The Ghost Sonata (23 page)

Gilda flipped through the pamphlet, skimming a description of how
Alice in Wonderland
was based on the bizarre dream of a real little girl named Alice Liddell, whose family had lived in Oxford. She read about the summer afternoon when Alice Liddell and the book's author, Lewis Carroll, took a boat ride down the Thames, and how the Oxford landmarks they visited were woven into the whimsical, dreamlike story.

“Only three quid for the book,” said the clerk, suddenly sounding impatient, as if she expected Gilda to actually buy the booklet instead of merely reading it in the shop.

Gilda searched through her bag and located a ten-pound note to pay for the little book, the refrigerator magnet, and the paperweight, half-wondering if she really wanted any of these things.

“Now, you might be interested to know that some people—and not just kids, mind you—think that somewhere along the Alice Trail there's a
real
entrance to Wonderland.” The woman nonchalantly punched numbers into the cash register as she spoke.

“You're kidding, right?” Gilda assumed the clerk must be joking, but it was impossible to be sure from her humorless facial expression.

“Well, there is something interesting about the way so many writers who lived in Oxford describe magical worlds and parallel universes that have secret entranceways,” said the pink-haired woman, handing Gilda her receipt. “Take the Narnia books, for example. One can't help thinking there might be
something
about Oxford that's special.”

Gilda had to admit she had an intriguing point. Still, it was pretty wacky to hear an adult talking about “magical worlds” as if they might actually exist in real life. Maybe this woman had become delusional after spending too much time alone in Alice's Shop.

“I just work here part-time,” the woman explained, as if answering Gilda's thoughts. “I'm doing graduate work in math at Christ Church College—the same place where Lewis Carroll was a mathematician. I'm studying a theory that parallel universes may really exist,” she added.

Gilda now wondered if the clerk was completely loony. “I didn't know math could be so unusual,” she said politely. Math at school always seemed to involve tedious questions about stuffing apples in lunch bags and how many kids could fit into different carpool vans.

“Oh, it's
very
strange. For example, at this very moment, you're standing right here in Alice's Shop. But in theory, you might
also
exist in a parallel world where all the choices you've made and all the random events that have ever happened to you in life had outcomes completely the opposite of those they had in
this
world.”

Gilda considered this idea.
Maybe, in a parallel universe, my father isn't dead
, she thought.
But if I'm here now, how could I exist in another world at the same time?

“The problem with the theory,” said the clerk, “is that it's impossible to test it if the parallel worlds can't interact with each other.”

Gilda suddenly thought of the voice on the tape recorder and the music Wendy kept hearing. “What about ghosts?” Gilda asked.

“Ghosts?”

“I was just wondering: if you see or hear a ghost, is it possible that you're actually perceiving a message from someone who's dead in this world but still alive in a parallel universe or something?”

“I don't know about
that
.” The clerk hopped back on her stool and picked up her sandwich.

Gilda decided this must be her signal to leave. “Well, thanks anyway—for the book and everything.”

“People used to believe something like that in medieval times,” the clerk said as if she hadn't noticed that Gilda was just about to leave the store. “In those days, there were worlds of spirits and fairies that lived side by side with the human world.”

Something about this conversation in the dim, confined atmosphere of Alice's Shop was beginning to make Gilda feel as if she had already slipped into another world. She waited to see if the clerk would say more, but instead the woman took a large bite of the sandwich and opened her book. “Anyway, hope you find what you're looking for on the Alice Trail.”

As Gilda left the store, she noticed that the eccentric clerk was reading a copy of
Alice in Wonderland.

That's weird
, Gilda thought.
She's probably read it about a million times already.

 

As Gilda walked up St. Aldate's, she skimmed the little book she had just purchased. She read how Alice Liddell, her sisters, and Lewis Carroll had followed the river through a place called Port Meadow. Then—something caught Gilda's attention—something that made her stop in the middle of the sidewalk so abruptly that an elderly woman bumped into her from behind and then turned to glare at her.

“Sorry,” Gilda muttered, still not looking up, because she had just discovered what might be an important clue: according to the booklet, there actually was a real
treacle well
in Oxford.

 

Was it possible that the odd phrase “fry wide” she and Wendy had heard on the tape was actually a reference to Saint Frideswide and the treacle well in Oxford? Gilda had no idea why a ghost might want her to know about this ancient well, but she decided she had to make her way down the Alice Trail to investigate it.

29

Julian and Jenny

 

So, Julian . . . honey”—Ms. Pickles huffed and puffed as she followed Julian up a series of narrow wooden staircases leading to the cupola at the top of the Sheldonian Theater—“tell me again,
where
are your father's hotels?” It was about the twentieth prying question Ms. Pickles had asked since she, Jenny, and Julian had begun their sightseeing stroll around Oxford.

It was one thing, Julian thought, to make up a lively little story over dinner (while your piano teacher was in the Men's room) just to add a little spice to the evening. It was another thing entirely when you had to keep talking about it for hours.

“Oh, most are in Scotland and Wales, in point of fact,” he said, praying that Jenny and her mother weren't planning a trip to Scotland or Wales anytime soon.

“And what are they called?”

“Oh, various names. There's Mabinogi Castle, there's, um, Gwilymnogi Lodge and Tywynogi Manor House . . . hard to keep them all straight, you know.”

“And do you and your family visit up there often?”

“Oh, not so often.”

It was true that Jenny was friendly and smiled a lot and had great hair—
the kind of girl you'd want to be seen with back at home
, Julian thought. It was also true that being away from home for a few days had provided him with a rare opportunity to meet more than one girl who actually liked him.
I guess it's true what they say about American girls
, he thought.
It doesn't matter whether you're funny-looking or whether you speak the Queen's English, Cockney, or some version of Scouse: they fall for an English accent.

Pleased as he was with Jenny's attention, Julian couldn't help thinking that her mother was a bit of a bore. The problem was, the two of them seemed to come as a pair.
That's why it's best to have more than one girl
, he reminded himself.
You never know when someone's going to go off you or you're going to go off her, so you always need a backup.

They reached the top of the Sheldonian Theater, where they gazed across the entire city. Julian reminded himself to
act
as if he had seen it all before, even though it was the first time he had ever seen this view of the Oxford statues perched on college rooftops and the tips of pointy spires as far as the eye could see.

“Wow!” Jenny and her mother gazed across the city. “Isn't it amazing? We're standing here in a building that's more than three hundred years old, looking out over
Oxford University
!”

“And just think, Jenny. You could be performing in the final rounds of the competition in this very building in a matter of hours,” Jenny's mother added.

Julian wished that Jenny's mother wasn't around because it would have been the perfect opportunity to put his arm around Jenny. Maybe he wouldn't have done it even if she
hadn't
been around, but he liked to think that when an opportunity presented itself with a cute girl, as it rarely did, he would be man enough to take it.

“When I win the competition,” he said, “I'll take us all on a trip up to one of my dad's hotels.” He immediately wondered why he had been foolish enough to bring up the subject of his father's nonexistent hotels when it had finally dropped from conversation.

Both Jenny and her mother regarded him with cold, blank faces. It took a moment for him to understand that this was because of his suggestion that he might actually win the competition. It had been a joke, but they clearly didn't think it was the least bit funny.

Julian hadn't even considered the possibility that Jenny might expect to win the competition herself. First of all, he hadn't heard her play yet. Secondly, Jenny didn't really talk about music the way the more “serious” kids did, so how would he know she wanted to win? Thirdly, why would a cute girl with such bouncy red hair bother to spend so much time playing classical piano music?

“Or—when
you
win,” he said, quickly correcting himself and feeling annoyed as he did so, “you can take us all there with the prize money.”

Jenny and her mother smiled with relief.

“With your family's success and position, I'm sure
you
wouldn't need the prize money to take a trip,” said Ms. Pickles, adding to Julian's growing urge to extricate himself from the whole situation. He glanced at his watch. “I almost forgot,” he said, “my teacher will be expecting me, so I have to shove off soon.”

“I probably should go practice, too,” said Jenny, glancing at Julian with disappointment.

“I think I'll head back to Wyntle House and grab a couple winks,” said Ms. Pickles, suppressing a yawn. “This jet lag is getting to me.”

At the mention of Wyntle House, Julian's ears perked up. Didn't Gilda say she was also staying at Wyntle House? He had a sudden urge to see if she was there. She was more fun to talk to than Jenny and her mother. Besides, the day was winterish and gray, and the idea of being cooped up alone in the practice room seemed too depressing to face.

 

After parting ways with Jenny and her mother, Julian made his way down Walton Street toward Wyntle House. Bracing himself against the cold wind, he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and felt something in his pocket—a small piece of paper. Curious, he pulled it out and discovered a card with a strangely disturbing image—a tall stone tower beginning to crumble as lightning struck it from above. Tumbling from the upper turrets of the tower, a man and a woman dressed in medieval clothing fell headfirst toward the ground.

It was a tarot card titled The Tower.

30