Page 77 of Mirrors of the Past

Tegan hunched her shoulders up and wriggled her chin into her scarf. ‘It’s like we’re adulting. It’s weird.’

‘Definitely weird.’ Ryan laughed. ‘Oh! Look. What’s going on over there?’

Tegan followed his nod. They were approaching Russell Square, and, through the haze of mizzle that was rapidly turning London damp and grey, it looked as if there was some activity going on, some sort of Christmas fair, no less.

‘Ah! Christmas stuff!’ she said. ‘Shall we go and have a look? It’s not quite Hyde Park, but it looks pretty. We can cut through and then Brunswick Square is just to the left, if I remember correctly.’

They stepped through the gate into the square and Tegan drew up short. It was decorated exactly like a Victorian Christmas or something. Fake snow was piled up and people were milling around dressed in old-fashioned clothing.

A choir was singing and children were running around, weaving in and out of roast-chestnut sellers and mulled-wine carts, the earthy, spiced scent drifting tantalisingly around the stalls.

‘Wow.’ She stared at it. ‘This is amazing!’

Ryan looked up and held his hand out. ‘The rain’s turned to snow. I’m not sure they’ll need the fake stuff for much longer. It’ll get covered in the proper stuff before long.’

Tegan stuck the toe of her boot into a snowdrift. ‘It’s good, though. I wonder where they got it from. It would be good for our wedding exhibition.’ She realised immediately that she’d said “our”, but decided not to correct herself. Ryan had helped out a lot, she knew that.

Ryan seemed to let it go too. ‘It’s very effective.’ He bent down and picked up a handful of the stuff, experimentally crushing it into a snowball. Then he tossed the snowball towards the edge of the path, where it exploded in a cloud of very realistic snow. ‘Bloody good snow indeed.’

They walked further into the square, stepping aside as people walked purposefully towards them, and the carollers sang about the bleak midwinter. Nobody seemed to pay them one iota of attention.

As they got further into the crowd, though, Tegan began to feel a little odd. She couldn’t explain it, but it was as if she was invisible. Not really there, not really inhabiting that space. Almost as if she’d stumbled into a dream. If she looked away from someone or something, for example, then looked back, it was all slow motion and jerky, like the reels on a very old spool of film coming back into focus.

She stopped in the middle of the path, looking at a child in a red coat running towards them. The girl had dark curly hair flying loose and made no attempt to avoid her. She didn’t even seem to see her.

What would happen, she thought, if I just stayed here and didn’t move . . . ?

It was a risk she was willing to take and, for some reason, she was prepared to do so. And not because she wanted to hurt the child or see her fall over, or force the little girl to move instead of her, Tegan . . .

Instead, she felt Ryan’s hand take hers and tug her out of the way.

‘Careful,’ he said. ‘Nobody wants to end up sitting on their bums in the snow today.’

‘Ryan,’ she said, carefully. ‘I don’t think she saw me.’

‘Kids are like that,’ he said. ‘Never take notice of anyone but themselves.’ He was smiling as he said it. ‘Look at her — she’s got a purpose and she knows exactly where she’s headed.’

They both turned and watched the girl. She’d slowed to a purposeful trudge.

‘Unca Laurie! Viola!’ she cried. Two people swung around, obviously hearing the child shout. She began to wave at them, her hand muff hanging at an angle across her body. ‘It’s fun here! Look at the snow!’

* * *

Ryan’s hand was still in Tegan’s and he felt her stiffen as much as he did when the child yelled out those names.

Watching the scene unfold, his heart pounding and his stomach churning as he tried to make sense of it all, he saw the little girl storm ahead of a woman dressed in a formal sort of uniform. The child stooped to pick up a pile of snow, just as he’d done. She also made it into a snowball, threw it, then clapped her hands and laughed.

‘Marigold Ashby,’ said the man she’d approached. He hunkered down and the child ran at him and almost knocked him over as he closed his arms around her. Then he stood up and swung her around before placing her back on the ground. ‘Good afternoon.’

The woman with him, with “Unca Laurie”, was standing slightly to the side. Small, with fair hair under a warm-looking hat, and her hands encased in a muff, she blinked and looked at the man as if she was seeing him for the very first time.

Then her gaze travelled around the square briefly, a slight look of confusion on her face, and Ryan got a good look at her as she scanned the park past him.

Viola.

It was her. It was definitely her. And Ryan knew that this wasn’t the first time he’d seen her, or the first time he’d been in Viola’s company — the real Viola, that was. Not the ethereal version that seemed to be hanging around him and Tegan in Cornwall.

In that moment, it was as if all the pieces of a giant jigsaw puzzle had fallen into place. He found himself hanging on to Tegan’s hand as if he was scared to let it go. He could feel her fingers digging into his, too.