Lyra sipped Lady Grey tea from a flower-patterned, china cup. She leaned back in her chair and stretched her legs out in front of her, bare feet resting on the warm stone of the patio. Around her, summer was in full bloom. The trees, in the garden and outside its stone walls, were lush and green. The raised flower beds, like a painter’s palette, were splashes of red, yellow, lavender and pink.

She sighed happily and sipped at her tea. The sun was warm on her skin, and she felt a kind of peace at her core that had been lacking most of her life.

“Morning, Lyra!” a cheery voice called.

She turned her head slightly as Jake Harper, the local landscaper/handyman, approached the gate.

“Good morning, Jake.” She smiled. “How are you today?”

Jake, a good-looking man somewhere in his mid to late thirties, grinned. “The sun is shining, the bees are buzzing and the pub has leftover Sunday lunch on the menu. All’s right with the world.”

Lyra laughed softly and gestured for Jake to enter the garden.

He pushed open the gate with his hip, then swung his tool bag in ahead of him.

“You have the key to the shed for the mower?” Lyra asked. She reluctantly got up from her chair and started gathering her breakfast dishes.

“I do indeed,” Jake said, patting the back pocket of his work-worn jeans. His short dark hair was mussed, and he’d clearly just come from another job as he had a streak of what looked like oil on his grey T-shirt. “I like the hair, by the way.”

She blushed and automatically lifted a hand to her head. She’d recently had her long hair cut into a short, blunt bob. She liked the way it framed her heart-shaped face, but most of all she loved the lightness and cooling effect in the hot sun.

“Thank you, that’s uh, well, I’ll leave you to it,” she replied, and carried her dishes through the open French windows into the kitchen. As she was putting them in the sink to be cleaned later, she glanced out of the window. Jake had already gotten to work and pulled the lawnmower from the shed at the back of the garden and was unscrewing the cap on the tank to see if it required petrol.

Lyra went through to the living room to fetch her shoes and bag. She stepped into her flat shoes—the same cornflower blue as her short sundress—then picked up her bag and checked the contents. Purse, phone, hand sanitiser, a couple of face masks were all present and correct, along with a smooth stone she’d found lying in the street the day she arrived in Tuppence Corner. It was a sandy colour and fit perfectly in the palm of her hand.

“I’m off now, Jake,” she called, walking back to the windows. “Do you need anything from the house before I lock up?”

“No, thanks, I’m good.” He raised a hand in a brief wave. “Have a good day, Lyra.”

She smiled, though his attention was still fixed on the old lawnmower. “Thanks, Jake. You too.” She closed and locked the windows, then headed through to the front of the house.

The stone was still on her mind as she locked the front door and made her way out onto the street.

It had felt like something of a good omen at the time, how it fitted so well it might have been carved just for her, when she’d still been uncertain of the path she had chosen to take. It had proven to be eerily accurate. With only one or two exceptions—the vicar, she thought with a small shudder—everything about Tuppence Corner suited her well.

It was a picturesque little village, with friendly natives and surrounding countryside that was simply stunning.

A small pang of something like regret twisted in her chest at the thought of leaving. It was hard to believe that she’d already been here for a month, house-sitting at Mayfly Cottage. Only two more months until the owners returned from their extended retirement cruise.

Walking along the narrow pavements, a soft, warm breeze caressing her skin, she bade good morning to passers-by. She was getting used to the small pleasantries, no longer taken aback when a stranger said hello or gave her a smile.

How different life was here, in this cosy little hamlet, compared with the life she had left behind in London just four months earlier. She’d spent three months travelling without a plan for the first time in her adult life, before stumbling on Tuppence Corner, not knowing what she was looking for until she found it. How quickly she’d gotten used to living life at a pace slower than the hundred miles per hour she’d become accustomed to.

She turned the corner onto the main street—which actually didn’t have a name—and stopped at the edge of the pavement for a car to pass before crossing, constantly looking left, then right, just like the public service announcements of her childhood had taught her.

Two young boys were playing with toy boats in the water of the ford at the bottom of the road, and there was something so wholesome about the scene that it made her stop to watch, a smile tugging at her lips. It probably wasn’t the safest place for the boys to be playing, but there was so little traffic in Tuppence Corner and the parish council were so strict about the twenty-mile-per-hour speed limit that Lyra couldn’t see that the boys were in any real danger.

After a few moments she took a deep breath and continued on her way.

She looked at the cottages she passed, and the estate agent she had once been subconsciously valued each property as she went. It was a tic that used to annoy her—how her brain always seemed to be on work mode at some level. Now, it was like an old song playing in the back of her mind. Sometimes fun to sing along to, mostly easy to ignore.

Tuppence Corner was not an inexpensive place to live. Most of the cottages would fetch high six-figure sums, so the majority of first-time buyers would find themselves priced out of the market at the starting gate, though it seemed to Lyra that most of the houses in the village were occupied by people who had lived there all their lives, as had several generations of the same family before them. Tuppence Corner cottages didn’t come on the market very often.

She thought about the places she and her mother had lived when she was growing up. Crowded bedsits. Shabby B&Bs. Even working as hard as she had to support them—two, sometimes three jobs at a time—Lyra’s mum could never have afforded a home in Tuppence Corner. For Lyra, places like this had only ever existed in BBC dramas.

Lyra shook her head to dislodge her thoughts. It was too beautiful a day to be thinking about such things.

Just minutes after leaving Mayfly Cottage, she found herself outside the village’s only café, The Proper Coffee Cup, and ready to clock in for her shift.

How different it was from the hour-long commute she’d made every day in London, playing ‘Tube Tetris’ every morning on the overcrowded Underground trains, juggling her handbag, laptop case and the large black coffee required just to get through the ordeal.

She pushed open the door, smiled at the jingle of the small bell above, and entered to the ever-present aromas of good coffee and home baking.

“Good morning, sweet cheeks,” Hardeep Sharma said over her shoulder. She was at the other end of the café, hanging some bunting. The triangles were in soft, pastel colours, with tassels hanging from the ends.

Lyra had to laugh. At twenty-nine she was four years older than Hari, but, like most people, Hari had fallen into the habit of seeing Lyra as young, just because of her diminutive, five-foot two-inch height. That had once mattered to Lyra. She’d worn four-inch heels every day for years, ignoring the aches in her legs and lower back, just so that she could stand shoulder to shoulder with the men with whom she’d worked. For too long she’d seen her lack of height as a weakness to be overcome.

She looked down at her flat ballet shoes and felt a surge of happiness.

“So?” Hari asked. “How does it look?” She jumped down from the chair she’d been standing on and took a couple of steps back to admire her work.

“Lovely,” Lyra said, moving behind the counter at the service area. “Very Boho.”

“I’ll take it,” Hari said with a nod. A ray of sunlight caught her black hair, and Lyra admired the way it seemed to shimmer.

Lyra walked through to the staff area at the back, via the kitchen, and dumped her bag on one of the two overstuffed armchairs. She took her apron down from its peg and pulled it over her head. She had to fold the apron horizontally across the middle and wrap the strings around the back then tie them at the front so that it didn’t reach her ankles.

“Jake was just arriving to cut the grass when I left,” she said, coming back through to the service area.

“Ah, Jake,” Hari said, face twisting in an odd expression.

Lyra frowned in confusion. “I thought you liked Jake.”

“Oh, he’s all right, I suppose. Fancies the pants off me,” Hari replied, a mischievous sparkle in her brown eyes. “I would suggest you ask him out, but we both know who you like.”

Lyra flushed at Hari’s words, looking everywhere but at her boss.

The doorbell jingled again, and Lyra turned with a relieved smile to welcome their customer.

The morning passed quickly. Tea and coffee were served up with fresh pastries and a heaping layer of village gossip.

“Did you hear about Marjory Bryce’s youngest daughter? Came back from Ibiza with her tongue pierced.”

“Young Davie Cutter has such a crush on Sara Milburn. He decided to play hero when her cat got stuck up a tree, only to fall out of the tree and break his leg. They say Sara has been very attentive during his convalescence.”

“Well, did you hear? Evelyn Putt—you know, she cleans for the vicar’s wife, although why the woman can’t flick her own duster around is beyond me—well, Evelyn was in the vestry the other day, and she found a lingerie catalogue. The vicar said he confiscated it from one of the boys, but I don’t know.”

Lyra loved it all. She never got the sense of any malice from the tellers of the stories, and nothing was ever said that could lead to trouble for the subjects—except, perhaps, the vicar, and Lyra got the feeling that anything said about Gregory Carey was just the tip of a very murky iceberg.

She’d started working part-time at the café purely out of a desire to be around people. She didn’t need the money. She’d worked hard and lived frugally since she was fifteen years old, and the sales commissions she’d earned and saved had left her very comfortable financially. But coming into the café every day, chatting to customers and listening to their stories, was worth much more to her than her weekly wage.

It would be hard to move on when the time came.

Before that melancholy thought could take hold, Hari’s voice cut in. “Why don’t you take a break now that the lunch rush is over?”

“You’ve been here longer. You should go first,” Lyra reasoned.

Hari waved away her obvious concern. “I’ll get some paperwork done while it’s quiet. You go on.”

Lyra nodded and turned to the coffee machine. The first time she’d seen the great silver beast she’d been intimidated to the soles of her feet, but now she was steaming and frothing milk, tamping coffee and pushing buttons like a pro.

She made a black coffee for herself, as well as a large latte. From the glass display case she selected two cinnamon buns and placed them in separate bags. When she’d made up her order, she fetched her bag and fished through the contents until she found her purse. She took out a few pound coins, and once back in the service area, she dropped the coins by the till.

“I’ve told you, you don’t have to do that,” Hari said, just a hint of reproof in her tone.

Lyra smiled. Staff didn’t have to pay for their food or drinks, but it wasn’t all for her. “Just for the extra coffee and bun.”

She put the two cups into a cardboard carrier and picked up the pastry bags. “I won’t be too long.”

“Take your full hour,” Hari said. “I’m not paying you overtime.”

Lyra snickered and headed for the door. “See you later, boss.”

“Boss.” Hari grinned. “I do like that. I’m glad I hired you.”

The door opened and closed on two little jingles of the bell. It hadn’t even stopped ringing by the time Lyra reached her destination, just two doors away.

Soft jazz music greeted Lyra when she entered Bygones Antiques. A couple of prospective customers milled around, examining the displays of carefully curated objects. Each piece was discreetly priced, with a small, handwritten card beside it, explaining its purpose, age and provenance.

Lyra made her way to the glass-topped counter at the back of the shop, where the owner, Ezekiel Jones, was examining a silver pocket watch. He had his jeweller’s loupe out and was so engrossed in his task that it seemed to take him several seconds to realise she was standing there.

“Is that cinnamon I smell?” he asked, still examining the watch.

“Freshly baked cinnamon bun, large latte, extra foam, no sugar.” Lyra set the carrier and bags on top of a leather mat on the glass. “If you don’t mind my company,” she added.

Smiling, he slipped the loupe into its cover and picked up a soft polishing cloth.

“With pleasure, my dear girl,” he said, running the cloth over the watch case. “I have a little quiz for you.”

She laughed lightly. “I would be disappointed if you didn’t.”

Ezekiel Jones, “Call me Easy, all the best people do,” was somewhere in his late seventies. He had white hair, always neatly groomed, and a veritable network of lines on a face that was still handsome. His blue eyes, though a touch milky around the boundary of the iris, were sharp and held a well of intelligence in their depths.

Lyra had met him just days after arriving in the village when he’d come into the café. He’d chatted with her at the counter while waiting for his order, then, wiggling his eyebrows in a comical leer, he’d invited her into his shop to ‘view his wares’. She’d gone in that very day, when her shift ended, and she had been visiting him daily since.

Her gaze drifted to the collection of novels on a shelf behind the counter that only he could reach. They were new, the spines unbroken. They looked a little incongruous among the antiques, but Lyra would bet that they were worth more to Easy than every other piece in the shop.

“Have you seen the new one yet?” she asked, nodding to the books when Easy’s forehead creased in confusion. He looked over his shoulder, and the frown quickly disappeared, to be replaced by an indulgent smile.

“As it happens, I received an advance copy just yesterday.” He winked conspiratorially. “I’ll let you have it as soon as I’m finished.”

A little thrill ran through Lyra, and she leaned closer. “Do you have it here? Could I take a peek?”

Easy paused for a long, deliberate moment, then, looking to his left and right like a spy in a movie about to hand over state secrets, he reached under the counter and produced a thick novel, the cover a glossy shot of a shadow and a bloodstained golden statuette. The words Advance copy not for sale were stamped on it.

Lyra took the book when he handed it to her, bouncing a little on the balls of her feet. “Oh, my goodness. A Legacy of Envy. How exciting!” She flipped the book over to read the synopsis, but her eyes were drawn immediately to the small author picture in the top corner.

Rowan Halstead was, by anybody’s standards, a handsome man. His broad shoulders hinted at an athletic physique. His brown-blond hair, cut close at the sides and a little heavier on top, was combed back from his face, but had a slight wave to it that stopped it from looking too styled. He had razor-sharp cheekbones and eyes as blue and keen as his grandfather’s.

Of course he was intelligent. He wrote some of the most delicious murder mysteries ever.

Lyra had to fight the urge to touch the picture with her finger. It was weird enough that she had a crush on a book cover picture, but to be caught caressing that picture would be too humiliating. Wasn’t it bad enough that Hari had once caught her mooning over the author picture, and now took every opportunity to tease her about it?

She handed the book reluctantly back to Easy. He tucked it back under the counter, then glanced once again at the row of novels on the shelf. Lyra knew Rowan had signed each one with a sweet message for his grandfather. She also knew that Easy kept the books where he could see them every day because he was so proud of his grandson.

“I’ll bring him in to meet you, if you like?” Easy said, and for some reason the words didn’t register with Lyra for a moment.

She stared at Easy, her mouth open on a reply that refused to come.

Easy laughed and reached for one of the pastry bags. “I told you about the party, didn’t I?”

“Party?” Lyra asked. Well, at least she hadn’t gone completely non-verbal.

“My daughter and son-in-law are having an anniversary party. Did I not mention that? I thought I had,” Easy said, frowning again.

“Oh, no, you did, I just…forgot,” Lyra said quickly, feeling like her head was spinning suddenly.

“Good.” Easy laughed lightly. “I always worry about having senior moments.”

Lyra wanted to reassure him that there was no one she knew who was less inclined to such moments, but when she opened her mouth all that came out was “Rowan?”

“Ah, yes,” Easy said, then took a huge bite of his bun, so Lyra was forced to wait for him to finish so that he could speak again. Ezekiel Jones was much too well-bred to speak with his mouth full.

She was distantly aware of the shop door opening and closing behind her, but her attention was fully on Easy.

“Rowan,” Easy said, and Lyra had the strongest urge to shake the man.

“Yes, Rowan,” she encouraged.

“That’s me,” a voice behind her said. “May I have the pleasure of knowing who’s enquiring?”

Lyra turned, certain for a moment that the world had suddenly gone into slow-motion.

Directly behind her stood Rowan Halstead, all six-foot-plus of him, with mussed hair, a curious smile and a gleam in his blue eyes. She’d been right about his physique. He was lean, well-honed and, she would venture to guess, without a spare ounce of body fat.

Her knees felt weak, and her body heated in all sorts of interesting places.