A Game Most Foul, page 2
“Sorry, what?” I said once my breathing had returned to normal.
Adele motioned toward the typewriter, looking sheepish. “That Underwood typewriter. It doesn’t work. I’ve spent some time tinkering with it, but I’m no expert. Pretty to look at though, isn’t it?”
“I’ll say.”
Adele was smiling again. She had a nice smile. “What say we get your things upstairs and go pick up some groceries? It’ll be time for tea before too long and you’ve got a big day ahead of you tomorrow.”
“Sorry, what’s tea? I don’t—wait, hold on.”
I pulled my phone out of my pocket to check the time; half past four. It took me one long moment to figure out the time difference between London and Monterey, a whole eight hours. It was still early morning in California.
“Oh,” I said, taken aback. “I’d be eating breakfast right about now at home.”
“You’ll adjust,” Adele said confidently. “Best to get on a new schedule right away, otherwise you’ll never get over the jet lag.”
“Good to know.”
Time difference notwithstanding, I knew I wouldn’t be getting one ounce of sleep tonight anyway.
Chapter 2
Mind the Gap
I was right.
Not even a grocery store run and the walk back to the antique shop carting several bags, or helping Adele throw together dinner, unpacking, the half-hour video chat with my mother reassuring her that everything was fine and that Adele was already taking good care of me, was enough to make me crash.
I rolled out of bed feeling like a zombie and fumbled around putting my hearing aids in before going through the motions of getting ready.
I joined Adele downstairs in the shop after I’d thrown my things into my bag and grabbed the piece of toast and coffee in a to-go cup she’d set out on the kitchen counter for me.
She was strolling through a portion of the shop lined with porcelain dolls, ticking things off here and there on the clipboard she carried.
I was going to have to avoid this part of the shop as much as possible. Even in England, porcelain dolls still gave me the creeps.
“Ready?” Adele asked, checking off something on her clipboard with a little flourish.
“As I’ll ever be,” I said, rocking back on my heels. “Um. Where did you say the Tube was from here?”
Adele had set me up with an Oyster card for the Tube—the London Underground—last night. With my luck, I was going to need every spare second to navigate it.
“Oh, not too far from here. One of my assistants, Mindy, should be here soon, so I’ll show you.”
Adele had us out of the shop and down the sidewalk before I could even try to protest. It wasn’t a long walk, she was right. Truthfully, I was thankful for the company.
I was turning nineteen in September, an adult at this point depending on who you asked, but still, I was in a foreign country. Who wouldn’t be a little freaked out by heading out on their own for the first time in a foreign country?
“See? Not so far,” Adele said when we came to a stop at a set of stairs leading down into a concrete tunnel. “Just tap your card at the turnstile and you’ll be fine. When in doubt, I’m just a phone call away, dear.”
“Right. Thanks, Adele.”
I gave her a quick parting hug and set off down the steps to the Tube.
I kept up the mantra You can do this, Jules, on my way through the turnstile and onto the train. I got settled in for the ride, gripping tight to one of the handrails. A few moments into the journey and I actually felt myself begin to relax. This was another hurdle down—at least partially. I’d made it onto the Tube; the next step was Ashford.
You can do this, Jules.
I kept an eye on the lighted map above the double doors, watching the little light on it moving closer and closer to my stop. The second the doors slid open at said stop, I was off like a rocket, pulling up the directions to Ashford I’d kept loaded on my phone.
There were about forty-five minutes left before the seminar was set to begin, but the closest stop on the Tube was blocks away from Chatham Hall, one of Ashford’s smaller buildings where the seminar was taking place.
I tried to focus on putting one foot in front of the other as I walked, but the hubbub on the street was a major distraction. Several different languages were being spoken around me and groups of tourists were clogging up the sidewalk as they stopped to inspect a looming cathedral casting a shadow over half the street.
I was short of breath and wishing I’d brought a bottle of water with me when I reached Chatham Hall with about fifteen minutes to spare. The building looked like one of the oldest on the street, surrounded by a low brick wall covered in moss. There was a simple courtyard out front with an empty fountain smack-dab in the middle, facing a set of double doors that seemed to be the only entrance.
I crossed the courtyard and slipped inside, relieved to find that the stairs leading up to the second floor were just across the entryway. There was definitely a certain charm to it with its wood-paneled walls and plush carpeting. It was nice, but the orderly chaos of Dreams of Antiquity was a bit more my style.
Room 217 wound up being toward the end of the hallway, near a stained-glass window depicting what looked like the garden of Eden (awkwardly out of place in my opinion). I gave myself one last moment to internally panic before I forced myself to open the door.
The sight I was met with standing in the doorway of Room 217 was not what I was expecting.
I thought I would see desks arranged in neat little rows, a chalkboard, maybe a globe and an apple or two somewhere. A nice, tidy place set up for learning. This was absolutely not that.
The only normal thing about the room was the whiteboard on the far wall and, tucked away in the corner, a small desk piled high with dozens of books.
There was a massive Oriental rug that took up most of the floor space, spread out toward the numerous bookshelves crammed with thick volumes in a variety of colors lining the walls. After that came the handful of sofas and armchairs positioned in what was probably meant to be a circle smack-dab in the middle of the room, one long, marble coffee table centered amidst the jumble.
Then there were the thick velvet drapes lining the windows, blocking out almost all of the sunlight, which probably would’ve looked better in some Victorian house museum.
All that was missing was a crystal ball or a pack of tarot cards and you might have the perfect setup for a fortune teller.
“Er, excuse me?”
“What? Oh, sorry!”
The guy standing behind me had a bemused expression on his face as I struggled to get out a proper sentence.
It might’ve been the fact that he was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans instead of a pair of loafers and a cardigan like I expected a stereotypical English writer to be wearing that had me so tongue-tied. Or perhaps it was because of his mess of chestnut-colored hair, square-rimmed glasses, the light smattering of freckles across his nose and cheekbones . . .
It also could’ve been the accent. Probably it was the accent.
“Sorry,” I repeated. “Just . . . taking in the sights.”
The guy’s lips quirked up in a grin as I stepped to the side to let him pass through the doorway.
“Not your average classroom, I suppose,” he agreed. “But I’ve heard Professor Watson isn’t your most traditional teacher.”
It took a beat for me to realize that the guy was waiting on me with an after you motion, gesturing toward the sofas in the middle of the room. We weren’t the only ones in the classroom. There were three others already seated, one girl and two guys, apparently ready for class with notebooks and a bunch of pens, pencils, and highlighters strewn about.
I think I managed a smile of my own as I moved toward the sofas. “Have you heard much else about the professor?”
During my many visits to Ashford’s website, the only mention of the professor overseeing the program was that he was a former doctor, had a great love of the written word, and that he’d been with the college for several years. No picture had been included with the short bio.
The guy shrugged as he took a seat beside me on the sofa, leaving a comfortable distance between us. “About the same as everyone else, I imagine.”
“Oh. Right.”
I watched as the guy pulled out a leather-bound journal from his backpack and a very expensive fountain pen. I was pleased to see I wasn’t the only one who’d dragged along the welcome packet from the college.
I took out my own supplies for something to do, but the guy next to me seemed to be paying me no mind as he flipped open his journal, writing the date at the top of the page in a neat little scrawl. Just as I was working up the courage to properly introduce myself there came a loud screech of, “Percy Bysshe Byers, is that you?!” from the doorway.
I had to stop myself from clapping my hands over my ears as a whirlwind of color came flying toward the couch, squealing with glee the whole way. I caught a look of mild horror on the poor guy’s face before a tiny little thing was throwing their arms around him.
“Oh, I should’ve known you’d get into this program, Percy Bysshe, you little bookworm! Look at you! How long’s it been?”
“It’s, er, good to see you too, Suruthi,” Percy said awkwardly. He looked like he didn’t quite know what to do with the sudden arrival. “It has been a while.”
Once they got settled on the couch, I saw that Suruthi was a girl of about my age, of Indian descent, with glossy black hair piled up into a stylishly messy bun, and a bunch of bracelets on both wrists that were jingling happily as she started unpacking her bag. Her skirt was electric blue, her T-shirt naming some band I didn’t recognize, and the look definitely worked for her.
“But you would, of course,” Suruthi was saying, twirling a pink gel pen between her fingers, “seeing as you were always writing in some notebook or other, even in nursery school, Percy Bysshe. Oh, do you still write with that one green pencil with the little frog on it too? You were so adorable carrying that thing around with you!”
“Can’t say I do, given that I’m an adult now,” Percy said. A flush was starting to work its way up into his cheeks. “And you don’t need to call me by my full name. Just Percy is fine.”
Suruthi laughed, giving Percy a playful nudge. “Well, just Percy, I’m glad to see that your sense of humor is still there. Good, good.”
“Happy to oblige,” he muttered, looking anything but.
I failed miserably in turning my bark of laughter into a cough and both Percy and Suruthi turned to look at me. Suruthi perked up, as if she’d just realized I was sitting on the couch alongside them.
“Sorry,” I said. “Tickle in my throat.”
“Making friends already, Percy?” Suruthi said, nudging him again. Percy shot her a look, and she just wiggled her eyebrows at him. “And an American too, I suspect?”
“Correct,” I answered. “This American’s name is Jules, by the way. Short for Juliet.”
I saw Percy’s lips twitch again with a barely there smile as he looked down at his journal, and I knew the literary reference hadn’t gone unnoticed. Even if I did happen to be named after one of the sappiest romantic characters of all time, I was thankful my name didn’t come from a doomed poet.
Suruthi’s laugh was a little louder this time. “D’you know what, Jules from America? I’ve decided I like you.”
“Lucky you,” Percy said.
I didn’t get a chance to say much else besides a very confused, “Thank you?”
Someone else had just entered the classroom, announcing their presence with a quiet ahem.
“I’ve always considered it a good sign when my students arrive before me on the first day of class, I must say.”
Chapter 3
Welcome, Welcome
Every pair of eyes immediately went to the man now heading toward the front of the classroom.
He was rather tall, almost thin in the extreme, with neatly combed graying hair. He was dressed in a pair of slacks, button-down shirt, and a tan waistcoat. With what I thought was overly formal dress for a college classroom along with the very out of style mustache that had me thinking of a vintage shaving ad I’d seen in Adele’s shop yesterday, the man looked strangely out of place.
I might have spent less time inspecting the professor’s appearance if I hadn’t noticed the scar next. It wasn’t a very long scar, but it was considerably wide and noticeable on the side of his neck where it stopped just beneath the edge of his jaw. I had no idea what could’ve caused something like that—a scar that didn’t seem to have completely healed.
The professor didn’t seem oblivious to the curious stares that followed him as he went to his desk and began rifling through his leather briefcase. He pulled out a manila folder and a journal bound with a golden clasp that he tucked up under his arm before turning to face us.
He stared at us with an almost unnerving gaze for a few seconds, then cracked a small smile. “No need to look so anxious. I don’t bite, I assure you.”
There was some awkward laughter at this, but the tension in the room slowly began to ebb as the professor took a seat in the winged armchair at the head of the circle. He crossed one leg over the other, uncapping a ritzy fountain pen he’d retrieved from the pocket of his waistcoat.
“I am Professor J. Watson, your instructor for the next eight weeks,” he announced as he undid the clasp on his journal. “And all of you are here, presumably, because you too enjoy writing.”
“I think love might be the better word for it,” I heard Suruthi sing happily under her breath.
Professor Watson gave a half smile at Suruthi’s enthusiasm and kept going. “By the end of this seminar, each of you will have completed a one-to-two-hundred-page manuscript over a topic or genre of your choice. The only demand I will make of you is that you truly devote your time and energy to this project. I will be carefully selecting one of your completed manuscripts to send on query to Brookhaven Press here in London.”
My hand was unsteady as I took notes. The first line I wrote was one-to-two-hundred-page manuscript, followed by publishing opportunity. This I underlined three times, digging my pen into the paper so forcefully I almost ripped a hole in it.
This shouldn’t have come as such a shock. The whole purpose of this seminar was to write. But a manuscript that was upward of two hundred pages? I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d written more than two or three pages.
“Not only will you be spending a great deal of time writing over the coming weeks, but we will be exploring various genres of literature as well,” Professor Watson continued. “Nothing longer than a short passage or two, but it should still be enough for you to grasp the concepts. As the old saying goes, the greatest writers steal their inspiration from their fellow authors.”
He removed a small stack of papers from the folder in his lap and passed it to the girl sitting to his left. She took one sheet and handed the rest to the guy sitting beside her. I was the last to get a copy of the paper, which turned out to be a list of books. From a quick glance I saw that most of the titles were outdated and more than a handful I’d read in high school. With any luck, revisiting them wouldn’t be all that bad next to the copious amounts of writing we’d be doing.
But this wasn’t a problem. Of course not.
“Well then,” Professor Watson said. “Now that our serious housekeeping duties are out of the way, I’d like to take the time for you all to—”
The rest of the professor’s words were drowned out by the sound of someone’s cell phone ringing—my cell phone. I quickly scrambled for it while the LED light flashed, vibrating wildly on the couch beside me.
“Sorry,” I said, stumbling over the word as the professor and my new classmates all watched. “Won’t happen again.”
I was going to have to a serious talk with my mother about making phone calls at two in the morning California time.
Suruthi was the first to break the awkward silence. “Was that Metallica?”
I blew out a sigh, wondering at the probability of the couch cushions swallowing me whole. “Yep.”
Metallica was loud and that was the kind of music I preferred these days.
Suruthi started to giggle, and a few others soon joined in. I couldn’t tell if this was a good thing or not.
“Well then,” Professor Watson repeated, his clear blue gaze now centered on me. He thankfully didn’t seem too annoyed at the interruption. “Why don’t you introduce yourself first, Miss . . . ?”
“Montgomery,” I answered.
Professor Watson jotted something down in his notebook, gesturing for me to continue. “Please do go on, Miss Montgomery.”
“Um.” Great start, I thought with an eye roll. “Well. My name is Jules Montgomery. I’m from California. I grew up in a kinda small city not too far from San Francisco. I just graduated high school a couple weeks ago and I’ll be attending my first year of college in San Diego—that’s near Los Angeles—this fall. For creative writing. Obviously. Because . . . I like to write. Yeah.”
Another round of silence followed my extremely awkward introduction, and I tried not to grimace.
Professor Watson nodded, still jotting down notes in his journal. He might’ve been smiling, but I couldn’t be sure. “And do you have a preferred genre you like to write?”
“Mystery, mostly,” I admitted. “It might be a little cliché, but I’m an Agatha Christie fan. Haven’t read too many of the Hercule Poirot stories, but And Then There Were None is one of my favorite novels. Edgar Allan Poe’s not too bad either.”
This time Professor Watson did smile. “Classics indeed. Will we perhaps be seeing a bit of the macabre in your forthcoming manuscript?”
“Ah. Maybe?” I tried not to start chewing on my bottom lip. “I think I’m still finding out what else I like to write.”
Or just writing, period.
Professor Watson nodded again as he gave a quiet, thoughtful hum. “Hopefully this seminar will bring you one step closer to your goal then, Miss Montgomery.”
