A Christmas Keepsake Read online

  A CHRISTMAS KEEPSAKE

  Janice Bennett

  TIME TRAVELER

  Browsing through London in the softly falling snow, Christina Campbell was delighted to find an antique Christmas “snow ball” with an old-fashioned ice-skating scene inside. And when she examined it more closely, Christie was surprised to discover that the artist’s name was James Holborn, the author of an old, regency-era book she treasured. Christie knew she must have this magical ball at any price, especially when she noticed that one of the ice-skaters looked remarkably like her. But she had no idea just how special the ball really was for when she turned it to watch the snowflakes swirl, so too did her own world...

  TIME CHANGER

  James Holborn wondered who was this peculiar, but beautiful, woman who suddenly appeared before him in the park. She was certainly dressed in the oddest clothing, and her gibberish about the future and time travel seemed too preposterous to believe. As he escorted this most attractive lady home, the falling snow reminded James of the approaching holiday season and he felt himself caught up in the Christmas spirit. Good will to all men, and women, seemed to be a wonderful idea for when James gazed into Christie’s beautifully sparkling eyes, he lost track of all time—both his and hers!

  CHAPTER ONE

  The typeset letters on the book’s page blurred. Their lines paled, then twisted as their shapes shifted to form new words and sentences. After a moment, they phased back to their original position.

  Christina Campbell’s knees buckled. She sank onto the edge of the hotel’s bed and with a shaking hand shoved the thick dark mass of curls from her face. She glared at the yellowed page before her, blue eyes unblinking. “All right, I dare you to try that again,” she said.

  The text did, repeating its weird metamorphosis.

  “You didn’t have to take me up on it!” She closed her eyes for a moment, then with deliberation, she took off her reading glasses, rubbed the lenses with a tissue, then settled the round tortoise shell frames once more on her upturned nose. Her eyesight wasn’t that bad. As she watched, the letters began their unsettling transformation again.

  “Right,” she muttered. Using a finger to mark her place, she flipped back to the title page. Life in London: A Different Perspective she read, then the second part shimmered, and An Account of the Recent Riots and the Events Leading to Them appeared, only to fade again.

  She dropped the book as if it burned her and scooted toward the pillows, as far from that crazy volume as she could get. She kept her wide-eyed gaze locked on it. Slowly, she drew her stockinged legs under her and hugged herself. If it moved...

  It didn’t. After a long minute, she forced herself to pick it up once more. The title shimmered, and she looked away, focusing instead on the next line which detailed the author and date. James Edward Holborn, 1811. For that, at least, the typeface remained solid.

  She eased her way back through the book, glaring at each page in challenge, waiting for the print to do anything strange. It didn’t. The passages remained just as they had been written, almost two hundred years before.

  She turned another page and stopped; the lines near the bottom shimmered. “House party” she read one moment, “bloody rioting” the next. Other words shifted about them, refusing to come into focus.

  Christy laid the book on the bedspread, propped the pillows behind her, and leaned back against them. Her glasses were fine. The hotel room provided sufficient steady light. That meant the problem lay with her. Jet lag, she supposed. An eight-hour difference stood between San Francisco and London time. It was no wonder she was going cross-eyed.

  Absently, she scooped a couple of chocolate chips from their pile on the nightstand and popped them into her mouth. If her eyes were tired, why didn’t all the words shift?

  They should. An eerie, prickling sensation crept up her spine and danced along her flesh. She sat up and studied the book again. No, the beginning didn’t change, only the last forty pages. In her seven years as a rare book dealer, this was the rarest book she’d ever come across. Lines blurred by age and foxing she had encountered before. Lines that blurred themselves were a new one on her.

  She leaned over the edge of the bed and sorted through the box of books and printed documents she had purchased as a lot that morning at Sotheby’s. Plastic sheets encased the regent’s letter, which she had flown halfway around the world to buy. The rest which had been thrown in she had thought a bonus—until now.

  That letter! Her heart lurched, and she rummaged through her collection again, frantic. She’d paid a fortune for it. If something was wrong with everything in this box, damage to the ink, perhaps...

  The spidery hand of Prince George remained firm and clear. Just to be sure, she deciphered the contents, written to a Sir Dominic Kaye, requesting the man’s assistance in passing the regency bill. Everything all right. She breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief, and picked up another letter. It, too, appeared unharmed. Nor did any of the other books display this weird phenomenon. She turned once more to the latter half of Life in London, and shivered as the words transformed before her eyes.

  The line “Several highly placed members of government circles” shimmered, then took new shape as ... inhabitants of the rookeries and back alleys, long denied ... The next moment, the original words returned. Christy’s fingers tightened, and her gaze settled on the next line. The phrase “... unspeakable horrors, after the manner of their brethren in France” hovered briefly on the page, then faded to “... dining upon the delights of this festive season.”

  Her hands trembling, Christy turned the page. For one moment, the words “blood bath” stood out with startling clarity, then faded into a hopeless blur.

  She closed the thin volume, and her hands clenched the aged leather cover. She’d seen those “choose-your-own-ending” books, but this was ridiculous. In those, it was a simple matter of turning to the correct page number for an alternate version. The ending didn’t rewrite itself while the reader watched! Either she’d stumbled across the strangest case of disappearing ink imaginable, or...

  Or what?

  She rolled across the large bed and grabbed the phone, then punched the number for the hotel desk. Four more chocolate chips disappeared one at a time from the oak nightstand before the operator’s voice came over the line.

  “Is there a Mrs. Amanda Trent staying here?” Christy asked, and relief flooded through her at the affirmative. “Could you connect me with her room?”

  Again the wait, then a brisk, welcomingly familiar voice said: “Hello?”

  “Amanda? It’s Christy Campbell.”

  “Calling to gloat over the Regent’s letter, are you? Well, at least you got it instead of old Wumpus Face. Did you see him turn purple when you topped his last bid?”

  “I did. Look—”

  “Then when I got the Ivanhoe, I thought he’d have a stroke. Hot damn, what a morning. Haven’t had so much fun in weeks. So what’s up with you?”

  “I’ve got a problem, I was hoping you could help me.”

  “Not the letter!”

  “No, a book, a social commentary of about the same period. It came in the lot with it. Look, would you mind if I bring it by? I’d like you to take a look at it.”

  “Love to. But I warn you, I won’t be impressed by anything less than a juicy scandal.”

  “Oh, I think you’ll find this one fascinating.”

  “Good. I’ll pull out a couple of beers and be waiting for you.”

  “Better not.” Christy glanced at the book in her hands. “There’re enough pink elephants dancing around, already.”

  A hearty chuckle came over the line. “Sounds like you’ve been celebrating. Well, don’t keep me in suspense.”


  Christy hung up, straightened her navy wool skirt, shoved her feet into her pumps and picked up the book with care. If anyone could get to the bottom of this, it would be Amanda Trent.

  Five minutes later, she got off the elevator three floors up and strode down the cream-carpeted hall, past the dieffenbachia trees and pothos in brass pots which filled every alcove. She turned the corner and found Mrs. Trent’s room.

  The door flung wide as soon as she knocked, and Amanda Trent, her considerable bulk enveloped in a purple paisley muumuu, waved her inside. She leaned out into the hall, peering over her thick black-rimmed glasses, and ran a hand through her blunt-cut grizzled hair. “Aw, where’re the elephants? I thought you’d bring them with you.”

  “In here.” Christy held up the book. She entered the elegant room, a mirror-image of her own.

  Amanda chuckled again. “Well, don’t look so solemn. I’m in the mood for a spot of pink game hunting. What’s the problem?”

  “I’m hoping you can tell me.” Christy hesitated. “Look, you’ve got more experience in this business than anyone I know. Will you read Chapter Ten, then tell me what it says?”

  Amanda’s grin never faded, but the gleam in her gray eyes sharpened. She took the leather-bound volume and studied the cover. “Holborn. Never heard of him. A social commentary, you said?”

  Christy nodded, then clasped her hands behind her back and paced to the window overlooking Piccadilly. “I was glancing through it earlier to check its condition, then started reading. It’s really good, for what it is. Entertaining, not the usual sort of preaching you get from that kind of book at that time.”

  “Chapter Ten?” Amanda eased her bulk into a padded wing-back chair and deposited her bare feet on the footstool. After switching on the light on the occasional table at her side, she went to work.

  Silence reigned behind Christy, and she stared hard at the traffic wending its slow way past, so many stories below. Maybe she just needed sleep. Maybe she’d been studying too many manuscripts and damaged editions. Maybe she needed a break from her work. She’d been going at it hard since Ryan found a new interest in life. That the interest had been a six-foot Nordic blonde, while Christy was a mere five-foot brunette, had done little for her self-esteem. At least she learned her lesson. Never again would she get involved in more than a business relationship with a client. Rare books were far more dependable than men—or so she’d thought until a few minutes ago.

  A hoot of laughter escaped Amanda, and Christy spun about to face her. “Did you find something?”

  “Just a turn of phrase. God, I love it! Is the whole book this good?”

  Christy chose her words with care. “The parts I could read were well done.”

  “Why haven’t I ever heard of him before? Hot damn, I love finding a funny writer. I wonder what else he wrote?”

  Christy searched the older woman’s face for any trace of concern, her hopes rising. Amanda had a strong streak of common sense. Maybe she already had the explanation. “Have you noticed anything odd about it?”

  “Only the way Holborn mixes with the government stuffed shirts and still keeps his perspective.” She pulled off her glasses and rubbed the reddened bridge of her nose. “God, I hate crusading bores. I wish more of them took this approach.”

  Christy crossed to a chair opposite Amanda and perched on its edge. “What is that chapter about?”

  “A Christmas house party. Each of the guests is out to further his own interests instead of celebrating the season. Does that sum it up?”

  “I don’t know.” Christy bit her lip, then raised worried eyes to her friend. “I can’t read it. Aren’t you having trouble with the print shifting?”

  Amanda Trent stared at her blankly, then studied the pages. “Nope. Need a new glasses prescription?”

  “I’m not having the problem with anything else. Only this book, from Chapter Ten, on.”

  “Uh-huh.” Amanda nodded wisely. “Was that when you started celebrating?”

  “I haven’t had a drink. And no, I don’t do any of that funny stuff, so stop looking at me like that. Don’t you see anything in there about a revolution? Or a blood bath?”

  “Could be in another chapter. I only read Ten, you know.”

  “No, it was right here, on the first couple of pages.” Christy took the volume back from her. “There, it’s doing it again, can’t you see the words changing? Now it says something about riots, it’s so clear—no, it’s fading. It’s back to the house party. Did you see?” She looked up to find Amanda regarding her with a frown.

  “Someone’s been slipping you Mickey Finns, girl.” Amanda waggled a finger under her nose. “You go back to your room and sleep it off.”

  Christy shook her head. “I’m stone sober.”

  “Then it’ll be jet lag. San Francisco to London is too damned long a time to be cooped up on a plane. Florida was bad enough. You should’ve come over a day or two early, like I did. Go get a decent dinner and go to bed. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

  “I’m seeing things?” Christy asked bluntly.

  “I’m not.”

  Christy nodded. “That’s what I thought. But it was only this one book. It crossed my mind there might be something peculiar about the printer’s ink.”

  Amanda crossed her ankles, pursing her lips. After a minute, she said: “Nope. Never heard of anything that could make type change. Blur, maybe, but not become other words entirely.”

  Christy drew a deep breath and stared at the volume in her hand. “No, it does seem impossible, doesn’t it? You’re probably right about that night’s sleep. And the dinner. I’ve been living on airline food.”

  Amanda rolled her eyes heavenward. “God, it’s no wonder you’re hallucinating. I’m surprised you’re not in the hospital. Well, have we slain your elephants?”

  “I think so.” Christy rose. “Thanks for bearing with me.”

  “No problem. I owed you one for giving old Wumpus Face his comeuppance. Take care of that letter.” She swung her feet to the floor and heaved herself from the chair. “I’m going to a few book shops tomorrow. Want to come?”

  “What, bring your competition? I’d love to.” She gave Amanda a quick hug. “I’ll see you in the morning. Breakfast at nine?”

  That settled, Christy took her leave, feeling somewhat better. Still, why only Holborn’s book, and why only from Chapter Ten on? If her eyes played tricks on her, why didn’t they do it on everything? She’d put it to the test on a restaurant menu. She wouldn’t mind seeing what one of those said. She’d put away Life in London and not look at it again until after breakfast the next morning.

  “It’s hallucinatory,” Christy breathed. She stared at the page. This time, Holborn’s relating of Christmas Eve dinner blurred into an account of a mob storming the mansions of the aristocrats on Grosvenor Square. Elegant ladies, their dinner gowns stained with their own blood, screaming in anguish while angry hordes garbed in rags looted their houses and dragged gentlemen into the street where they were beaten and stabbed...

  The type shimmered, and the tale of the dinner party returned.

  Christy closed her eyes. Why didn’t anyone else see this? What was it about this book? And why only her?

  She glanced at the clock. Eight; still an hour before she had to meet Amanda Trent for breakfast. She’d spend the time gathering a few more opinions.

  With the book firmly tucked under her arm, she took the elevator to the lobby. The first person she encountered was a bellhop, and she handed him the volume.

  “Is there anything odd about the type?” she demanded.

  The young man looked at her in bewilderment, then glanced at the page. “No, miss. Should there be?”

  She clenched her teeth. “Do the words blur?”

  “No, miss.” Of that, at least, he sounded certain. “If you need the direction of a good optometrist, the desk clerk can help you, miss.”

  “Thank you.” She closed the book and walked on. That mad
e two votes for it being all right. A few more, and she’d be convinced the problem lay with her.

  She got them, one right after the other. A second bellhop, the desk clerk, two waiters and a chambermaid all agreed with Amanda Trent. Not one single thing was the matter with the type in the book. Which meant there was something whopping wrong with her.

  Or did it? She wasn’t one to suffer from pink elephants. She prided herself on her logical approach to life and business. Well, all right, she was a bit too impulsive, but that couldn’t have anything to do with this. Nor had her breakup with Ryan unsettled her that much. She’d been more angry than hurt, and finally just glad to be rid of the rat.

  She turned the volume over, studying the spine, then the back cover. This was creepy. Apparently, whatever the problem, it was between her and this book.

  Or the writer.

  James Edward Holborn. She weighed the name in her mind, searching her memory. No, it meant nothing to her. She’d never heard of him before. If this was his only book...

  It might not be, though. Life in London was no amateur bit of social propaganda. The man knew his way around the written word, and how to use it for the best effect. He must have written others.

  She opened the volume, this time to the eleventh chapter, and the words shifted before her eyes. Almost, the book smiled at her, as if challenging her to solve its mystery.

  For one moment, a prickle of fear danced through her. A prudent person would sell the thing at the earliest opportunity, get rid of it and forget all about it. Her saner self whispered that would be the wisest—and safest—course.

  But she wouldn’t.

  She would call the book’s bluff and investigate it.

  CHAPTER TWO

  At a lobby phone, Christy dialed Amanda’s room. “Look,” she said as soon as her friend came on the line, “would you mind if I meet you somewhere for lunch, instead? I’ve got some research I need to do this morning.”

  Dead silence indicated Amanda considered this statement. “You’ve still got a pink elephant dancing around?”