Winter's Breath

By Hayley Poh

Axel Carstairs’s world-famous writer mother has always been somewhat of a mystery. Even to him. She doesn’t use her real name in public; she straightens her hair every morning; she avoids cinnamon biscuits and certain animals.

Deep down, Axel suspects her enigmatic character is due to an unspoken event in her murky past, when she had a falling-out with her parents and allegedly never went back. But Valerie is too good at concealing her secrets, refusing to confide them in anyone… until one day, when a mysterious letter containing a paper magpie and a metal cat arrives on her doorstep.

Finally, a sign.

Valerie gives in and hands her son her diary, in which she’s written the manuscript of her latest novel. It’s about herself and the secrets she never meant to tell. As Axel reads the pages filled with his mother’s past and shocking truths, he wonders if the blind trust he always put in his mother has begun to fray—and if the truth alone is enough to reconcile family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing Singapore
• Release date: Aug 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9781543766547

Hayley Poh

Hayley Poh enjoys reading and writing stories making up imaginary worlds. When she’s not doing any of those things, she spends her days formulating ways to immerse herself in stories. She has dreamed of writing and publishing a book since she was five, when she realized she had an affinity for wordplay. She lives in Penang

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Copyright © 2021 by Hayley Poh.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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CONTENTS

Preface

1 The House

2 Coffee And Tea

3 The List

4 A Morrow No More

5 The Letter

6 The Letter, Part Two

7 The Diary

8 The Godmother’s Arrival

9 Winter’s Breath

10 Rye Hill

11 The Cemetery

12 The Willow Tree

13 Carese

14 Talking To Grandmother

15 The Piercing

16 The Wedding

17 The Meaning Of Dreams

18 Holbury

19 A Machiavellian State Of Mind

20 Epilogue

To anyone who lives on a separate plane of reality and fantasy (hopefully elevated)

0

PREFACE

My mother had been an enigma most of my life, first keeping her true name to herself and only giving it in the most private circles of her writer friends, which was rumored to include Jilly Cooper and Zadie Smith. She was an enigma to me, her firstborn (and so far her only) son, when she should have told me everything I needed to know about her.

So mysterious was she that whenever I pressed my ear to her door and heard the rhythmic, comforting tap-tap-tapping of her fingers typing away, whenever I looked out the window and glimpsed her tending lovingly to the garden, that I sensed an undercurrent of the magical and the mystical flowing through the air between us.

But I never knew why.

Not until it was too late.

1

THE HOUSE

I knew her real name, Valerie, the name she rarely let others know instead of Hortense. (Also her nom de plume.) I knew she liked birds and cats and flowers. But I didn’t know why she’d changed her name.

Not changed, Axel, she told me when I asked. Just fogged the truth.

But why won’t you tell me? I asked. And why don’t you bring me on trips around the city like other mums?

She looked astonished. I thought you did those things with your dad.

Dads work and mums relax, don’t you?

She quirked an eyebrow. It was, I noticed, very dark and perfectly shaped, unlike the bushy blonde hairs I’d gotten from Dad. In case you haven’t noticed, Val, I do both and your father does neither.

That much was true. Mum was a bestselling writer of romance and fantasy novels, a graduate of Cambridge University where ‘my fortune changed and you’ll one day attend.’ She worked mostly at home and probably had the privilege of relaxing any time she wanted, often nipping off to sip a protein shake in the kitchen or tend to the flower beds. Dad, on the other hand, played the violin in a local orchestra. He was always stressed about a certain thing—a conductor taking ill, an order of batons missing, something called violin rosin being used up too quickly—and that’s what means no work and no relaxation. It was Mum who made most of the money. Dad relied on the number of tickets sold every month to contribute.

Even so, our Leicester townhouse was nice, spacious at the top with skylights and wooden beams, filled with books and books and more books in various bizarrely shaped shelves. Evidence of a writer’s presence here. And readers, of course. A grand piano sat in the sunroom, covered by a red velvet sheet that was lifted to play the ivory keys below. I did both things well, convinced that reading and music made up most of my DNA.

I did mention a garden where Mum went to coo over her beds. We had one at the back, a special square of green grass manicured weekly, lined with groomed hedges and the flower beds of roses and peonies and snapdragons, depending on the season. Now it was March, the time between insistent winter and determined spring, and burlap covered the beds, brimming with young, fragile life.

Hyacinths, she said. Pansies. Daffodils. Primroses. I’d grow tulips if the Dutch customs let me.

We’d visited Amsterdam once, renting a tandem bicycle for just the two of us while Dad performed at the Concertgebouw and riding around the gorgeous city, marveling at the lightness in the air and the sparkling sunshine dancing on the canal water. Then came the flower auction eight miles from the city, in the small village of Aalsmeer. Mum’s face as the bidders raised and lowered their paddles was nothing short of delighted. The trip to Amsterdam was one of my best-kept memories.

2

COFFEE AND TEA

So why can’t you take me on sightseeing trips? I pestered Mum one morning.

Mum sighed, running a hand through her straight, shiny black hair. I think it used to be curly, but I couldn’t be sure; she straightened it every day. It was nothing like mine; wild curls, golden blonde, hopelessly immune to combs. On her left, Dad raked a hand through his still-thick hair. My hair, of course. Apart from the slight gunmetal tinge of my blue eyes aligning with her steel irises, I did not look like my mother’s son.

It’ll be school soon, I pressed on. And I spent little to no time with either of you.

We celebrated Christmas, Mum reminded me, pen poised over her notebook.

During which we ignored each other and ate the turkey like royalty, I deftly retorted, using our forks and knives delicately. The chocolate log was bland and the fairy lights went out at some point. I looked pointedly up at these wrapping the wooden beams of the kitchen ceiling.

Dad sipped his ginger root tea in a way that was indeed delicate. They’re fluorescent, that’s why. One golden curl fell over his brow, highlighting his quadragenarian good looks. Piercing blue eyes, sun-streaked hair just beginning to gray at the temples, faint crow’s-feet, a square jaw. Mum’s writer friends would swoon and flirt with him during meetings in the sunroom, because she wasn’t the possessive jealous type who hoarded her husband and didn’t really care if he cheated on her. Not that Dad would ever cheat on anyone. He had been raised just so to follow an unspoken code of honor. The secret, silent loyalty and trust that keeps one’s marriage alive. Mum and Dad had been married for over a decade. I knew that if I looked under the driftwood table, I would see their hands clasped, matching platinum bands on her right hand and his left.

I frowned at Dad. You shouldn’t drink the stuff this early, you know. Axel root is a sedative.

Is it? He looked narrowly into his tea. Then, Valerie —honoring the code of honor, now— what should I drink?

My mum raised her brows and her mug. Coffee. Or some other tea. Her fingers, I saw, were long and slim, tapered, the nails elegantly manicured and unpainted. I looked left and noticed Dad’s fingers looking no different. He was a violinist, after all, and she was a writer. Both professions required the exertion of joints.

As I pushed my cold, congealed peas around my plate and nibbled (delicately, once again!) at the pancakes drowned in butter on a separate dish, I watched the way my parents interacted.

Every relationship has a rhythm, much like the scratching of my mother’s pen when she scribbled in her bright turquoise notebook, scrabbling for purchase in a storm of ideas, and the sawing of my father’s bow when he played his beloved violin. It was like a duel between friends; my mum knew what a bob of his head meant, what a flick of the wrist indicated. One stare conveyed agreement; a cock of a brow might mean the opposite. They always knew, somehow.

I returned to the conversation at hand. Right. LED is better. Mum can get them at Woolworth’s later. I stared hard at her, willing her to pick up on my not-so-subtle hint.

We’ll discuss this later, you and me, the knowing sparkle in her eyes seemed to say.

Are you sure you don’t want me to pick them up? Dad pushed. Oh, Dad. Practice is in Ashby de la Zouch, so I can—

Mum shook her head, swilling the black stuff before turning around and dumping it in the sink. Sweet of you, Julian, but we’ll manage. Off you go, it’s already past eight. We’ve run out of sugar, and cream hasn’t made its welcome presence since Axel swallowed the lot with the chocolate log, she muttered, digging around in the cupboards above the Aga.

I went red, looking at Dad’s retreating back.

"Hmmph! If you’re going to Woolworth’s in the city instead of hightailing it to the nice, nice Leicester shop, why not add to the burden?" At this I got up, pulling the soft grey hoodie over my head, and began to walk out the room.

Her snappy voice stopped me beneath the trellis. "Axel! You’re on dishwashing duty."

I wheeled around and saw her glaring at me, then put a hand over my heart in mock injury. Oh, you wound me, my sweet, lovely mother. Indeed! How could I forget to wash the dishes?

She rolled her eyes, jabbing a finger in the direction of the sink. Practice your actor’s lines somewhere else, Val. I have a call to receive in the comfort of my room.

I sighed, trudging forwards. Fine.

3

THE LIST

It was a Saturday, which meant I had the house all to myself.

Dad was away at rehearsal with his orchestra friends in Ashby de la Zouch. Mum was upstairs in her room, discussing things with her editor. When to release her new book, was her manuscript ready, whether or not to go to that interview in the West End at five, the problem with vloggers… with my ear pressed to her door’s hard wood, picking up her and Evelyn’s every word clearly, it was still hard to believe that my mother was a world-famous author of romance and mystery novels.

Hard to believe that a dozen reporters and journalists were clamoring for an interview with the famous Hortense Grey, every day, while I watered her precious flowers (as much as I was allowed to at this point) and flipped through her books, awed that someone like her who seemed so ordinary had worlds and plots and emotions running through her mind.

Oh, yes. She kept a copy of every book she’d ever published in our home.

Once I was done with the dishes, I toweled them dry and arranged them neatly in the slots of the stainless-steel rack, the way I did when the duty was mine. I was a habitually neat person. Neatness and organization ran in the Carstairs blood

I ran through my schedule from eight to nine. Water plants at 8.15; History revision (watching a documentary in actual fact) at 8.20; clean Dad’s piano at 8.40, but no playing; finish reading Murder Mistress #4: Blue Roses for the Contessa at 8.50, only two chapters left.

I’d picked up reading my mother’s works last month on a whim. They seemed to be bigger than life, bigger than my mother, the legend, herself—but as I’d opened the first page of her debut romance, Wrong Thing to Say, I reminded myself that this was just any other book among millions churned out by thousands of writers every year. Mum was just one pearl among a sea of jewels. It only mattered how much she shone.

Besides, I loved to read books, and reading something written by my mum was not going to burst my head open or make me wild with excitement. I was only worried that I would see something I didn’t like and leap to the horrid conclusion that my loyal faith had been misplaced.

Remember, Axel, I told myself, don’t go over the edge. It is just your mother. I was so insistent on that, I wrote it in my planner and underlined it.

I worked through the entire Hortense Grey canon, determined to kill the childish part of me from the rest of matured Axel Grey-Carstairs. Fifteen books in total. I’d been in the middle of reading A Little Princess when I made the decision, and picked it back up after completing the Jessa Burton murder mysteries. Yeah, Frances Hodgson Burnett. I didn’t care if it made me a girly boy. To me, reading was simply a way to put myself in other people’s shoes to experience their lives—the high heels of the opposite sex in particular.

A Little Princess fascinated me. I was a bit confounded at first, wondering why Miss Minchin was so cruel to Sara—young, innocent, motherless, kindhearted Sara Crewe, when the little girl had done nothing to the older woman! But as the story unfolded, I began to realize that Sara’s sad situation was just like poor Willow Brown’s. Willow was in my class and what the other girls mocked as hopeless. She was regularly picked on for her ugliness and her parents’ wealth, even though she was harmless and didn’t retaliate.

I understood why, when I turned the last page, why Miss Minchin hated Sara: she thought it was only fair that she bullied her for her wealth and fortune. It was a balance, I discovered, that Miss Minchin shoved into being: if you were rich and pretty and educated, you were bound for a hard life. Only that wasn’t true at all in Becky’s case. She wasn’t anything like Sara and yet, she was also punished.

I was thunderstruck. I had no idea how cruel girls were to one another. But reading Detective Burton’s hard-luck story was more proof of that.

This Saturday I carried on reading the fourth book. I went to my room on the third floor, locked the door, and picked up the book from the floor where I’d put it last night.

The bookmark was a thin silver charm in the shape of a cat, which I’d found under Mum’s notebook the other day. I didn’t know what it was, but there was something about the Cheshire Cat-like grin and the fine, shimmering whiskers, the intricate detail in the furry shadows of his head that made me keep it to myself.

Before I settled into the plush settee by the window that had belonged to Dad’s orchestra mate, I checked my planner. Tick, tick, tick, went my pen as it ticked off my completed chores. How satisfying that felt!

Then, to tie up loose ends nicely, I turned to the last page of the planner, where I made a list titled Things I Know About Mum.

So far, there were four things.

She is obsessed with perfect straight hair; I peeked into her room one morning and saw her running iron tongs down a sheaf of wavy black hair. Inference: hates curly hair? Deeper pathological reason?

She avoids anything with cinnamon, or at least, food she can taste cinnamon in. She doesn’t buy cinnamon buns or cinnamon biscuits from the bakery like most mums. I tried something once: I spiked her hot cocoa with a sachet of cinnamon powder. She didn’t seem to notice, but I saw her frowning as she drank it. Inference: estranged mother forced her to eat cinnamon and she didn’t like it? Or did something bad happen on a day she was eating it?

She loves flowers.

She is partial to cats and birds, particularly grey cats, and magpies. She keeps books on American shorthairs and American curls in her room, two breeds of cat who are pedigrees, very expensive, and generically grey. Drawings and sketches of magpies, badly drawn but legible, on her walls. Inference: grey cats to do with her surname Grey? Magpies because of the rhyme she told me at 8? (Seven for a secret never to be told, etc.)

She attended a public comprehension in primary and secondary school, wrote her first novel at 18, visits Auntie Kath during winter in Piccadilly (and never brings me or Dad, although Dad has met Auntie K), wrote her first story at 10, which I don’t know the title of but which she keeps a copy of in her room. Doesn’t show it anyone as far as I can tell.

She is estranged from her parents.

Below that, I had added:

Mum has been estranged from her parents since 19 or 20, around the time she was at Cambridge. What I know about them: Grandma is Lucy Rose Crawson, the person who mainly caused Mum’s estrangement, was closer to Mum than her husband, still lives in the Cotswolds cottage Mum grew up in. Grandpa is just Maddox Grey, deceased. I know their names because I found them in a photo album in the postbox.

Mum has no siblings.

Mum attended Cambridge and graduated with a degree in literature.

There. There it was. Everything I knew about Mum.

I knew it was an invasion of her privacy to probe, but after reading about Detective Burton’s ventures into the murky world of criminal investigation, I wanted to solve this mystery.

The mystery of why I had never met my grandparents on Mum’s side. And why she acted so as I had recorded in my planner.

4

A MORROW NO MORE

Mum? I knocked on her door. A pretty sampler embroidered with pale edelweiss hung there, on a hook. Mum, can we go now?

Come in first, her muffled voice said. I squared my shoulders, bracing myself for the onslaught of colors, and pushed the door open.

As it was, Mum had commissioned her room—the room she used as a home office, no bed and more books than I could count kept in there like the hoarded trove of a