“I do. I think he’s been maligned by history,” said Sean, as they both paused in front of the statue. The story went that according to medieval legend, two imps were dispatched by Satan to do the devil’s work on earth. After wreaking mayhem and mischief all over the north of England, they headed to Lincoln Cathedral, causing havoc before an angel intervened and turned one of the imps to stone, while the other managed to escape. The spires and rooftops of Oxford were home to numerous stone gargoyles and monsters looking down over the city, and this particular imp used to sit above Lincoln College. It had been moved, replaced, when it was deemed too weathered and worn, and was now kept behind bars to prevent him doing further mischief. The imp had become the college mascot, a symbol of Lincoln, and he was often blamed for any misdeeds that might occur after dark.
“How different is he from Puck?” Sean asked, linking his arm through Chloe’s. “A mischievous fairy sounds so much better than a havoc-wreaking devil.”
“Maybe the imp should be in our play?” Chloe suggested. “A Puck for our times.”
They looked at each other, and she saw in his eyes the same dart of excitement she’d just felt. She and Sean were fueled by the same urge—the urge to tell stories, to use art to make sense of the world. While alone, they often found their ideas never quite igniting, but when they worked together, it was a different story. They were like flint and steel—on their own, inert; struck together, they sparked.
When John got to the bar, they bought him a beer and pitched him their idea.
“It won’t be until the middle of Trinity term, so we have plenty of time,” Chloe explained. “We’re thinking we start in Grove, then the production moves around, the audience follows, like they’re on the journey through the woods with us.”
“So, you want not just music, but music that can move and play outside in all weather,” John said, taking off his glasses, then he pulled a white hanky from his jacket pocket to wipe away a smear. “You never do things by halves, do you?” Chloe noticed how startling John’s eyes were, when they weren’t hidden by thick lenses.
“She doesn’t,” Sean agreed, putting an arm around her and pulling her close. The hug felt a little overzealous, like a locker room hug after a big game, but she appreciated the sentiment. When she looked back at John, he was suddenly preoccupied with his drink.
“Come outside, I want to set the scene for you. And don’t worry, it’s not going to rain, I won’t let it rain,” she said, jumping up, taking a man in each hand and pulling them along.
Outside, it was already dark, but beneath the stars and the light of the college windows, she showed John her vision.
“We’ll have a small stage here, fairy lights in this tree, the audience will sit on the grass, and then come, come…” She started to run, and they both followed her through to Chapel Quad.
“You think we’ll be allowed to do this?” John asked.
“I’ll get permission from the dean,” she said. “Oberon’s den could be here, the whole set will be made from nature. I know this girl who makes sculptures from wicker, they’re incredible, she’s going to make us a huge throne…” On she went, painting her vision with words. Slowly she saw John falling under her spell. Who wouldn’t want to be involved in such a delightful production?
“We thought Puck could be the Lincoln Imp,” Sean said, and John laughed at this, a genuine, unfiltered laugh.
“Fine, I’ll write you some music,” John said, looking directly at Chloe now, “and put together a band. Do you want my firstborn too?”
Chloe clapped, jumping up and down on the spot. Then she pulled both men into a hug. Sean bounced up and down, leaning into her, while John stiffened slightly. He wasn’t really a group-hug kind of guy. “This is going to be so good!” she cried, but as she pulled away, she sensed something missing. She clutched at her hand. “Oh no, my ring!” She looked at Sean. “My Artemis ring.”
“You didn’t feel it come off?” John asked, frowning because he knew the ring’s significance.
“No, but I know I had it in the bar, I’m sure I did.”
“We’ll find it. Don’t worry,” Sean told her, reaching out to squeeze her hand.
All three of them searched the quads with torches for overan hour, until John said, “This is madness, we’re better off looking in the morning. It’s too dark to see anything now.”
Chloe sniffed back tears. “I can’t believe I lost it. It was my grandmother’s, I never take it off.”
“It’s not lost,” Sean reassured her. “We’ll find it. We won’t stop looking until we do. Right, John?” He reached for Chloe’s hand in the dark and his eyes met hers. They agreed to meet as soon as it was light to start looking again.
But when Chloe woke to her alarm the next morning, she found an envelope pushed beneath her door. Inside was her ring, and a note written in sweeping calligraphy.I once was lost but now am found. From your friend, the Lincoln Imp.
10
Still sitting on the bench,Chloe saw faces she recognized walking through the main gate: Amara Ali was walking arm in arm with Lorna Childs, plus a man she recognized from Instagram as Lorna’s celebrity tennis-player husband. Lorna was filming all three of them with a selfie stick as they walked, their faces all turned to the camera. Lorna looked just like she did online, with perfectly blow-dried blonde hair and immaculate makeup. She was wearing a white crop top with mint-green pedal pushers, which left her taut, toned, very tanned stomach exposed. The husband was all olive skin, dark curls, and square jawline, though Chloe couldn’t help thinking that he wasn’tquiteas attractive as Rob. Then she remembered Rob wasn’t real, and this imaginary one-upmanship felt rather pathetic on her part.
While they were distracted by the phone camera, Chloequickly slipped into the cloisters. She wasn’t ready for that level of social interaction yet. Like Rob, maybe her social battery needed recharging too.
When she headed back to the room, she found Rob had tidied up, unpacked both their bags, then changed into chinos and a crisp white linen shirt. With his lightly tanned skin and debonair demeanor, he looked like he’d stepped off the set ofThe Talented Mr.Ripley.
“Hi,” he said, flashing her a full-watt smile.
“Feeling more energized?” she asked.
“Yes, ready to do your bidding,” he said with a flourish of his hand, as though he were an eighteenth-century footman. “Oh, and I have a gift for you.”
