The Library of Lost and Found. Phaedra Patrick

      ‘Let’s sort through them together. We can decide what to keep, and what to let go.’

      Lilian ran her fingers through her expensively highlighted hair. ‘Honestly, I’m happy for you to do it, Martha. I’ve got two kids to sort out, and the builders are still working on the conservatory.’

      Martha saw two deep creases between her sister’s eyebrows that appeared when she was stressed. Their shape reminded her of antelope horns. A mum brow, her sister called it.

      Lilian looked at her watch and shook her head. ‘Look, sorry, but I have to dash. I’ll call you, okay?’

      But the two sisters hadn’t chatted since.

      Now, Martha wove her way around a crate full of crystal chandeliers she’d offered to clean for Branda, and the school trousers she’d promised to re-hem for her nephew, Will. The black bin bags were full of Nora’s laundry, because her washing machine had broken down. She stepped over a papier-mâché dragon’s head that needed a repair to his ear and cheek, after last year’s school Chinese New Year celebrations. Horatio Jones’s fish and potted plants had lived with her for two weeks, while he was on holiday.

      Her oven door might sparkle and she could almost see her reflection in the bathroom sink, but most of her floor space was dedicated to these favours.

      Laying everything out this way meant that Martha could survey, assess and select what to do next. She could mark the task status in her notepad with green ticks (completed), amber stars (in progress) and red dots (late). Busyness was next to cleanliness. Or was that godliness?

      She also found that, increasingly, she couldn’t leave her tasks alone. Her limbs were always tense, poised for action, like an athlete waiting for the pop of a starting pistol. And if she didn’t do this stuff for others, what did she have in her life, otherwise?

      Even though her arms and back ached from handling the trolley, she picked up a pair of Will’s trousers. With no space left on the sofa, she sat in a wooden chair by the window, overlooking the bay.

      Outside, the sea twinkled black and silver, and the moon shone almost full. Lowering her head towards the fabric, Martha tried to make sure the stitches were neat and uniform, approximately three millimetres each, because she wanted them to be perfect for her sister.

      Stretching out an arm, she reached for a pair of scissors. Her wrist nudged the brown paper parcel and it hung precariously over the edge of the dining table. When she pushed it back with one finger, she spotted a small ink stamp on the back.

      Chamberlain’s Pre-Loved and Antiquarian Books, Maltsborough.

      ‘Hmm,’ she said aloud, not aware of this bookshop. And if the package contained a used book, why had it been left at the library?

      Wondering what was inside, Martha set the parcel down on her lap. She untied the string bow and slowly peeled back the brown paper.

      Inside, as expected, she found a book, but the cover and title page were both missing. Definitely not a library book, it reminded her of one of those hairless cats, recognizable but strange at the same time.

      Its outer pages were battered and speckled, as if someone had flicked strong coffee at it. A torn page offered a glimpse of one underneath where black and white fish swam in swirls of sea. On top was a business card and a handwritten note.

       Dear Ms Storm

      Enclosed is a book that came into my possession recently. I cannot sell it due to its condition, but I thought it might be of interest to you, because of the message inside.

       Best wishes

       Owen Chamberlain

       Proprietor

      With anticipation making her fingertips tingle, Martha turned the first few pages of the book slowly, smoothing them down with the flat of her hand until she found the handwritten words, above an illustration of a mermaid.

       June 1985

       To my darling, Martha Storm

      Be glorious, always.

       Zelda

       x

      Martha heard a gasp and realized it had escaped from her own lips. ‘Zelda?’ she whispered aloud, then clamped a hand to her mouth.

      She hadn’t spoken her nana’s name for many years. And, as she said it now, she nervously half-expected to see her father’s eyes grow steely at its mention.

      Zelda had been endlessly fun, the one who made things bearable at home. She wore turquoise clothes and tortoiseshell cat’s eye-shaped glasses. She was the one who protected Martha against the tensions that whirled within the Storm family.

      Martha read the words again and her throat grew tight.

      They’re just not possible.

      Feeling her fingers slacken, she could only watch as the book slipped out of her grip and fell to the floor with a thud, its yellowing pages splayed wide open.

CHAPTER TWO

       The Little Book

      As Martha picked the book up from the floor, she tried to focus, thinking if she’d seen it before. Zelda’s name and her message somersaulted in her head. However, her brain seemed to be functioning on low power, unable to make sense of this strange discovery. A shiver ran down her spine and she placed the battered book back down on the table.

      Her shoulders jerked in surprise when the cuckoo popped out of the clock on the wall and sang nine times. Turning and heading for the back door, Martha was keen to take in some fresh air.

      Outside, a sharp gust of wind whipped her hair and she rescued strands from her slightly too-wide mouth. Her thick walnut curls had greying streaks that gave her hair a zebra-like appearance, and her eyes were so dark you might assume they were brown, not seaweed green.

      Her paisley skirt and her supermarket-bought embroidered T-shirt gave little protection against the chilly night. Fancy clothes weren’t much use when you lived on top of a windy cliff, and sensible shoes were a must. She was a big fan of a sparkly hair slide, though. A tiny bit of shininess nestled in her curls.

      Walking to the end of the garden, Martha wrapped her arms across her chest. When she was younger, she used to sit on the cliff edge with her legs dangling, as the sea crashed and swirled below. She’d rest a writing pad on her knees and think of ways to describe the moon.

       It looks like a bottle top, a platinum disc, a bullet hole in black velvet, a silver coin flipped into the sky…

      She’d write a short story to share with Zelda.

      ‘Yes,’ her nana would proclaim with zeal. ‘Love it. Clever girl.’

      But now, as Martha stared up at the sky, the moon was just the moon. The stars were only stars.

      She’d lost the desire and ability to create stories, long ago, when Zelda died, taking Martha’s hopes and dreams with her.

      Martha tried not to think about the message in the book, but it gnawed inside her.

      It was too late to ring Chamberlain’s bookstore and she didn’t like to disturb Lilian during her favourite TV programme, Hot Houses. It was her sister’s guilty pleasure, the equivalent of an hour in a spa away from her kids, Will and Rose. But she was the only person Martha had to speak to.

      She nodded to herself, headed back inside the house and picked up the receiver.

      As the phone rang, Martha imagined her sister with her feet curled up on her aubergine velvet sofa. She worked from home as a buyer for an online fashion store and would be wearing her usual outfit of white stretch jeans,