《Ravensdale》


 Chapter One- The Desk

    New York City


    2012


    Dora Harding had not expected to be in her best friend''s antique shop that day. After all, she was supposed to be back at the florist''s shop, trimming the stems of thorny summer roses and organizing all the colorful tulips, but she needed to come into the store after receiving that text about something incredible she needed to see.


    It sounded cryptic, and it concerned her, especially after the trip he had made to London for an antique auction. His store was still struggling, even after a recent boost in sales. She was concerned he bought something that would bring him even more in debt.


    "David," she called out, her voice echoing against the faded hardwood floor that groaned with every step. "I''m here!"


    But there wasn''t any response.


    "David!" she said again, this time even louder. "Are you here? I got your text!"


    Where was he? It was strange, considering he was constantly in the store, either at the front register, or talking to customers about the historical artifacts he bought at the random auctions he would frequent. Such was his way of life.


    "David? Did you run off again?"


    She walked toward the section of the shop where there was a plethora of books that had once belonged to people, but now collected dust in a random shop. Dora sometimes would imagine if the books had personalities, and if they did, what stories would they tell?


    Dora passed by the rows of antique books that had that familiar, comforting scent. Books that aged with the subtle passing of time. It was the reason she was always happy at home ¡ª the scent of old books was something that she grew up with. She stroked the spines of the books and noticed one out of the ordinary. Was it new? It was a book about the artworks of her favorite painter, Sarah Greyson. She opened the book and began thumbing through the pages, stopping when she noticed one of her favorite paintings ¡ª one of a young girl sitting on a bench in a bustling park, wearing a dress a riveting shade of red.


    "Dora?" A voice pierced through her thoughts.


    "David! Where on earth have you been? I called your name so many times."


    David stood there, staring at Dora with confusion, but he smiled anyway. "I''ve been in the back the whole time, Dora. I didn''t hear you come in. Wasn''t expecting you here until later in the afternoon."


    "God, I love the way you say afternoon," Dora said with a smile. "Your accent sounds even heavier now that you''ve come back from London."


    He grinned, shrugging. "Happens when you''ve been there nearly a month."


    "Well, when you sent that mysterious text that I just had to come and see whatever new thing you got," she said.


    He nodded, his grin turning into a full smile that reached his eyes. "I didn''t mean for you to come here now, but it''s wonderful to see you again. It''s been a hell of a week."


    David''s dark blond hair was messy, and his face had a little stubble on it. The bags under his dark green eyes were puffy. She pulled him into a comforting embrace.


    "I can tell. You look rough, Dave. Was London kind to you?" She asked, putting a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.


    "London is London. Belgravia, Westminster, Whitechapel, you name it, I was there."


    "I so wish I could have gone with you." She crossed her arms, looked out of the window at the myriad of yellow taxi cabs and people walking on the sidewalk in huddled crowds. "I''ve never even been to London. I''m really jealous of you."


    He shrugged. "Well, where I went, you would have died of boredom."


    "But antique auctions seem fun," she said. "I''m sure you got something good while you were there."


    "You''d be surprised at how cutthroat the competition gets. I couldn''t get my hands on that wonderful pressed-flower locket we found online. It was the one thing I wanted the most, but I couldn''t win it. Lost it to some guy as rich as Croesus."


    "It just wasn''t meant to be," Dora said. "There''s always a locket somewhere out there."


    "Not one like that," he said, sighing as he leaned into the counter where he stored most of the jewelry. "It was supposed to be your birthday gift."


    He looked away and for a moment, Dora thought she noticed a glint of something. Was it sadness? He seemed a little different from his normal, cheerful self. Was it the right time to ask him? Was it a good idea? She knew it was a sore subject for him.


    "By the way, did you visit her in London?" Dora asked, scratching her neck.


    He seemed confused. "Who?"


    "Your mother," she said. "It''s been a long time since you''ve seen her. I wish I could have known her. From the way you talk about her, she seemed incredible."


    His shoulders slumped. "I had time to visit her grave. It''s like time never passed at all. Someone left a beautiful bouquet of her favorite flowers, though. It must have been someone close. They even knew her favorite flowers." He looked away for a moment, wiping his cheek. "I talked to her about you, though, so in a way, I guess she knows about you. It counts."


    "You did? What did you tell her?"


    He smiled. "How wonderful of a friend you are to me. Don''t worry. I didn''t tell her about the embarrassing moment when you walked into the cafe where we met." He paused for a moment and looked away. "Your shirt had soot all over it. I think a little of your hair caught on fire too. Smelled like a fireplace, if I remember right," he said with a mischievous gleam in his green eyes.


    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    "I will never use a blowtorch again. Never step into my kitchen again is what the chef told me," she said. "Fired on the spot. I was an absolute mess that day."


    "And then Tilly hired you on the spot," he said, winking. He shuffled his feet, then cleared his throat. "I have to ask you a question. Are you absolutely sure your boss is okay with you not working during the June wedding rush?"


    "She didn''t seem too bothered. She said that she would take care of arranging them but to not forget to come back. I thought it was a little weird, given how frazzled she was all the time. She asked about you, though. Asked how you''ve been, so I told her you were in London for like three weeks. She laughed and said, ''I wouldn''t be surprised if he ends up moving back if he''s been gone that long.''"


    "Your boss is a strange woman," he said. "Did you really think I would ever want to move back to London?"


    Dora shrugged. "You should see her when my dad comes in the shop! It''s hilarious. She buzzes around like a bee. I''m afraid she''d sting him if he got too close. It''s like she would put the fear of God into him or something, the way she acts."


    David''s laugh was an octave higher than usual, resonating through the store. "Your dad is rather, uh, special. I don''t think he realizes how uncomfortable he makes people."


    "My dad is a product of a 1950s, David," she said, laughing. "He barely operates a cell phone. He''s still stuck on beepers and pagers!"


    David shrugged. "He is a doctor. Don''t they still use them?"


    "True," Dora said, going back to the book section and picking up the Sarah Greyson book.


    "I just got that," he said, smiling as he clasped his hands. "I thought you would like it. Happy early birthday!" His face lit up.


    "What?" Dora asked, arching a brow.


    "I hid it there, knowing you''d find it. I know you always come to the books first."


    "Wow," she said. "This is a fabulous birthday present."


    "I know. Come. I want to show you what I texted you about."


    "Is it another birthday present?" Dora asked. "David, this is already generous enough."


    "Sorry, but this one isn''t. Unless you want it as a birthday gift for yourself."


    He gestured for her to follow, his eyes lighting up like a child seeing the presents at a sunny dawn on Christmas morning.


    "So, what you''re about to see, it may seem a little ordinary to the naked eye, but it''s quite rare, and an incredible piece of Victorian history."


    "Oh, well, you''ve got me at Victorian," she said. "What is it, though?"


    She followed him when he didn''t say a thing in response but stopped when he pointed to a cherry-wood writing desk sitting near the center of the store. She held in a breath and stood there in awe of the condition of something so antique such as this. David had put an old globe, and typewriter that was perhaps from the early 1900s on top of it, but the desk itself was one of the most gorgeous things she had ever seen in her twenty-seven years of life.


    "Wow," she said, breathless, almost trance-like. "Where did you get this? At the auction?"


    He nodded, smiling triumphantly. "I fought hard for this beauty. So I guess it worked out I didn''t get the locket we found on the antique estate site."


    "Forget the locket! This is beautiful. It looks like it''s in mint condition."


    "It isn''t. It''s been with the family for a long time. The original owner ended up dying in 1999. It ended up collecting dust in a storage unit, so they parted with it."


    "W-well, how much is it?" she asked. "Like two thousand dollars?"


    He laughed. "8,000 dollars. I think it is reasonable."


    "Why so much?" Dora asked, her stomach turning at the dollar price.


    "It''s quite rare. Only ten desks were made. It''s a Louand and Straub desk, one of the most expensive then. The desk''s superb quality was its downfall. Rare and expensive wood went into the design. It was made far too well for even the most wealthy of Belgravians. The company put so much money into it and on top of the failure of their desk, they liquidated their assets and Louand and Straub was no more."


    "You lost me at rare and expensive, Dave," she said, judging him with her shoulder. "8,000 is beyond my budget for three years."


    Her heart sunk. There went all of her dreams of buying this beautiful artifact and keeping it in the studio loft of her father''s brownstone. She sighed.


    "You shouldn''t have told me, David. You crushed a broke girl''s soul." She rolled her eyes.


    "You asked. If it''s any consolation, I''d give it to you for free. You know that." He placed a hand on her shoulder.


    She set her hand on the desk and the feel of the wood against her fingertips sent fire coursing through her veins. Breathless, she was lightheaded, as if detached from her body. As she allowed herself to close her eyes, the scent, a soft yet gentle fragrance, wafted around her. She could have even sworn she felt a breeze that smelled of roses and the grass, but almost spicy aroma of tulips. Powerless against the waves coming over her, Dora nearly collapsed, but David caught her in time.


    God, I need this desk. I''ve never needed something more in my entire life. I have to have it.


    "Dora," he said, an edge of desperation and worry in his tone, "are you all right? Do you need anything? Did you eat anything at all today? You almost fainted."


    "How much for the desk again?" She asked.


    "More than you make in three months, Dora."


    "I want it," she said. "I don''t care how much it costs. I need it."


    Glancing out of the window, she spotted a young boy with sandy blonde hair peering inside the store. He had a t-shirt on that had 1983 printed across it. When she looked back to see if the boy was still there, he was gone.


    "David," Dora said, "did you see that kid looking in the window earlier?"


    "What kid?" he asked. "I haven''t seen anyone."


    "There was just a kid outside. He was looking at the store through the window. I could have sworn I saw a kid."


    "Nope," he said. "I didn''t notice anyone."


    Dora realized after gaining full composure that she must have imagined it. Returning her attention to the desk, she noticed there was an inscription written on it. Was it there before? Why hadn''t she noticed it earlier?


    "I''m pretty sure that wasn''t there earlier, David," she said, pointing to the words written on the desk.


    "The markings? Those were already there."


    "Wouldn''t that decrease the value?" Dora inspected the writing. It looked like French.


    Je me noierais dans ta clart¨¦.


    "I asked the expert. He said it means ''I would drown in your light''. He mentioned that it''s the words of a rather unknown song by Henri Duparc. Chanson Triste."


    "Do you know why there''s a random French phrase written on it?"


    "I don''t know, to be honest. I think it was probably a kid who was bored. There''s no way for me to know. Only way for me is to communicate with the dead, but clearly can''t do that." He shrugged. "You''re out of luck there, Dora."


    "I like it. The words are random, but it''s amazing."


    The vibration of her phone in her purse almost made her jump. She took her phone out and her heart stilled when she realized who was calling.


    "Hello?" Her heart hammered.


    "Where are you? God, I''ve left you like eight-thousand texts."


    "Your boss?" David mouthed the words.


    Dora nodded as she gestured for David to hold on. "Tilly," she said. "Is everything okay?"


    "You said you were only going to be gone for twenty minutes. Dora, you''ve been gone for an entire hour. I need you here. I''ve got clients breathing down my neck. You''ve got a ton of bridal bouquets to make. Plus, I''ve got flowers that are dying and I''m losing my mind here. I need your magic touch!"


    She sucked in stale air. "Tilly, I''ll be right there."


    "Dora, please hurry before you send me to the ER. I''m dying here. Drowning in flowers. Save me!"


    "She seriously needs my help," Dora said, running a shaking hand through her disheveled, mousy brown hair. "Great. I lost track of time."


    "Well, maybe you should go before you lose your job." David pulled her in for a quick hug.


    Dora dashed out of the antique shop faster than ever, but in the back of her mind, even when she was running through crowds of tourists and locals alike, she could not stop thinking of that beautiful cherry-wood desk.

 Chapter Two- Flowers

    The door to Tilly Ravensdale¡¯s shop flew open as a warm gust of wind, gentle as a kiss in summer, causing flower petals to swirl in the air. The aroma of roses and tulips wafted through the shop, enveloping Dora in her own mind; she always loved opening the door and letting the scent linger in her nose and tasting it on her tongue. The marigold gems, in their vibrant yellow color, seemed to glitter in the pale rays of sunshine, reminding Dora of the fairytales she used to listen to her mother read to her when she was a child.


    The sign above the counter read, The Flower Girl and Dora thought it an apt name for the store because Tilly was certainly one of the best floral arrangers in all of New York City.


    It was only in Dora¡¯s wildest dreams that she could have half the skill of Matilda Ravensdale ¡ª the woman even dressed like one of those people one would see on Instagram photos. A walking cottagecore poster girl dressed in vintage style ruffle tiered dresses with puffy sleeves.


    Dora paled in comparison with her off-white long-sleeved shirt and grey shawl. She had also fallen into the skinny-jean team with long black go-go boots that her father absolutely detested. She wished she was brave enough to go with something a little more adventurous. It was why she would spend hours on social media sites, scouring image after image, and putting it to her wish list, but never actually purchasing it.


    Fresh cut stems crunched under her feet, releasing the heady scent that she had grown accustomed to over the few years that she had been working with Tilly.


    The plethora of flowers that took up most of the counter where Tilly was still arranging the bouquet of light pink and white roses was marvelous. With as simple as roses, her boss knew how to make them look enchanting, as if sparkling in the sunlight. Tilly must not have noticed Dora¡¯s entrance, even through the sharp crystal toned ding of the bell as the old door flung open. It was something that she needed to note to her boss ¡ª replace hinges on the front door.


    ¡°Tilly,¡± Dora said. ¡°I¡¯m back. Do you need me to start with a bouquet? I really am sorry I¡¯m late. I lost track of the time.¡±


    There was no response as her boss continued to cut stems and lay all the roses in a perfect array.


    Dora sucked in the fragrance of rose air through her teeth. ¡°Tilly, please don¡¯t do this to me. Do I still have a job?¡±


    Tilly looked up and gasped, putting her hand to her chest, heaving as she grappled both ends of the portable wooden top counter.


    ¡°Dora, I didn¡¯t even see or hear you come in. For a second, I thought you were an old woman.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m younger than you.¡± Dora laughed. She walked to the edge of the counter and grabbed a stem carefully so as not to get pricked by a thorn. ¡°You need to get your eyes checked.¡±


    ¡°So,¡± she said, after a period of silence hung over them like a cloud. ¡°How did it go at David¡¯s shop? What was this thing he wanted you to see so badly?¡±


    ¡°It was a desk.¡± Dora placed a rose in a vase shaped like an hourglass.


    ¡°A desk?¡± she arched a brow. ¡°All this over a desk? Here I was thinking it was that locket you¡¯ve been raving about for weeks. The one you shared with him when you found it online. Not that?¡±


    Dora shook her head. ¡°It¡¯s a desk. A rare one, too. Louand and Straub¡¯s the company name.¡±


    ¡°I know it,¡± she said. ¡°My husband had one of those. I don¡¯t have it anymore. Obviously, since he left me for another.¡± She stopped and gritted her teeth as she cut a rose stem, then another, and then another. ¡°For another woman.¡±


    Dora never knew what or how to reply to this whenever she went on a tangent about her ex-husband.


    ¡°Was it rare, um, like the one David got? He said the company liquidated.¡±


    ¡°No, not really. They made hundreds of these desks under the name. Almost all of Belgravia was obsessed with the company at first, but I won¡¯t bore you with the history. Leaving England was the best decision I ever made. Good God, New York is a breath of fresh air to all the stifling mansions in Ravensdale. Change subject? I don¡¯t want to have a heart attack screaming about Edmund here.¡±


    Dora set a bouquet aside and began working on another one. ¡°Well, David gave me a birthday present. I¡¯ve got it at the register if you want to have a look-see.¡±


    ¡°Wait, when was your birthday?¡±


    ¡°June 15th,¡± Dora said.


    ¡°And he waited until now to give you your present?¡± Tilly said, arching her brow.


    ¡°He was in London.¡±


    Strange seeming to Dora, but she could have sworn in the moment that she saw Tilly¡¯s lips form a small frown that only lasted mere seconds. Tilly continued to arrange the roses without so much as looking up at Dora.


    ¡°Why was he there?¡± Tilly asked, her pitch lower than normal. ¡°I thought he hated it as much as I do.¡±


    ¡°Well, the auction, that¡¯s why. It was the locket.¡± Dora sighed, leaning onto the table. ¡°He wanted to give that to me instead.¡±


    Tilly grabbed ribbon and with careful motion, tied around the hour-glass shaped vase. ¡°I see. A locket, huh? What did it look like? You never showed me.¡±


    Dora closed her eyes and conjured up the image in her mind. There she saw it as bright and shining as the day she first beheld it on the computer screen. She did not know what to call it ¡ª love at first sight? Was that too romantic for the sensation that swept over her?


    Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    The flowers were forget-me-nots, her mother¡¯s favorite. She thought of her mother then and her heart swelled a little. Seeing the locket and its contents brought back memories she had tried to bury down for a long time. Her father, even years later, was still grieving the loss. She did not want it for herself, no. She wanted it more for him than anything else. To give him something that at least he could remember her by because lately it felt he was slipping away.


    ¡°Dora.¡± Tilly patted her shoulder. ¡°Are you awake? I guess I overworked you, after all. You were snoring like a dump truck.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I didn¡¯t even realize I did that,¡± she said, scratching the base of her neck as she chuckled. ¡°What was your question again?¡±


    ¡°What does it look like?¡± she asked. ¡°The locket, I mean.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s a pressed flower locket, with forget-me-nots inside it. It¡¯s brass too. God, it was beautiful. It was even more expensive than the desk, though. It sold for twelve thousand dollars. The jerk who bought it jumped the price that high. David had to give up, unfortunately.¡±


    Tilly¡¯s cell phone rang, the tune something a little familiar to Dora ¡ª perhaps Mozart or Beethoven?


    ¡°Hold that thought,¡± she said. ¡°I really must take this call.¡±


    Tilly cradled the phone to her ear and greeted the other person on the line, brushing past Dora as she retreated to the back of the room.


    Dora set aside the bouquet that she had finished and went up to the register. No customers had come in since she¡¯d been there, which surprised Dora. The place was usually full of people in between her arranging and checking people out. Her hand brushed against the book David gifted her and smiled, seeing the title of the book.


    Sarah Greyson: A Life in Paint


    Dora opened the book, and her gaze rested upon a painting that she had never known before. It was not in the gallery at the MoMa, nor in any gallery that she was aware of. She tracked where every one of Sarah Greyson¡¯s paintings ever were. There was The Innocents, perhaps her most famous, at The Louvre. Then, The Stranger and Elizabeth at Hyde Park at the MoMa. The Doctor at The New Orleans Museum of Art.


    The painting was that of a young man, standing in a garden by himself. His head hung low, contemplative, in the painting and immediately Dora connected with it. She looked down at the title and it read The Parting.


    ¡°What do you mean, you can¡¯t?¡±


    Tilly¡¯s voice was loud enough to ring through from the closed door of their back room and it made Dora stop in her tracks and bring her ear closer to the source of the sound.


    ¡°Come on, you know that¡¯s ridiculous. You should have told me you would not buy it, you stupid idiot. You know I gave up my life for you, Edmund? I gave up a career in art because you wanted to marry me. And you blow it all away for that woman? Disrespect me again, you piece of crap. You¡¯re even worse than a piece of crap. You¡¯re a pile of chicken poop. Yeah, you heard me right. You¡¯re so nasty and filled with acid that you burn things; you burn everything in your wake. I can¡¯t believe I married someone like you.¡±


    Then the harrowing scream that followed. Dora didn¡¯t know what to do. Only that at the moment she felt a complete wave of sorrow for Tilly. But what could she do for her? She¡¯d had her fair share of men breaking her heart, but she was never married. Never had to deal with the pain that Tilly was going through, and she was going to run through in her mind the things that she was going to tell her, the words of support for someone that she looked up to like a sister almost ¡ª the sister that she never really even had.


    Tilly walked out and quickly wiped her eyes, cheeks, sniffled and resumed working on flowers. She kept her head hung low, never looking up once.


    ¡°You never told me you¡¯re an artist,¡± Dora said, breaking the silence between them.


    ¡°You heard it,¡± she said, drawing a long sigh. ¡°Edmund broke my heart yet again.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re avoiding my question. You never told me you were an artist.¡±


    ¡°I honestly don¡¯t want to talk about it. It¡¯s a tough point in my life. I lost a good friend around that time, too.¡±


    Dora frowned. ¡°What happened to your friend, Tilly?¡±


    ¡°She died, Dora. My best friend, dead. Just like that. We were at an artist¡¯s retreat, and she never came back. They found her favorite shoes by the river a few days later. It was because the art school accused her of plagiarism. She lost everything. I stopped painting after her death.¡± She shuddered and her body wracked with sobs. ¡°Oh, God, Dora. I don¡¯t want to talk about it anymore. Let¡¯s close up the shop. I can¡¯t even look at flowers right now. I need to go home.¡±


    ***


    Dora breathed in the air of Manhattan as she walked along the sidewalk, passing by rows of shops. A few blocks away was David¡¯s shop. She contemplated going in. After all, it only took about ten minutes to get there on foot. She wanted to see that desk again. There was something that drew her in even more than the pressed-flower locket.


    She picked up her pace and saw her reflection in some of the glass from buildings. For a moment, she thought she saw herself in a dress and not her outfit. Only lasting a few seconds, she took the thought out of her mind. She must have been even more overworked and tired than she thought, especially since she fell asleep on the job.


    Relief took over her body when she opened the door to the shop after seeing the open sign on.


    ¡°Welcome in!¡± David¡¯s voice said, rather absentmindedly, as the bell dinged.


    ¡°Now tell me, kind sir,¡± Dora said. ¡°Where may I find the nearest old-fashioned very expensive desk that costs more than my salary for eight months?¡±


    He dashed from the register and with a bright smile, said, ¡°Well, if you¡¯re interested in the desk, I have some suggestions. I have a very fine one right here. It is a treat!¡± He laughed and walked up to Dora, pulling her in for an embrace. I thought you were going to be working overtime. Not that I¡¯m complaining. The rare treat is seeing you here not once, but twice in a day.¡±


    ¡°Tilly got into one of her moods again. Can¡¯t say I blame her, though. Her ex sounds like a genuine piece of work. Edmund Ravensdale. The dude that¡¯s been on the news lately about the Titanic Gala they¡¯re hosting in England.¡±


    He nodded. ¡°I¡¯ve seen the news. I could have stayed longer to go to the gala, but I wasn¡¯t sure. I missed...¡± He paused for a moment, sighing. ¡°I missed New York.¡±


    ¡°Well, New York missed you, too, Dave. It wasn¡¯t the same without you.¡±


    He smiled and touched her cheek with one finger. ¡°I guess I¡¯m officially a citizen then.¡±


    ¡°Dave, you¡¯ve been a citizen since before we even met.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± he said, shrugging. ¡°But I never really felt like I fit in here. Not till we met. So, there¡¯s that, I guess.¡±


    Dora was about to respond when the door opened, and an older man walked in. He wore a fine gray suit, his hair not completely white but almost there. He seemed to Dora to be in his seventies, maybe early eighties.


    ¡°Oh, Dr. Thomas!¡± David said with a smile. ¡°This is the expert I was telling you about, Dora. It is lovely to see you again, sir. To what do I owe the pleasure?¡±


    He nodded. ¡°I want to purchase the desk, Mr. Markham.¡±


    Dora¡¯s heart sunk. No. It was supposed to be hers.


    ¡°But David,¡± Dora said through clenched teeth. ¡°The desk. I want it.¡±


    ¡°Oh, well Dr. Thomas, it looks like you¡¯ve got some competition. This young woman, my friend Dora, wants to purchase it as well.¡±


    He gave Dora a once-over, and the way he looked at her made her blood almost boil. What was it about the man that made her blood boil at first glance? She did not know, nor did she care. All she wanted was that desk and she would stop at nothing to get it.

 Chapter Three - The Letter

    Dora watched as the older gentleman shook David¡¯s hand. He wore a knitted sweater that was probably just as old as him, and his wide-rimmed glasses took up half of his face. He walked up to the desk. Her breath hitched as she observed him in a trancelike state as he stroked the surface of the desk with his fingers.


    ¡°Sir,¡± David said. ¡°It¡¯s a surprise seeing you. Did you come all the way in from England just to talk to me about purchasing the desk?¡±


    ¡°I was in the area and remembered you informing me where your shop was located. In all honesty, Mr. Markham,¡± he said, his attention still on the desk. ¡°I can¡¯t stop thinking about the desk.¡±


    ¡°You can¡¯t?¡± David asked, looking at Dora and mouthing to her, ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    No. I can¡¯t let him leave with this. I must have it. I must.


    ¡°Sir,¡± Dora said, her insides contorting when the older gentleman tore his gaze away from the desk.


    ¡°Are you speaking to me?¡± He arched a brow.


    ¡°I am. Look, I was just talking to David here about purchasing the desk.¡±


    He did not seem to show any expression on his face. Instead, it seemed as if he was ignoring her. He took out a checkbook from the front pocket of his tweed jacket. His wide rimmed glasses fell to the tip of his nose as he began scrawling down numbers on paper.


    ¡°I¡¯m willing to give you a check, Mr. Markham. Right now. I am paying you what it is worth, plus extra, since I know your lot marks things up. I will do anything to have it.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Dora said, making her voice more present in the room. ¡°You won¡¯t have it because it is not up for debate. I was going to talk to David about buying the desk for myself.¡±


    This man grated on her last nerves. From the way he ignored her very presence in the room.


    ¡°It is true, Dr. Thomas,¡± he said with an apologetic smile. ¡°She was just discussing with me about the prospect of purchasing it when you walked in.¡±


    ¡°Do you have any idea what this is, young lady?¡±


    ¡°First,¡± she said, stopping him with a gesture of her hand. ¡°I am twenty-seven years old. You do not have to call me a young lady like that. I am not someone you can talk down to like that. And second, I know what it is because it¡¯s a Louand and Straub desk. The company shut down shortly after, which is why they¡¯re so rare.¡±


    ¡°Well, I found out who it belonged to, thanks to my research. Before whomever owned it in 1999. I must have it. I had come into the store and find you. After my research, I have discovered something incredible.¡±


    ¡°What did you find out, sir?¡± David asked, as if hanging on to the older man¡¯s every word.


    ¡°It belonged to the artist Sarah Greyson. The same one that painted The Garden.¡±


    Dora¡¯s heart soared when she heard this.


    ¡°Do you have any documentation?¡± David asked with a smile. ¡°That is an incredible discovery.¡±


    ¡°Here,¡± he said, setting his large messenger bag on the desk. ¡°I have it right here. It is a copy of an incredibly old photo.¡±


    ¡°Oh my God, you¡¯re right.¡± David peered closer and closer to the picture. ¡°I even see the inscription. Dora, see this.¡±


    She walked up to the photo and intuitively knew it was the same desk as in the photo. She did not even need to see the inscription.


    ¡°I have the means to pay for it, Mr. Markham. And I came all the way from England. Please consider this. Do you know what this means to have a desk owned by the great Sarah Greyson in my collection?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± Dora said. ¡°What that means is that you¡¯ll stuff it somewhere with all your other fancy things. It¡¯ll never get used properly. You will take it out to show your friends, bragging about the fact that it once belonged to Sarah Greyson. I know your type,¡± Dora said, not caring about what anyone else in the room would think.


    ¡°How dare you insinuate that I will not care for it properly? What kind of disrespectful person are you to speak to me in such a manner? My God in Heaven, who raised you?¡±


    ¡°My dad. Who raised you to treat me like I am not even in the room? Like I said earlier, sir, I am buying the desk. I was here first. David, if you would check me out now, I would really appreciate it.¡±


    David nodded. ¡°She is right, sir. She was here first, so I am sorry, but you¡¯re out of luck.¡±


    He scoffed as he stuffed his checkbook in the front pocket of his messenger bag. ¡°You¡¯re going to regret it. You¡¯ll regret every waking second you bought this desk.¡±


    ¡°Have a beautiful rest of your evening, sir,¡± she said with a smile.


    ¡°Mark my words. You will regret it.¡±


    ***


    David had offered to take Dora home in his Ford F150, with the desk harnessed in the truck bed. He put the music on, his favorite station. Classical music. They listened to the flourishing arpeggios of the violins against the soft, unassuming piano. The music was somber, but Dora liked the way the music rose and fell without too much drama.


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    ¡°That¡¯s one of Chopin¡¯s piano concertos,¡± David said. ¡°Doesn¡¯t it sound like his music, Dora?¡±


    ¡°Maybe it¡¯s Liszt. Y¡¯know, I¡¯m going Chopin, so I need to make a grocery Liszt.¡±


    He put one hand over his heart. ¡°Not the corniest music joke ever.¡±


    ¡°Might be John Cage.¡±


    ¡°John Cage couldn¡¯t compose music like this even if he tried.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s your deal with Cage?¡± she asked, shaking her head.


    Her father was obsessed with the music of Cage. She practically grew up listening to the eclectic style, and even the silence of 4¡¯33, or the lack of it, depending on perspective.


    ¡°Not a fan of the postmodern,¡± he said, turning the steering wheel and ending up on the street where Dora lived.


    They passed rows of brownstones, slowly, because of the congregation of New York that filled up the streets of Manhattan.


    ¡°And there you have it,¡± the announcer on the radio stated. ¡°That was the awe-inspiring music of Frederic Chopin. Doesn¡¯t it make your heart feel full when you¡¯ve got a cup of tea while listening to the blissful music of the Bard of the Romantic Era? Up next, we have music inspired by a painting of the late great artist Sarah Greyson. It¡¯s called Girl at Hyde Park. The composer is the renowned musician John Kent.¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± David said, chuckling as he shook his head. ¡°I called it. Didn¡¯t I call it? Chopin was the composer!¡±


    ¡°What a funny coincidence,¡± Dora said. ¡°Sarah Greyson again. It¡¯s like the third time she¡¯s come up today.¡±


    ¡°Well, I know she¡¯s your favorite artist. Maybe you¡¯re just more aware of her lately.¡±


    ¡°Thanks again for the present. It¡¯s wonderful to see all of her artwork in one book like that,¡± Dora said. ¡°I left it at Tilly¡¯s shop, though. I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    ¡°As soon as I saw it, I knew you¡¯d like it,¡± David replied, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. ¡°But you got the desk, too.¡±


    ¡°And that it was owned by Sarah Greyson. Like, how weird is that?¡±


    ¡°Really, really coincidental. I suppose it¡¯s fate.¡± He put his turn signal and parallel parked in the open spot in front of Dora¡¯s brownstone.


    ¡°Now, what am I going to tell my dad? Hey, Dad. I just put a down payment on a desk that cost 10,000 dollars.¡±


    ¡°I gave you a discount since it¡¯s you, though. Maybe that¡¯ll make him feel better.¡±


    Dora turned to look at the window and saw the dim light emanating from the living room. The bright, intermittent flashes told her one thing. Her dad was watching his television program. Probably something on the History network, something that he loved to do on his spare time when he wasn¡¯t making medical rounds with his patients at the hospital.


    ¡°Why don¡¯t you go on in?¡± David unlocked the truck from the inside. ¡°I¡¯ll handle getting the desk in.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t need help?¡±


    ¡°Nah,¡± he said. ¡°I can take the cabinets out and bring them. I¡¯ll holler out if I need you.¡±


    Dora walked up to the front door and opened it, inhaling the acrid scent of old wood. The walls of their foyer were an off-white color, and the wainscot panelling was wood. Her dad had said that their home had minimal renovations since the late 1800s, and it showed. The wood floor must have had the same parquet design that the previous owners had, for there were scratches and in one spot, Dora¡¯s favorite thing to look at was strange writing at the very bottom of the dark cherry-wood wainscot panelling.


    IH was here.


    ¡°Dora, is that you?¡± a deep baritone voice resonated from the other side.


    ¡°Yeah, Dad. I¡¯m back from work,¡± she said in response. ¡°Sorry, the traffic was pretty bad.¡±


    ¡°Is that David¡¯s truck outside? I swear it looks a lot like his truck.¡±


    Her father was now standing in the opening between the foyer and the living room, his dark brown eyes almost piercing through Dora¡¯s soul.


    How do I tell him about the splurge on this desk?


    ¡°Yeah, um, Dad,¡± she said as she greeted him with a hug and a quick kiss on the cheek. ¡°I may have, um, bought something at David¡¯s shop?¡± She scratched her neck as she shuffled her feet.


    He sighed, shaking his head. ¡°Is that why the door¡¯s open? What did you buy now? Did it cost an arm and a leg? You already bought a lampstand from the man. Let me guess.¡± He pointed his finger at her. ¡°You bought a bookshelf for all the books you bought from Book Barn.¡±


    ¡°No, Dad. Here¡¯s the thing. It was owned by someone I admire. I just found out today that she owned it.¡±


    ¡°You bought a towel rack for the upstairs bathroom. It was owned by, um, let me guess. Julia Roberts? Judging by the sound of your voice and the look on your face, I guess it¡¯s something huge.¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± she said, nodding as she avoided looking directly at him. ¡°It¡¯s a desk. Owned by Sarah Greyson.¡±


    ¡°A desk owned by Sarah Greyson?¡± His eyes sparkled. ¡°And where will this desk go?¡±


    ¡°In my room,¡± she said. ¡°You can have the old one.¡±


    ¡°Oh, I can? The one I bought you from IKEA? I can have that one? Oh, it¡¯s an early Christmas present. Score!¡±


    Her father turned to the open doorway. ¡°Oh, hello, David. I guess those are the cabinets to Dora¡¯s newest buy. I¡¯m afraid you couldn¡¯t talk her out of it either. This is the curse of being best friends with an antique seller, David. You¡¯re making him as rich as Croesus with everything you get from there.¡±


    ¡°Where did you want it, Dora?¡± David asked.


    ¡°Upstairs.¡±


    His eyes widened. ¡°All right. I guess I need help then. Mr. Harding, do you think you could help me?¡±


    Her father¡¯s smile fell. ¡°Mr. Harding? David, how many times have I told you not to call me that? Call me Nick. Just Nick. Even Nicholas is fine. Mr. Harding was my father. May he rest in peace. I¡¯ll help you, it¡¯s no problem. A desk owned by Sarah Greyson. What a find, Dora. Wow. Well, what are we waiting for? Let¡¯s get this up there so Dora can use it.¡±


    ***


    Dora was relieved that after all of that, her father did not once complain about her purchase. Granted, she didn¡¯t tell him exactly how much she put on it for a down payment. She knew he would collapse, but she was grateful that it was finally where it needed to be. Right here in her bedroom, overlooking her view of their street. She was beyond glad Dr. Thomas, who flew all the way from England to New York, did not have it either. It filled her with some kind of victorious feeling, knowing that a man like him, who treated her that way, did not get what he wanted. And she did.


    She began fiddling around with the cabinets. Of course, there was the one that had been sealed shut and there was no way that David could have even taken that one out when he was bringing it in piece by piece.


    But she touched the part that was sealed and, in seconds, it nudged open for her. To her dismay, it was empty and smelled rather musty. She touched the bottom of the cabinet and felt it shake under her hands. Dora slipped it and it opened entirely, revealing an envelope.


    Curious, she took it out and held it in her hands, surprised to see that it was a Titanic envelope. It was cracked, yellowed and faded to where she could not make out the writing on the envelope itself. Carefully, she opened the contents and began reading.


    15/4/1912


    I do not know how to begin even writing this letter. I have always been abysmal with my words, and I have gone through multiple papers already. I stare at the rubbish bin inside my cabin. It is filled with crumpled paper, but I am sure you have already surmised this if you are reading this now. Either way, I do not know why you are not speaking with me anymore. I do miss our late-night conversations and I truly do value them. Have I done something to offend you? In truth, you are not the same woman that I met that fateful day. I miss seeing you every day in Ravensdale. I miss us. You are breaking my heart with your frosty demeanour. And now, you are spending more time with him. Have I done something to you? Said anything to you? One moment, we are friends and then the next; we are nearly strangers. I suppose that this is my last effort to try to tell you what I have been attempting to say for a long time now. Dora Harding, I love you. I love you more than words can say. Come to me if you feel the same way that I do.

 Chapter Four- Cappucinos and Conversations

    The words burned into her mind as she stared at the letter. Quivering, she rubbed her eyes, looking at it closer. Did it really have her name? Impossible. Tracing over every word with a trembling finger, she reached the end of the letter. She looked over the name again and again just to see if she had been dreaming or not. The name was Dora Harding, and the person who had written the letter had been on the Titanic. She frowned at the thought of the ship''s sinking, there were so many things about the Titanic that she had heard about from her father who considered himself somewhat of an amateur historian, but she never really paid much attention to what he had to tell her. Maybe she should have because what if there was someone named Dora Harding on the ship? The only thing that she really knew about it was the 1997 film with Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet, and even then, she knew that the story between the two of them was fictionalized.


    To Dora, that was the one thing that David had always complained about. Was the lack of real life love stories then. She usually clocked out when he would drone on and on about things regarding the film, but it was something that the both of them usually watched together when he would come over to visit on rainy Sunday afternoons.


    She pinched herself. She thought of everything that could have contributed to this. Wine. She had wine earlier, of course. Dora bit her fingernail. When would this crazy reverie end? She looked at the clock. It read close to eleven-thirty PM as she turned the lamp on her desk to a dimmed setting, and tried to lay down on her bed. There was no way that she was going to go to sleep tonight. Dora''s mind began wandering back to the letter. The writing said Ravensdale on it. Ravensdale, of all names. The same last name as Tilly''s, well, her married last name. She didn''t know her maiden name. She began to think that perhaps it would be a good idea to contact Tilly in the morning and see what she could do, especially since the name Ravensdale was thrown into the letter.


    No matter how hard she tried to keep her mind off of it, the letter kept coming to her mind. She grabbed it and looked over the words again. And again. Until she was certain that her name was really on it. She paced around her room, her mind spinning in different directions. She bit her nails as she ruminated on going back to the letter to see if the name somehow would be different. That perhaps she had been dreaming after all.Dora found herself becoming increasinbly agitated with the light coming from the street outside. Instead of pale shards of moonlight, the orange glow of streetlamps shone on the floor of her bedroom. She hated the color, always did. When she would close her eyes, she liked to imagine that instead of artificial lampglow, she saw the pale light coming from gas lamps. In her mind, sometimes it was such a vivid picture, that she almost felt like she was in a different time altogether.


    Dora entertained the impossible thought, even if it was only for a fleeting moment. Was she the person that was being addressed in the letter? She laughed and shook her head as she hit her forehead with the palm of her hand. Of course it wasn''t her. It couldn''t have been. The woman existed in 1912 and here she was in 2012. She lived in the time of cell-phones and microwaves, not carriages and massive ships destined for the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.


    As soon as she touched the letter, a jolt went through her, coursing through every part of her body. When she closed her eyes, she saw something bright, like a bright light. It made her feel weak, almost as if losing her breath and she almost let herself go completely, but the sound of knocking on the door brought her out of her reverie and with deep breaths, she brought herself back to the center of her room. Panting, she took a step back and put a trembling hand over her raging heart.


    ?"Dora," a voice called out. "Are you still awake? I made some cappuccinos if you want some."


    "Okay, Dad," she said, her voice raspy. God, her throat hurt as if someone had just punched it. "I''ll be right down."


    "You okay? You sound hoarse," he said. "You need a lasso?"


    God, my dad and his corny jokes.


    "I''m okay, I just need some water. I''ll be downstairs in a sec!"


    She was fearful to touch the letter again, but she grabbed it anyway because she wanted to show her father what she had just discovered. What had happened just a moment ago was something similar to when she touched the desk. It was strange, but she tried to remember exactly what it was that she saw when her eyes were closed, but she couldn''t remember a single thing. Dora shook off the cobwebs from her mind and closed the door, making her way downstairs.


    As she made her way down the steep stairs, she overheard distant conversations going on in the living room. She walked closer to the source of the sound and was surprised to see David sitting at the couch, sipping from one of her dad''s corny mugs that said World''s Best Father on it. She laughed and he jumped, but then smiled upon seeing Dora standing in the open doorway. She set the letter down on the end table by the couch.


    "David," Dora said, sitting next to him. "You''re still here? I thought you would have left by now."


    He smiled, wiping some froth off the top of his lip. "It''s your dad. He kept talking to me about the Titanic documentary that''s on the tv right now. Hey, are you okay? You look pale, like you''ve seen a ghost. Did you have a bad dream or something?"


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    "Um, David," Dora shifted her position. "I, uh, found something."


    "Oh? What did you find?" He leaned in closer. "Tell me."


    "You know the desk," she said, taking in a deep breath. The air tasted like coffee beans. "God, this sounds so stupid."


    "No, it doesn''t sound stupid at all. Tell me. I want to know. The suspense is killing me."


    "I found this," she said, taking the letter off the end table. "It''s really, um, weird. But you should read it. I found it in the part of the desk that you said was supposed to be sealed shut. It opened with no problem for me. It even had a false bottom, and this is what I found in the bottom. It''s wild."


    She watched as David opened the envelope and began reading over its contents.


    "This was written on the Titanic," he said. "Wow, that poor bloke Looks like he had a hard time writing the letter. Ah, poor, poor sod. Looks like he lost a friend. Oh my God. Does that say what I think it says? Dora, this says Dora Harding on it. It actually says Dora Harding!" He laughed, the boisterous sound resonating through the living room.


    "I know, I have trouble believing it. Don''t you think it''s strange, David? That the letter has my name on it, of all people in the world. Dora Harding?"


    She had to admit that it was a little bit peculiar, and for a moment, began thinking that perhaps it was a cruel joke. But David wouldn''t have done something like that to her.


    "Did you do this?" she asked. "Is this some kind of joke, though? I mean, it''s kind of strange that the desk that I wanted to buy just happens to have a letter addressed to me in it."


    "I swear," he said, nodding. "Cross my heart, prepare to die. I did not play a joke on you. I wouldn''t do something like that to you anyway. I really thought that that part of the desk was sealed shut. I had no idea about false bottoms."


    "Okay," she said, with a nod. "I''m sorry for asking."


    "It''s just a coincidence," David said, shrugging. "I mean it''s a really cool coincidence, so I get it. I would be a little freaked out if I found a random letter addressed to me in it. But honestly, you''ve got a really great piece of Titanic memorabilia here. You ought to think about presenting it to the Titanic Society. They''re always looking for things like this."


    "Wait," Dora said. "You think I should just give it to that society? I mean, I''d like to keep it. After all, my name''s on it. It could be an inside joke between you and me. You know, someone was in love with me in 1912 and wrote a sad love letter on the Titanic. Honestly, it is a little sad, when you think about it. The person who wrote the letter may have drowned..."


    "I guess you could keep it, but don''t you think it would be good idea to give it to the society? After all, these things are rare. Letters, especially love letters that are in great condition, they are so popular among enthusiasts."


    "I''m going to talk to Tilly about it."


    "Why Tilly specifically?" he asked, cocking his head to the side.


    "Because of I miss seeing you in Ravensdale. I''m sure it''s connected to Tilly somehow. I''ve got to talk to her. She told me earlier today that she was going to England... I think I''m going to have to go to England."


    "Dora," David said, shaking his head. "England is really a big trip. Are you sure that you want to go all the way to England?"


    ¡°You know what, on second hand, it''s probably not a good idea. But I¡¯ve actually been thinking..."


    ¡°About?¡± he asked.


    ¡°What if this letter is actually ????addressed to me? I know it¡¯s silly.¡± Dora chuckled. ¡°But wouldn¡¯t that be insane if it was?¡±


    ¡°It really is just a strange coincidence," he said. "Look, you know that genealogy site, MyGenealogy? You can search anyone in the world and their details will show up. I''m sure we''ll probably find it. I can look up Dora Harding and Titanic and see what comes up." He took out his phone and began typing on a website.


    ¡°The ancestry site will probably have something, even if it is a long shot. I can''t type on this thing! Touchscreens need to die.¡±


    Dora couldn''t help but laugh at David. He glared at her for a moment before smiling.


    ¡°There are tons of Doras on here, even with the word Titanic. I can''t find any good stuff. None of them have any images, either. There''s one right here that probably could have been around during that time period. The rest are either too young or too old.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no picture on the one you found?"


    ¡°Nope.¡± He shook his head. ¡°But it¡¯s right for the time period. She died in 1999 but she was born in 1884. Good God! She was 115. What a life she must have led. But there''s nothing beyond that. You''re out of luck."


    ¡°I see.¡± She nodded, swallowing hard. A part of her was disappointed that David didn¡¯t find anything good.


    Her father stepped in the living room, holding two mugs in his hand and set her mug down, filled to the brim with delicious perfectly frothed milk.


    "Your cappuccino," he said. "I was waiting for you in the kitchen. Guess you found David."


    "Dad, I have to tell you about something I found inside my new desk."


    "Oh," he said. "Tell me."


    As she stood up to grab her cappuccino from the end table, the pain in her body was like needles poking all around her. She attempted to draw in deep breaths but was unsuccessful. The image of a man walking down a beaten path flickered in her mind. Flowers. Flowers everywhere. Rain, so much rain. Then, a tombstone.

 Chapter Five- The Gala

    Dora could not believe that she managed to convince her dad and David to come with her to England. She was especially surprised that David agreed to come back to England, after just having come back to the states. He said it wasn''t a big deal, but she felt bad for some reason. There was something different about him. In his mannerisms, the second that they arrived in England. She should not have convinced him to come with her, but after having the phone conversation with Tilly, she knew it was going to be fun to go to the gala for the Titanic Society.


    The time on her phone read five-thirty PM. The gala was for seven-thirty. She reluctantly looked down at her outfit. She was grunge incarnate and even her hair smelled like airplane and the cheap rum that spilled all over the place when the plane got to a bit of turbulence.


    And why, out of all the hire cars, did her father have to choose a subcompact? The trip up the congested, road work filled M40 was longer, and more uncomfortable than she expected it to be. David sat huddled next to her, trying to get himself comfortable with his long legs.


    "I''m pretty sure we''ve made it to Oxford. We''re almost -" Her father touched the GPS on the screen, which led him to a blown up map. "We''re on a one-lane road. How do people even drive on these roads?"


    "Dad, we live in New York. You should be used to tight roads by now. David, do you have any idea where we are right now?"


    "I''m not sure, really. The last time I came to Ravensdale was a really long time ago. Like when my mom was still alive. Sorry, Dora. No help here."


    "Dad, really. Just look at the GPS, it''ll help you out. Can''t you just zoom out of the map?"


    "Yeah, but it''s not gonna help. Not when you''re in the middle of nowhere and you can''t find where you''re supposed to go. Wait, this stupid piece of junk brought us all the way out here? Where the hell are we? We''re supposed to be somewhat parallel to the M40." Nick groaned as he ran a quick hand through his hair.


    Dora stopped. "Don''t tell me we''re lost."


    "We''re not lost. I have the destination marked!"


    You probably did something wrong. Probably touched the wrong location.


    "This is so like you, Dad. You''re always getting us lost."


    Her father gave Dora the side-eye and tight lips.


    "We''re lost," David said. "Just admit it, Mr. Harding. We''re completely lost. I can''t even begin to describe what''s around us. Holy -"


    She looked ahead, and there, with jaws of death, was a gargantuan combine harvester coming at them, no sign of stopping. Its loud horn was like trumpets of doom as all of them stared at the behemoth with wide eyes.


    "Dad." Dora froze in her seat.


    "Ah!" Her father was screaming. "What do I do? What do I do?"


    She grabbed the car door handle and couldn''t say a single word. Her life flashed before her eyes, as if watching a slow motion movie. Seconds seemed to become minutes. Goodbye, dear sweet life.


    She closed her eyes, the music on the radio slowly fading away. When she opened her eyes, everything had stilled. Where were they now? After everything processed, she realized that her father had made it into a grass bank on the side of the road.


    "Dad," Dora said, her voice low and hushed. "You could have gotten us killed!"


    He sat there in silence, looking straight ahead as he breathed deeply. It was worrisome to Dora that he would be so quiet. She turned, looking at David to see his reaction.


    "David," she asked. "You okay?"


    He was breathing heavily, still clutching with his dear life onto the oh shit handles.


    "I''m sorry, Mr. Harding, but driving with you is a complete nightmare."


    Her father stared at David for more than a few seconds.


    Oh, David. You shouldn''t have said that. And here it goes. . .


    "You think driving with me is a complete nightmare? Then why don''t you try driving if you''re so good at it. And don''t call me Mr. Harding. You know I hate that!"


    "Sorry," David said. "Force of habit."


    He then muttered something under his breath that sounded like, "I can call you Mr. Harding if I want to."


    "I heard that!" Her father pointed a finger at David before turning to look at the road.


    What did I get myself into? I''m sandwiched in between these two.


    "Pay attention to the road, Dad!" Dora said.


    He exhaled sharply. "Don''t backseat drive. The offer still stands. If any of you think you can drive better than me, go ahead and do it. We''re not going to make it to the gala at this rate. GPS is a pain in my ass. What happened to good, old fashioned maps? This thing shows us the worst routes."


    The computerized female voice said, "Turn left at Ashdown Lane. In one mile, turn left at Ashdown Lane."


    Her father grumbled. "Turn left at Ashdown Lane. Turn left at Ashdown Lane. I heard you the first time. I''m not an idiot."


    "Dad, calm down. It''s just a precaution."


    He slouched his shoulders. "Sorry if I''m embarrassing you in front of your friend. I just hate these things."


    "Well, we would be lost without it."


    He chuckled, half-smiling. "We''re lost already. Poor, poor David, you have to put up with our antics. You sure you''re okay with travelling with a couple of silly gooses?"


    David laughed heartily, and Dora noticed the way his eyes lit up as he smiled. "Better than sucking up to dull stuffed shirts in Ohio. This is definitely an adventure."


    Yeah, I guess it is an adventure of sorts, nearly getting killed like that.


    It didn''t take the long to get onto the route that led to Ravensdale. The sun was beginning to set, a deep orange at the sky''s edge. The bit of open field and cattle began to lose it''s novelty after several miles, but there was something about the quaint solitude that made Dora feel more at ease.


    "And this is Ravensdale, I assume." Her father nodded. "At least the sign says it''s not for another couple of miles, but we''re just outside of it."


    They drove through the outskirts of the village. She saw people walking on the side of the road. A man leading a bunch of sheep with a stick along the road stopped as her father began to slow down, putting his foot on the brakes.


    The shepherd gestured for them to go. Her father once and began to put his foot back on the gas.


    After a while, the scenery began to change as spots of homes turned into rows of them. Kids playing in the fields, people walking on the side of the road, dressed warmly to fight the roaring wind that threatened to blow them away.


    "This village is nice," her father said, pointing from the window. "Ravensdale is cute. I think we have time to stop and get ready for the gala. Dora, would you be a dear and check the lodging brochure for me?"


    "Sure, but we have to meet up with Tilly Ravensdale. Yeah, I know, Dad. She''s always afraid of you for some reason, but look. Just don''t bite her okay? I know how you get."


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    He sighed, shaking his head. "I don''t know why she''s so afraid of me. I don''t bite."


    "You yell at computers. Hell, you even yell at flowers that don''t grow right. She thinks yelling at flowers is bad for their health. Sorry, Dad."


    He slumped his shoulders and shook his head. "Fine. I won''t yell at flowers. You''ve got my word on that, okay?"


    Dora opened the glove compartment and picked out the lodging brochure that she had put in as soon as they left the hire car store at Heathrow. She flipped through the pages until she found a place that looked like something her father would like.


    "Uh, what about Franny''s Cottage? It''s a bed and breakfast. Picture''s nice. Want to have a look?"


    "Let me come to a stop somewhere and I''ll check it out."


    He pulled into an area that was far enough away from the road, and let another car pass. Dora handed him the brochure and he read over it.


    He nodded once, smiling. "Looks lovely. Sure, why not?"


    #


    The mansion, Stanton Park, was massive as they drove up the path. The closer they got to it, the more intimidating it looked. Its Gothic spires pierced the sky that was beginning to darken with the fading sun. They were too late to go to the cottage, so they had to change their route to Stanton Park where the Titanic Gala was being held.


    "David, this place is huge," she said.


    "It is huge. Wow! I wonder what it looks like," he said, smiling. "Maybe it''s the opposite of the Tardis and it''s teeny tiny on the inside."


    She rolled her eyes. "Only you would say something like that, David. You''re such a Whovian."


    "Hey, it''s a big deal to me. I loved forcing you to watch it. I wish you were more into it, though."


    "Not a fan. Sorry, Dave." Dora looked at herself in the mirror of the hire car, making sure that she looked presentable enough. She hated the fact that she was severely underdressed in a white-shirt and a pair of stonewashed jeans.


    She knew her father, herself, and David were severely underdressed as she stepped out of the car, looking at all the people walking up the gravel walkway leading to the front door, which was massive and wide open.


    "What have we gotten ourselves into?" she whispered to David. "Look at all these people. They look so elegant."


    Her t-shirt and comfy jeans were hideous compared to the vast amount of ballgowns that sparkled like the light of a million suns. She walked slowly towards the front door. It was only then that she wished that her father hadn''t got lost the second time around.


    The man standing at the door look at all three of them with a hint of irritation in his eyes. "This is a very important private gala. It is invite only. No tourists today."


    Inside of her was a raging fire. The way this person was looking at all of them made her want to scream. She brought out all three of the tickets from her handbag.


    "I''m a friend of Tilly''s," she said, as the man took the tickets from her hand.


    "Tilly?" he furrowed a brow, frowning. "Who is that?"


    "Tilly Ravensdale?"


    "Oh, Matilda, you mean? Yes, she''s in the ballroom, tending to some guests. Are you Dora? She said that an American girl and her friends would be coming tonight."


    "Yes, that''s us."


    "All right, then. Enjoy the party."


    All three of them walked away from the person taking the tickets and David smiled at Dora, winking at her. "If I didn''t know any better, I would have thought that you were the star of the gala."


    She looked up at him, and smiled. "Really? Uh, thanks I guess. But I have rum in my hair. I''m a mess. I don''t even have a hint of makeup on."


    "You''d still look stunning in a potato sack. You''re the most stunning person here." He stroked her cheek with a finger.


    Dora looked up at him, trying to find the right comeback, but she couldn''t. A moment of silence passed between them and she turned around, noticing her father behind her.


    "Hey kiddos!" Her father put his arm around Dora. "Ready to go in?"


    David cleared his throat. "I suppose."


    They followed the crowds of people walking into the large ballroom. It was brilliantly lit, with beautiful chandeliers. It was even more beautiful than walking into the Met and seeing the great displays of artwork. There was a vintage charm about the place that enchanted her. With each step she took, the world around her felt more and more disconnected. The smell of the place began to shift in a peculiar way. The sounds of boisterous conversation and glasses clinking together faded away until it seemed like there was nothing but her. If she closed her eyes and felt it hard enough, she could have sworn that she heard the clop, clop of horses'' hooves on the gravel driveway outside the mansion and the accompanying sound of a whinnying neigh.


    She opened her eyes when a loud voice came over the microphone. She felt a warm hand on her shoulder.


    "Want a drink?" David asked.


    "Yeah, sure. White wine."


    "I''ll be right back." He smiled.


    He walked into the crowd, but with his leather denim jacket and faded jeans, he stuck out above the rest of them.


    There was the screech of a microphone and Dora noticed someone at the stand. He was young and his tuxedo had no wrinkles.


    "Evening, everyone. Welcome to the official annual gala of the Titanic Preservation Society. I''m Seth Ravensdale. A huge thanks to my great-uncle Edmund Ravensdale for his unrelenting efforts into making this happen. Wonderful that the gala should be held this year in Stanton Hall. It was 100 years ago that we lost the last Lord Stanton to the icy waters of the Atlantic along with Patrick Ravensdale, my other great-uncle. We will keep their memory alive in our hearts tonight as we continue on with this gala. Now some business." He rambled, drawling on about events and things that had no relevance to Dora.


    "Boring speaker," David whispered in Dora''s ear.


    He handed her the glass of wine.


    "Thanks," she took a sip of it, feeling the dry tannins dance on her tongue. "I think he''s pretty handsome."


    David nodded. "Yeah, uh, okay?"


    "He is! Nothing wrong with appreciating someone''s looks."


    He smiled. "Well, am I handsome, then?"


    Dora laughed, waving him off as she took another sip of wine. "You''re just David."


    "Well, I see." He nodded, then looked away


    The speaker stopped, "My great-uncle will speak when he arrives. Good evening, all."


    "I''m going to walk around. My legs need it," Dora said.


    "Sure, go ahead." He smiled. "Enjoy this fancy party. I''m going to go sit down somewhere. I''m bored already. Where''s all the Titanic stuff?"


    "Why don''t you take a look around then? Maybe it''s in another room."


    Dora walked around the ballroom, ignoring the eyes of those who looked at her and pointed. She could hear their whispers, their snickers, but she didn''t care. She found somewhere to sit, an open table.


    "Excuse me," a female voice said from behind her. "Are you a girl named Dora Harding?"


    She turned to look around and saw Tilly standing there, greeting her with a smile. She drew her in for a quick hug.


    "Lord, you look ravishing," she said. "In your t-shirt and jeans. You''re the trendsetter of the evening. People have been talking about your adventurous sense of fashion."


    Dora felt the heat rise up to her face and she scratched her neck. "We got lost twice and I didn''t get a chance to change. We were going to go to Franny''s Cottage to book a room."


    "You can just get changed upstairs. You have your luggage still? Go get your dress and I''ll make sure the man up front knows you''re coming back in."


    #


    Dora took her last step up the grand staircase of Stanton Park and followed Tilly through the long corridor. She passed by rows of portraits.


    "Is this your ex-husband''s family?" she asked. "All of these people in the paintings?"


    "Oh, Lord no. . This mansion does not belong to his family, actually. It belongs to no one. It belonged to Lord Stanton, you know Lord Stanton."


    ?Dora shook her head. "I''m not really sure who you''re talking about."


    "The Duke of Stanton," she said, stopping dead in her tracks. "You know, right? Oh, bless. You didn''t pay attention in history class? Lord Stanton, the man who saved all of those people on the Titanic before drowning."


    "I''m afraid I don''t know much about the Titanic. The only thing I know is that it sunk on April 15, 1912. I wish I knew more than that. I''ve only ever seen the movie with David."


    ?She stifled a smile. "I''m assuming that David gave you lecture after lecture about the antiques on the ship."


    "Something like that," Dora replied.


    "And here we are," she said. "Get changed in here. I''ll be downstairs."


    Dora stepped inside the room and closed the door as Tilly''s footsteps faded into a decrescendo. She took off her t-shirt and jeans, and looked at herself in the mirror only for a moment. She was already wearing a dress and her hair was pulled up into an updo, with a few strands of her hair falling down at her temples. What on earth was she seeing? She shook her head quickly and then she was back to normal, only in a bra and jeans.


    With trembling hands, she took off her jeans, tossing them onto the bed. She grabbed her ruby-red dress and draped it over her body, grateful that her dress that she chose did not have any zippers. She threw her boots off and replaced them with her high-heels.


    She caught David waiting at the end of the staircase, but there was something different about the way he looked as he seemed upset about something or other. Was he upset about her choice of dress? She caught him frowning, but then he quickly changed it to a smile.


    ¡°You look,¡± he said, pausing.


    ¡°I look what, David?¡±


    ¡°You look beautiful, Dora. I didn''t expect you to get changed.¡± He closed his eyes, letting out a deep breath.


    She placed a concerned hand over his arm. ¡°You okay?¡±


    He nodded; scratching the top of his head. ¡°Doing okay, I¡¯m just a little tired. I wasn¡¯t planning on another trip to England, is all. Jet lag is wild. I don¡¯t know why I¡¯m so tired now, it¡¯s like a little past noon in the states. Let¡¯s go back to the party.¡±


    He put his arm around her shoulder as they began to walk toward the ballroom. While she walked, she felt like she belonged there for the first time since her arrival. She blended in among the partygoers and felt as if she was floating on a cloud.


    "Ah, there you are!" Tilly said walking up to her. "Oh, you look lovely. You clean up nicely. Your friend David is talking to my great-grandfather in law. He''s almost 115 years old, you know. Still alive.


    Dora watched the old man as she slowly came closer to him. His skin was almost translucent, his the vitality in his eyes faded. His white hair was just a few little wisps around his head.


    "Mr. Edmund," Tilly said, putting a hand over his shoulder. "This is the girl I told you about. The one who works for me in New York."


    "Wait," he said. "Stay still. Let me get a better look of her." His voice was hoarse and barely above a whisper.


    Mr. Ravensdale laughed. "Funny, you look very much like someone I once knew a very long time ago."


    "And who was that, sir?" she asked.


    "Her name was Dora Harding."


    She blinked several times, trying to process what she had just heard. Did he just say her name as ?


    "B-but sir, I am Dora Harding."