich packet off the dashboard.

      Still feeling dizzy from the revelation that Zelda had written the book, Martha sank down in her seat.

      ‘It’s so cool that your grandmother was the author,’ Owen said, as they turned the corner onto the coastal road back to Sandshift. ‘But didn’t you say they were your stories?’

      Martha nodded. It was too confusing to think about this now. She wondered why she’d never seen a copy of the book before, if Zelda had written it. With too many questions swirling around in her head, she just wanted to get home. She managed to answer Owen’s comments and questions with a range of hmms and nods, until they neared the library.

      Martha pulled up the collar of her coat, in an attempt to go incognito in case anyone was around. ‘Please drop me here,’ she said, when they reached the end of her road.

      ‘Are you sure this is close enough… to where you live?’

      ‘Yes,’ Martha said, momentarily distracted by the sight of her shopping trolley parked back outside the house. She wondered if Siegfried had returned it. ‘It’s a narrow road to get the car down. I’ll walk from here.’

      ‘I’ll call you about the book, as soon as Dexter gets back in touch.’

      ‘I don’t know how to thank you…’

      Owen shrugged. ‘Coffee and cake is always good.’

      Martha got out of the car and gave him a small wave. As she took her keys out of her pocket, she caught sight of something small and glinting in the trolley. She picked out her hair slide and held it between her thumb and forefinger for a moment. It shone under a street lamp and she fastened it back into her hair.

      When she opened her front door, the dragon’s head gave her a stiff smile, and she gave it one in return.

      The cuckoo clock ticked and Martha stood in the middle of the room. It was past nine o’clock, her father’s supper time, and it still felt strange that he was no longer here. There was no smell of burnt toast, the way he liked it.

      Martha patted the dragon on its head and swung an invisible mallet through the air. She tossed her notepad onto the dining table, too tired to take a look at which tasks she’d failed to accomplish.

      As she slumped in the wooden chair and looked out the window at the glistening sea, she leaned over and pressed the button on the answering machine. Then she closed her eyes and let the sound of Owen’s warm tones wash over her. She liked the way he said Blue Skies and Stormy Seas, like he was reading a bedtime story.

      She thought about the strange sensation that had engulfed her in the arcade, as she bashed the crabs. She’d been unable to identify it before, but now she could.

      Freedom. She imagined it might be what freedom felt like.

CHAPTER EIGHT

       Chinese Dragon

      ‘Martha. Martha.’

      A voice shouted from outside and the doorbell rang, but Martha wasn’t sure if the sounds were in her dream or not.

      She’d slept fitfully through the night, dreaming of the Sandshift sea and its inky waves. A fishing boat rocked, in trouble, and she stood rooted to a spot on the sands. She frantically waved her arms, but there was no one around to see or hear her. As she waded into the water, it sloshed around her ankles, then her knees and thighs. The boat bobbed and vanished. Martha tried to shout, but the water lapped at her chest and then her chin. She felt the seabed beneath her toes and then it was gone. Twisting in the water, she was far from shore. The waves chilled her bones and pulled her under. No one could save her. She thrashed until she gave up and let herself sink slowly down.

      It was a recurring dream that she’d had since she was a child. Sometimes it might be months until it invaded her sleep, and she thought it might have gone, but then she’d close her eyes and find herself battling the ferocity of the waves again.

      ‘Martha.’

      The call of her name brought her back to the safety of her own room. She opened one eye and then the other. Relief washed over her when she realized she was in her bed.

      With a shiver and her nightie clinging to her chest from sweat, she noticed she’d kicked all the covers off the bed. She scooped them up and gathered them around her. Her arms were sore and stiff from handling the hammer, and she groaned as she pulled on her dressing gown. As her actions of the previous day began to speckle back into her memory, she didn’t want to see or speak to anyone.

      The doorbell rang again and she slid wearily off the mattress. She pushed her feet into her slippers and trod downstairs. Grudgingly opening the front