can answer.'
'So you think I may have lived in that house in some sort of past life?' It sounded ridiculous, but Tom's expression was serious.
'I think it's an idea worth exploring, yes. After all, if you feel like you've been somewhere before, the logical explanation usually is that you have been there before.'
I frowned. 'It could explain why I was drawn to the house, I suppose.'
'And why you knew where the old garden had been. And why you chose to make your studio in that tiny back room, instead of using one of the better rooms at the front.’
As he spoke the words, an image rose swimming in front of my eyes, of the mover's young assistant holding my bedroom chair and asking, in a puzzled voice, 'Are you sure you meant the first room on the right ... ?'
I shook myself back to the present. 'Good Lord,' I said flatly.
'I could try to find out more about the subject for you,' Tom offered. 'We've got a wonderfully eccentric librarian here who delights in ferreting out odd bits of information.'
'You honestly believe that past lives are possible?' I asked him, and he shrugged.
'The Lord moves in ways mysterious,' he told me, smiling.
'Oh, that reminds me,' I said, sitting upright. 'Have you ever heard a biblical passage that starts, "Blow the trumpet in Zion," or something like that? I don't recall the rest of it, something about people trembling and the day of judgment.'
Tom rolled his eyes. 'Sounds like one of the doom-and-gloom Old Testament chaps,' he speculated. 'Micah, maybe, or Joel.' Rising from his chair, he crossed to his desk and picked up a well-thumbed copy of the King James Bible. For several minutes he silently leafed through the pages, and I was on the verge of telling him that it wasn't that important, after all, when he suddenly jabbed one page with a triumphant finger. 'Aha! It was Joel. Chapter two, verse one. Here you go.'
He passed the Bible to me, open, and pointed to the place. As I read the brief, cheerless passage, Tom sat down again, scratching his forehead idly. 'My former curate used to love reading texts from Joel,' he recalled. 'Real hell-and-damnation stuff, hardly inspiring for the congregation. Though I seem to remember that old Joel was writing during a plague of locusts, so I suppose he had a right to be dismal.'
Plague ... the word struck a sudden chord in my memory, and I lifted my eyes from the page. 'When was the Great Plague in London, do you know?' 'There were several, I think,' Tom replied. 'There was the Black Death, of course, in the 1300V
I half closed my eyes, replaying the scenes in my mind, trying to focus on the clothes that people were wearing, the style of their hair, the furniture in the house ...
'No.' I shook my head. "The plague I'm thinking of was later than that.'
'There was a big one in the mid-seventeenth century, then, just before the Great Fire.'
'That's the one.' I wasn't sure how or why I knew, but I knew.
'What would you like to know about it?'
'Everything.' I lifted my shoulders expansively. 'I don't know much about the history of that period. And that's the time in which Mariana lived, I'm sure of it. Her mother died of the plague.'
'Well, I'm rather rusty on the seventeenth century myself. I remember the Civil War bit well enough, and the beheading of Charles the First, and Cromwell, of course, but when it comes to the plague ... Hang on,' he interjected, brightening. 'I've got a copy of Pepys's diary lying about somewhere. He kept a fairly good account of the plague year, I think. Let me see if I can find it for you.'
He rose from his seat a second time and made a close examination of the overstuffed bookshelves on the far side of the room. After a long hunt, he extracted a wedged volume and flipped open the cover. 'Here it is. Quite a nice copy, actually. I picked it up at a book sale in Oxford.' He handed it to me, a small book that nestled comfortably in my open hand, and turning to the title page, I read aloud:
'The Diary of Samuel
'So you think I may have lived in that house in some sort of past life?' It sounded ridiculous, but Tom's expression was serious.
'I think it's an idea worth exploring, yes. After all, if you feel like you've been somewhere before, the logical explanation usually is that you have been there before.'
I frowned. 'It could explain why I was drawn to the house, I suppose.'
'And why you knew where the old garden had been. And why you chose to make your studio in that tiny back room, instead of using one of the better rooms at the front.’
As he spoke the words, an image rose swimming in front of my eyes, of the mover's young assistant holding my bedroom chair and asking, in a puzzled voice, 'Are you sure you meant the first room on the right ... ?'
I shook myself back to the present. 'Good Lord,' I said flatly.
'I could try to find out more about the subject for you,' Tom offered. 'We've got a wonderfully eccentric librarian here who delights in ferreting out odd bits of information.'
'You honestly believe that past lives are possible?' I asked him, and he shrugged.
'The Lord moves in ways mysterious,' he told me, smiling.
'Oh, that reminds me,' I said, sitting upright. 'Have you ever heard a biblical passage that starts, "Blow the trumpet in Zion," or something like that? I don't recall the rest of it, something about people trembling and the day of judgment.'
Tom rolled his eyes. 'Sounds like one of the doom-and-gloom Old Testament chaps,' he speculated. 'Micah, maybe, or Joel.' Rising from his chair, he crossed to his desk and picked up a well-thumbed copy of the King James Bible. For several minutes he silently leafed through the pages, and I was on the verge of telling him that it wasn't that important, after all, when he suddenly jabbed one page with a triumphant finger. 'Aha! It was Joel. Chapter two, verse one. Here you go.'
He passed the Bible to me, open, and pointed to the place. As I read the brief, cheerless passage, Tom sat down again, scratching his forehead idly. 'My former curate used to love reading texts from Joel,' he recalled. 'Real hell-and-damnation stuff, hardly inspiring for the congregation. Though I seem to remember that old Joel was writing during a plague of locusts, so I suppose he had a right to be dismal.'
Plague ... the word struck a sudden chord in my memory, and I lifted my eyes from the page. 'When was the Great Plague in London, do you know?' 'There were several, I think,' Tom replied. 'There was the Black Death, of course, in the 1300V
I half closed my eyes, replaying the scenes in my mind, trying to focus on the clothes that people were wearing, the style of their hair, the furniture in the house ...
'No.' I shook my head. "The plague I'm thinking of was later than that.'
'There was a big one in the mid-seventeenth century, then, just before the Great Fire.'
'That's the one.' I wasn't sure how or why I knew, but I knew.
'What would you like to know about it?'
'Everything.' I lifted my shoulders expansively. 'I don't know much about the history of that period. And that's the time in which Mariana lived, I'm sure of it. Her mother died of the plague.'
'Well, I'm rather rusty on the seventeenth century myself. I remember the Civil War bit well enough, and the beheading of Charles the First, and Cromwell, of course, but when it comes to the plague ... Hang on,' he interjected, brightening. 'I've got a copy of Pepys's diary lying about somewhere. He kept a fairly good account of the plague year, I think. Let me see if I can find it for you.'
He rose from his seat a second time and made a close examination of the overstuffed bookshelves on the far side of the room. After a long hunt, he extracted a wedged volume and flipped open the cover. 'Here it is. Quite a nice copy, actually. I picked it up at a book sale in Oxford.' He handed it to me, a small book that nestled comfortably in my open hand, and turning to the title page, I read aloud:
'The Diary of Samuel
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