The note

A sketch of the opening of a story.

The girl who wasn’t really her friend had excused herself and gone to see why her mother was calling, leaving Mathilde alone in the big room with half-closed shutters and the distant sound of a lawn mower. Ample sofas and armchairs seemed to hold their ample breath. A vase of cut flowers whispered, don’t touch. Mathilde gave the dainty tables and antique bibelots a wide berth, and wandered over to the bookcase.

It was just for show, she decided, nothing in it was intended to be read, all tooled leather bindings, gold-embossed, probably first editions, immensely valuable. She ran her finger along the spines, hesitated at a slim volume in dark walnut leather. The book fell into her hand unasked. It was cool, smooth and had no title. A diary, she thought and opened it. Not a diary. There was a fly leaf with a single word printed in an archaic font. Verdiana.

Her lips mouthed the word, and the dust motes in the rare beams of light danced. She shivered and snapped the book closed. In the movement to replace it on the shelf, a folded slip of paper dropped out from between the end papers. She picked it up, slowly turned it over. A name was written on the outer side. Her name, Mathilde. She moved into the light, curiosity overcoming the creeping sense of unease. The thin paper was yellowed, almost translucent, and allowed itself to be unfolded with reluctance. The note was just six words of faded black ink.

Meet me at the jetty tonight.

There was no signature, simply a scrawled doodle of something that might have been a rose. Mathilde read the words again, heard a voice deep inside her ear, a voice that made her shiver, in fear or excitement, she couldn’t tell. She replaced the note and slipped the volume back into its place.

‘I’ll go,’ she said aloud to the empty room and the beam of sunlight. The dust motes leapt and span, and from the garden, beyond the shuttered windows, a jay laughed.