The black linen cover of the ledger is worn and fraying at the edges, the corners dog-eared with use. As she opens it, I catch a faint whiff of mildew. She turns the pages carefully, searching for Josie’s name. ‘Look,’ she says triumphantly. ‘Here she is – Josiane Duval. She took out two books by Dorothy L. Sayers on the 29th of October and returned them on the 7th of November.’
I reach out a finger to touch the name. It’s not Josie’s handwriting, it must be that of Mademoiselle Dubois, but it still feels like one last tenuous link to her.
The librarian turns the pages. ‘Here she is again,’ she says.
I look politely, expecting it’s a previous reference. But I do a double take when I see the date. ‘The 23rd of November? But that’s impossible. She was on a ship that was sunk in the battle of Casablanca.’
The librarian continues to flip over pages. ‘And here again, in December. It looks as if perhaps she may have survived.’
The wave of hope that surges in my chest subsides again suddenly. Of course. Josie gave Nina her library card. Mademoiselle Dubois must have continued to record the books in Josie’s name, even after she’d gone. I shake my head. ‘Thank you. I think I know the explanation. But I don’t think it was possible that she survived.’
‘Are you sure? We do take a pride in keeping accurate records in my profession, you know.’
‘The newspaper reports say everyone on board was killed. The ship exploded, you see, while it was at anchor in the harbour.’ I show her the article.
‘Oh well, a bit of a mystery then. But as you say, a tragedy as well.’
I thank her again for her time and her help. Grace is getting restless now and so I hurry home.
I struggle to sleep. When I do, my dreams are haunted by Josie. She’s here in the house, pleading with me to rescue her. I reach out to grab her hand as she reaches for mine, but her fingers are covered in a black, oily slime and she slips out of my grasp and seems to be drowning in the darkness as I open my eyes, gasping for breath.
I’m wide awake then, so I reach over and switch on the bedside light. My arms are burning where the dermatitis is worse than ever, and I carefully dab a little more cream on to the worst of the wheals. It’s torture, trying not to claw at my skin to relieve the agonising itch. I know it’ll help for a few seconds and then make it burn all the more, the skin broken and bleeding. I have to resist, for my sake and for Grace’s. She needs me. I can’t let her down. But I know, too, that I’ll be exhausted in the morning and I’ll have to force myself to go through the motions of the day. Losing Josie has broken me. I’m not sure I can go on.
At last an idea occurs to me. I’m so desperate to sleep that I’ll try anything. And so the next morning, while Tom is catching up with some work in his study, I go to find Alia in the kitchen. She’s chopping herbs for the couscous she’s making for us to eat tonight and the smell of mint and coriander are pungent on the air. The knife flies beneath her hands as I come to stand beside her, on the pretext of fetching myself a glass of water, watching as the pile of leaves subsides into a neat, finely shredded mound.
‘I can bring you a jug with ice in to the drawing room, if you would like, Mrs Zoe?’
I take a gulp and shake my head. ‘No, thanks, Alia, this is fine. Actually, there was something I wanted to ask you about. Do you know whether there is someone in the medina called a dreamseller? I think she could be some sort of a storyteller? A woman who might be able to help people when they are struggling with their thoughts?’
Slowly, she lowers her knife, placing it alongside the little heaps of dark green herbs on the chopping board. She fixes her eyes on mine and I’m unnerved by the intensity of her gaze.
‘The dreamseller?’ she repeats. ‘What do you know of the dreamseller?’
‘It’s just something I read about. I found a journal, you see, and there was a mention of this woman, a kind of fortune-teller or something, who is able to see what people need and help explain it to them through her stories.’
‘A journal?’ Her voice is sharp, suddenly, very unlike her usual gentle lilt. ‘What journal?’
‘It belonged to a girl who once lived in this house. I can show you if you’d like?’
‘I’d like very much to see this journal, please, Mrs Zoe.’
‘Come,’ I say, and we go upstairs together.
We sit side by side on the chaise in the drawing room. I open Josie’s journal at the first page and show Alia the words. ‘See? She began writing this in 1941. But it ends the following year, very suddenly. I found this, too.’ I show her the inlaid box, opening it to reveal the treasures safely concealed inside.