The Library of Lost and Found. Phaedra Patrick

the disastrous reading group session and being asked to leave the arcade, Martha wondered if she had anything to lose. In fact, the thought of doing something out of character again gave her a small buzz. And she wanted Zelda’s book back.

      She knocked on the glass, not giving herself the chance to talk herself out of it. Her pulse raced as she waited for a response.

      A few moments later a light went on in the back room. A large dark shape moved through the doorway and towards the door. A face appeared at the glass and Martha raised her hand in a short wave.

      ‘Martha.’ She heard her name, muffled, from inside the shop. The door rattled and opened. Owen stood with bare feet. His suit was crumpled and he munched on a slice of toast. ‘You’re soaked through.’

      She nodded meekly, noticing that the sleeves of her coat shone wet in the dark.

      ‘When I left you the message, I didn’t expect you to come over,’ he said. ‘Come inside.’

      Martha heard her shoes squelch as she stepped into the shop. So, he had rung her. Wondering if he’d found anything made the skin on her forearms tingle.

      ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’ He glanced at the small puddles on his floor. ‘And my slippers, too.’ He closed the door behind her and locked it.

      She followed him around the counter and into a storeroom. It was full of boxes, but not positioned neatly, as in her dining room. These ones were all different sizes, stored at angles. Some were ripped with books poking out and some were still taped up.

      ‘Sit down.’ Owen gestured to a high wooden stool and she hitched herself up onto it. He tapped the switch on the side 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