Page 4 of Twin Flames
Oh well, what’s done is done.
She pulled a face as she turned the key in the ignition and joined the lane of heavy traffic moving in the direction of her cottage in the suburbs of York.
She drove straight home; she’d suffered enough turmoil for one day and had lost her enthusiasm to go to the office and tackle her project. Her head was still spinning from the encounter with the enigmatic man in the bookshop. She needed some time alone to make sense of events.
Still reeling, Cara pushed the cottage door open, relieved to be home. How could an ordinary visit to the bookshop have such a monumental effect? Nothing much had happened. She’d banged her head, briefly lost consciousness, and then met Mr Hottie. What was the big deal? The thought that her life had been turned upside down and would never be the same again flashed through her mind.
She sipped her tea and tapped her nails rhythmically on the pale china cup. Physically she was present at the oak table in her favourite room; the cosy kitchen in the old Tudor cottage. Mentally she was miles away. Anxious thoughts collided into one another and jostled for attention. Cara’s brain yearned for a logical explanation for the morning’s events so that she could move on. It seemed like nonsense, but she knew in her bones she’d experienced something pivotal. She flipped open her laptop and typed ‘love at first sight’ into the search engine. A long thread of results appeared. She clicked on one at random and scanned the article.
“Love at first sight is a rare experience of instantly recognising someone on a soul level. You feel as though you already know this person, even though you’ve never met them before in this lifetime. It’s a feeling of deja-vu: like coming home.”
Cara scrolled down, trying to make sense of the words. Irritated and tired, she pushed her cup across the table.
Dr Cara Bailey PhD, award-winning Tudor expert, researching love at first sight. Whatever next?
The phone rang and interrupted her reverie. She recounted a severely edited version of the morning to her fiancé, Daniel, carefully avoiding any mention of George. Daniel would think she’d lost her mind if she told him what had happened.
‘Are you sure you’re ok, darling? I don’t like the sound of you blacking out. How about I give Doctor Fitzgerald a call to see if he can fit you in for a quick check-up this afternoon?’
‘No, really. Thank you. I’m absolutely fine. I was probably dehydrated. I’ll stay at home and take it easy for the rest of the day.’
‘Well, if you’re certain. I know better than to try to push you, so I’ll give you a call later to check-in. Promise you’ll call me if you need anything or you feel unwell. I’m worried about you.’
The phone rang again almost immediately. It was an unknown number.
‘Cara? This is George, from the bookshop,’ she heard the warmth in his voice.
‘Oh, hello. How are you?’
‘You’ve been on my mind, the way you blacked out like that. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. . .’ His words trailed off.
Cara melted. There was something magnetic about their connection.
After a moment, she replied, ‘I’m fine. Thank you. I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry for causing such a fuss.’
‘I’m so relieved to hear you’re feeling better.’
‘It’s thoughtful of you to call to check up on me.’
‘Perhaps we’ll bump into each other again in the city without such dramatic consequences,’ said George.
‘Yes, that would be nice.’ Cara paused but couldn’t think of anything to say to prolong the conversation.
‘Bye for now then.’
‘Bye, Cara. It was lovely meeting you.’
Violent feelings of loss flooded through her and snatched at her breath.
She stood for a moment, as she clutched her phone, surprised at the intense emotions that gripped her.
Cara didn’t move for several minutes. Then she rose abruptly, shook her head and resolved to put George out of her mind. Hoping for a good night’s sleep, she muted her phone and went upstairs to bed.
At three in the morning, she awoke. Her heart beat fast and a sob caught in her throat. Her nightshirt clung to her sweat-drenched body. It had been an awful dream; as vivid as the vision in the bookshop. She was with George. Again. This time he’d been arrested. In the dream, she had looked on as one of the soldiers charged him with treason, by order of King Henry VIII.
Who is he, and what are these terrifying visions?
One thought crashed into the next until her head throbbed.
