The Dickens with Love Read Free Page A

down the back of my neck—and offered my
    hand. After a hesitation, he shook it.
    The Dickens with Love
    His grip was firm, his palm and fingers smooth but not clammy or soft. An academic, but not one of
    the ones who never left his ivory tower.
    No wedding ring.
    “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I meant it. I was sort of nonplussed at how much I meant it.
    “Come in,” Crisparkle replied, moving aside.
    I stepped inside the room which was cozily warm and smelled indefinably expensive, a combination
    of fine linens, fresh coffee and cut flowers. A fire burned cheerily in the fireplace. The remains of the professor’s lunch were on a tray on the low table before the sage velvet sofa. Soothing classical piano played off the laptop next to his lunch tray.
    Corey and I had stayed at the Hotel Del Monte on our one year anniversary. The rooms were all
    furnished in romantic country-French décor—each unique but with the famous signature touches of
    Alicante marble, vintage silk or chenille upholstery, and original artwork. It was the best weekend of my life—or maybe it seemed that way in contrast to the following week, which was when my entire world had shattered.
    “You must have brought the rainy weather with you.” I smiled again, not bothering to analyze why I
    was displaying such uncharacteristic cordiality. “Have you seen much of the city since you’ve been here?”
    “The book is on the desk.” Crisparkle nodded at the writing desk near the white French doors leading
    out to a private patio.
    Not one for chitchat, was he? Maybe it was an English thing. In any case, I lost all interest in rude
    Professor Crisparkle. The only thing in that room for me now was the faded red leather book lying on the polished desktop. As I approached the writing table my heart was banging so hard I thought I might be
    having my first ever panic attack.
    A book. Not a manuscript. I’d been thinking that Crisparkle and Mr. S. were playing fast and loose
    with their terminology, but no. It was a bound book. All the more unlikely, then, that this could be the real thing. Hard enough to believe a manuscript had been lost, let alone an entire print run. Impossible, in fact.
    And yet, as I reached for the thin volume, finely bound in red Morocco leather, I noted that my hand was shaking. Well, scratch a cynic and you’ll find a disappointed idealist.
    I drew back as I realized that I was in danger of dripping on the desk.
    “Could I borrow a towel?” I asked.
    Crisparkle gave me a funny look, and then disappeared into the bathroom.
    I took a moment to remind myself of all the possibilities of any such appraisal. The novel might be the real thing, but it was more likely to be a forgery. It might be a modern forgery or it might be a
    contemporary forgery. Knowing which would depend partially on discovering the book’s provenance—the
    documented or authenticated history of its ownership—of which I so far knew nothing.

    www.samhainpublishing.com
    13
    Josh Lanyon
    The professor reappeared with a peach-colored plush towel and I scrubbed my face and hair, tossed
    the towel to the fireplace hearth and sat down at the desk. I still didn’t touch the book, simply gazing at the gold lettering on the front cover. Miss Anjaley Coutts surrounded in gold-stamped holly and ivy.
    That wouldn’t be the title. So the book was a gift and Miss Coutts was the recipient. Why was that
    name familiar? Who was Miss Anjaley Coutts? Not Mrs. Dickens or a sister-in-law. Not a daughter. Not an alias of Dickens’ mistress, the actress Ellen Ternan, because he didn’t meet her until 1857. Who then?
    “It doesn’t bite,” Professor Crisparkle said sardonically, and I realized that I’d been sitting there for more than a minute, unmoving, staring at the cover.
    I threw him a quick, distracted look, and then delicately edged the book around to examine its spine.
    Gold lettering read The Christmas Cake / Dickens / MDCCCXLVII .
    The Christmas cake?
    I