Newport, Wales, 1989…

The display window of Iago Sullivan, the town’s elderly antique dealer, invited me into what felt like a museum of precious objects, each with its own remarkable character. At the centre stood a meticulously hand-painted tea set in white and cobalt-blue majolica. To the left was an antique wooden globe adorned with gilded decorations, and just behind it, an ivory-coloured ceramic sculpture of two lovers in an intimate embrace. To the right rested two porcelain dolls dressed in faded nineteenth-century clothing, together with miniature models of old galleons arranged in a fan shape at the front.

As I stepped inside, a bell chimed above the door. To my left stood the counter, topped by an old National cash register with silver keys. On the shelves to the right of the entrance, whose modern design contrasted with the rest of the shop, rested unfamiliar contraptions, antique clocks, and pendulums of various sizes.

I wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Perhaps I was simply curious.

In the room to the right of the entrance, also cloaked in the greyness of time, stood antique furniture and assorted ornaments. At the back was an old library bookcase packed with countless volumes, their covers faded by age and wear. On a small round table beside the display window, I noticed a colourful book with a beautiful butterfly resting on its cover.

My attention was drawn to the cover’s brilliant, uniform blue and to that astonishing insect, its pearly wings delicately spread across it.

I was just about to move closer to the butterfly when, startled by a presence behind me, I found myself face to face with a man of about forty who was quietly watching me.

I turned to look at him. He was tall, wearing a black three-quarter-length jacket, with hazel eyes, a neatly trimmed goatee, and a lock of copper-coloured hair peeking out from beneath a Humphrey Bogart-style hat.

As though he had appeared out of nowhere, he smiled at me with quiet amusement.

It struck me as odd because, when I had entered the shop, I hadn’t noticed any other customers apart from the assistant, dressed in a black apron, who was absent-mindedly dusting the shelves while noisily dragging his worn shoes across the floor.

“Please forgive me, my dear. I hope I didn’t frighten you,” the man said politely, stepping aside.

“Not at all. I was miles away. It’s so beautiful that it’s almost impossible to look away,” I replied, pointing at the butterfly.

“You’re right. It’s beautiful.”

“Do you think it’s real?”

“Well, it hasn’t moved so far. I’m afraid it’s an incredibly realistic three-dimensional reproduction.”

The book lay there on its own and, together with the unusual gentleman beside me, I decided to ask whether there might be another copy.

The shop assistant, a tall, thin, slightly awkward man with greasy hair, said he would ask Mr Sullivan and quickly disappeared through the doorway behind the old cash register.

The mysterious gentleman stood beside me with his hands clasped over his coat, watching me with a smile.

A few moments later, Iago Sullivan emerged from the stockroom. He was a distinguished-looking man, with blond hair still framing his receding forehead, a paraffin-stained apron, and an age that was impossible to guess.

“Good afternoon, Mr Johanson. This book is ancient and one of a kind. Its exact origins remain unknown, except that it dates back to the early thirteenth century.”

Sullivan clearly knew the man I had just been talking to. He was probably a regular customer.

“Miss, if you don’t mind, I’d be grateful if you’d let me have it once you’ve finished reading it. My name is Alfred Johanson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Still smiling, he shook my hand firmly.

“Penelope Blossom. The pleasure is mine,” I replied shyly.

He handed me one of his business cards with his mobile number on it, together with a sheet of paper and a pen so that I could write down mine.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll do it,” he said politely, taking out his wallet.

“But that wouldn’t be fair, since we’re both going to read it. If you agree, we could split the cost. I think that’s the fairest solution,” I replied firmly.

“All right. Never argue with a woman,” the man said, turning to Mr Sullivan, who responded with an amused wink.

While he wrapped the book, I found myself watching Alfred. He was tall and slender, with a grace in his movements that made him seem almost to float.

We paid the agreed price, each contributing half.

Mr Johanson bowed with his hands clasped over his chest.

“Please let me know when you’ve finished with it, Miss Blossom. Goodbye.”

He shook my hand, slipped his black leather gloves back on, and moments later left the shop, the bell above the door chiming behind him.

I had no idea where he came from. He certainly wasn’t from the northern part of Newport. His noble bearing, unusual style of dress, and graceful movements made me think he had come from somewhere far away. There was something about him that felt both timeless and reassuringly old.

I bade Mr Sullivan farewell and left the shop. I could hardly wait to begin reading that book.

I stopped by old Cooper O’Neil’s to buy milk and eggs, then collected my coat from the dry cleaner’s, where I had taken it the previous week after Moon, the clumsy tomcat I had rescued from a dreadful fate, had knocked an entire cup of tea over it while it was lying beside the sofa in my sitting room.

When I arrived home, I put the shopping away in the fridge and hung my coat back in the wardrobe just as my mobile phone rang. It was Phobe, an old university friend who phoned me almost every day to tell me about her latest problems.

“Penny, are you all right?”

“Yes, sweetheart, thank you. Tell me the latest… Jordan?”

“The same as always. It feels as though I’ll always come second to his mother.”

She told me all about the frustrations of her relationship with an overgrown mummy’s boy who lacked any real sense of responsibility. I listened sympathetically, trying not to be too biased in my advice because, whenever I criticised his childish behaviour, I somehow ended up becoming part of the argument myself. They would patch things up, and I would be left looking like the heartless one.

I had met Phobe during my final year at Cardiff University. After graduating with a degree in Economics, I started working as a self-employed accountant.

My office was a room in my house, where my ever-growing archive had gradually spread first into the hallway and then into the dining room as well. But I loved that little red-brick house, so typical of Newport’s charming streets, and had no intention of moving. The only sensible solution would have been to rent a proper office. To be honest, I also needed a secretary, but it was something I had always put off.

I opened the first page of the book, and the beginning of the story unsettled me.

It described the interior of an antique shop filled with assorted trinkets and antique firearms, and a tall woman with long chestnut hair and deep, dark eyes noticing a book with a butterfly resting on its cover. A mysterious man appeared behind her.

I didn’t know what to think. How could such a thing be possible?

No… it was far more than that! The story in the book was identical to mine. The antique dealer, the book with the butterfly, and the gentleman wearing the hat. It felt like an episode of *The Twilight Zone*. An eerie silence filled the room; the only sound was the steady chiming of the clock in the kitchen.

I decided to take a short break and make myself a cup of tea. A few moments later, I returned and curled up on the sofa, pulling the sleeves of my tracksuit down over my fingers. I couldn’t have said whether I was genuinely cold or whether that book had frightened me enough to leave me numb. I took a deep breath and continued reading.

The young woman in the story, after meeting the mysterious gentleman, kept the book and exchanged mobile numbers with him. Once she returned home, she phoned a friend.

I was afraid to read any further.

“It happened differently for me. She called me!”

I tried to take comfort in that small difference, though I remained just as terrified.

“I want to see just how far this surreal story goes!”

I was talking to thin air, as though someone might actually hear me.

The heroine lay down on the sofa to read the book and, a few moments later, her mobile phone rang. It was the man she had met that very day in the antique shop.

My own mobile lay there in silence on the coffee table. I smiled, trying to laugh off my fear, and carried on reading. A few seconds later, the ringtone made me jump. I looked at the display: an unknown number was flashing insistently.

Panic seized me.

“Oh my God… what do I do?”

With my heart pounding in my chest, I decided to answer.

“Penelope?”

Silence.

“Miss Blossom, is that you?”

“Yes… who’s speaking?”

“It’s Alfred. Do you remember me? The man you met this morning.”

How could I possibly forget? I thought.

“Are you reading the book, by any chance? I was curious to find out what it was about. I’m sorry to disturb you, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that butterfly.”

“Yes, I’m reading it, and to be honest, it’s a very strange book. It frightens me.”

“What…? Really?”

I told him there was something deeply unsettling about the book and that I wanted him to take it instead. My words clearly surprised him, and he agreed to come and collect it.

I was wearing a tracksuit and socks, and my hair looked more like a nest abandoned by a flock of lonely sparrows. At first, I thought I’d answer the door exactly as I was. I didn’t see why I should go to any trouble for a complete stranger. Then I realised I looked remarkably like the Little Match Girl after being kidnapped by a swarm of deranged bats. I quickly got changed and did my best to tame my hair.

I stared at that butterfly in terror. What on earth had I brought home? What kind of cursed book was this?

As I stepped outside, I greeted my neighbour, who looked at me in astonishment and asked,

“Excuse me, are you expecting that enormous thing parked outside?”

I looked at him in bewilderment.

“There’s something that looks like a hearse parked on the drive. Haven’t you seen it?”

“A hearse?!”

A Bentley as long as a mile, black as night, with gleaming chrome wheels and a chauffeur at the wheel, was parked just beyond the hedge at the entrance to the house.

I approached the car hesitantly, and the tinted rear window slowly slid down.

“Good afternoon, Miss Blossom.”

“Good afternoon. Please call me Penny. It’s shorter and much less formal. Here’s the infamous book,” I said from the roadside, trying to conceal my obvious agitation.

“Why? Is it really that terrible?”

No. In fact, it was worse than terrible.

I noticed that Mr Johanson was no longer wearing the hat he had on that morning. Instead, he wore a baseball cap, with his hair falling loosely over his shoulders. He caught my puzzled expression.

“Penny, please get in. I can’t leave the car in the middle of the road. Let’s go for a drive. You can tell me about the book, and afterwards I’ll bring you straight back home. You can trust me.”

He had persuaded me to get into the car with him.

The temperature inside was positively arctic. Alfred noticed that I was lightly dressed and asked the chauffeur to turn the air conditioning down. I sat beside him, separated only by a hand’s breadth of anthracite-coloured velvet.

“So then… is this book really that strange?” he asked, raising one eyebrow, his eyes almost hidden beneath the brim of his cap, which he promptly removed.

There was something strangely familiar about him. I couldn’t have said what made him seem so reassuring, but have you ever met someone for the very first time and yet been haunted by the feeling that you’ve known them all your life? That ancient sense of belonging to something far greater than ourselves. That was exactly the feeling I had throughout the time I spent with him.

“Tell me, what is it about this novel that’s upsetting you so much? If you don’t mind, I’d rather we called each other by our first names. What do you think?”

“All right, Alfred. I think the book is cursed. It tells the story of our day today in the smallest detail: our meeting in the shop, and that particular book with the butterfly on the cover. See for yourself.”

He smiled faintly, wearing the expression of someone struggling to make sense of it all, nodded, and began to read.

Meanwhile, the car wound its way through the town centre, passing along streets accessible only to taxis or the deputy secretary of the town council. If I’d driven my own car along the same route, at the very least I’d have had my driving licence confiscated. But evidently the wealthy gentleman didn’t have that sort of concern… or perhaps he possessed some special permit.

I watched Alfred as he read. I could smell his fragrance: a distinctive note of mandarin blended with the richness of wood and leather. It enveloped my senses. He was unquestionably an extraordinary man. Beyond his obvious wealth, what struck me even more was the remarkable balance between gentleman and rebel. There was always something modern about him and, at the same time, something uniquely original in his refined elegance.

He noticed me watching him and suddenly cleared his throat. His expression darkened at once.

“Penny, you’re right. This book is cursed. It describes, in astonishing, almost microscopic detail, everything that happened to us today.”

He was serious. Frightened. He looked me straight in the eyes as he removed the glasses he had been wearing only a moment before.

“I have to ask you something.”

“Go on.”

“How far did you get?”

“I think… up to the point where you phoned me, near the bottom of the page.”

“Good. Because the following pages are blank.”

“What?!”

I looked at the book. Beyond the last lines I had read, there wasn’t another word. Every remaining page was completely blank. I simply couldn’t believe it.

How could a novel describe part of our lives in such astonishing detail and then suddenly stop, as though it were waiting for the story itself to continue? It made no sense at all.

Alfred suggested that we go back to Mr Sullivan and ask for an explanation.

A short while later, we stepped back into the antique shop, where a lady was at the counter buying a ceramic doll. Iago Sullivan stood behind the till, his glasses resting on the tip of his nose, carefully wrapping her purchase and stamping the certificate of authenticity with a large seal.

When the customer had left, the owner greeted us warmly.

“Didn’t you like the book, Miss?”

“Mr Sullivan, I think there’s something wrong with this manuscript,” I said impatiently.

“What do you mean?”

We showed him the story it contained and the blank pages that followed. His eyebrows drew together in astonishment.

“Look, all I know is that I bought it from a junk dealer. He told me it was the only surviving copy dating back to the thirteenth century. I’m afraid that’s all I know.”

“All right. Thank you, Sullivan. We’ll look into it. If you happen to discover anything, please let us know,” Alfred replied.

Before I could ask another question, he took my hand and gently led me out of the shop.

“Penelope, would you like to have dinner at my place? Perhaps together we can make sense of this paradox.”

“I really don’t know… I ought to go home.”

“This book knows more about our lives than we do ourselves. That’s deeply unsettling, and I’d like to find out what connects all of this.”

“All right, but promise me we won’t stay out too late. I have to work on Mrs Thruman’s accounts first thing tomorrow morning.”

“I promise you’ll be back home well before midnight.”

“Like Cinderella?” I asked with a smile.

“Exactly. Better than Cinderella, I’d say. This isn’t a pumpkin pulled by horses. Besides, it would take you a month to get home!”

He laughed heartily, probably trying to ease the tension.

I realised it was rather irresponsible to accept an invitation so readily from someone I had met only that morning. Yet, for reasons I couldn’t explain, I felt comfortable accepting without giving it too much thought. Besides, the matter of the novel we seemed to be writing without even knowing it deserved to be taken very seriously.

Alfred called the chauffeur, who came to collect us a few moments later.

The book rested on my lap. I wanted to open it, but I didn’t have the courage. That butterfly seemed to be watching me, as though it knew it terrified me.

I asked Alfred to check whether anything had changed. He looked at me doubtfully, as if to say that if the pages had been blank before, they would surely still be blank now.

We opened it together.

A new page had appeared. It described our visit to Mr Sullivan.

For well over an hour we drove through the countryside, spending almost the entire journey discussing every possible explanation for the existence of a book that wrote itself. I also told him a little about my exceedingly ordinary life.

A scruffy old cat, a job I genuinely loved, friends I could count on one hand, and virtually no family. My mother had died several years earlier, and my father had moved to Germany with his new wife. I rarely heard from him.

Eventually we reached the countryside in the north of the county, following a narrow, winding road. By then it was completely dark. Before long I’d be heading home… or so I hoped.

I hadn’t paid any attention to the route, and I hadn’t the faintest idea where on earth we were. I silently scolded myself for not thinking of it sooner.

It suddenly dawned on me that I was miles from home with a complete stranger and a book that looked as though it needed an exorcist. In that God-forsaken place, anything could happen to me, and no one would ever find me.

Alfred seemed to have read my thoughts and hurried to reassure me.

“Don’t worry. You’re safe here.”

I was anything but calm. Still, I appreciated the gesture. I could tell he had sensed how tense I was.

We finally arrived in front of what could only be described as a castle.

The fortress was dominated by a single great central tower with a clock, where the main entrance was located.

The rest of the rectangular structure was lined with smaller towers marking its perimeter. Countless windows softened the appearance of what was otherwise an imposing building.

A shiver ran down my spine, and I instinctively wrapped my arms around myself, shivering with cold.

With his usual kindness, Alfred invited me inside, reassuring me that it would be much warmer once we were indoors.