Perdita

"Scharper shines in this surprising and engaging gothic novel... Impeccably researched and beautifully told, this is a tale that will stay with readers long after the final page is turned."—Publishers Weekly, STARRED Review

Marged Brice is 134 years old.

She'd be ready to go, if it weren't for Perdita . . .

The Georgian Bay lighthouse's single eye keeps watch over storm and calm, and Marged grew up in its shadow, learning the language of the wind and the trees. There's blustery beauty there, where sea and sky incite each other to mischief… or worse…

Garth Hellyer of the Longevity Project doesn't believe Marged was a girl coming of age in the 1890s, but reading her diaries in the same wild and unpredictable location where she wrote them might be enough to cast doubt on his common sense.

Everyone knows about death.

It's life that's much more mysterious…

"Hilary Scharper deftly mines the beauty and wonder of both the human heart and nature in this haunting tale of enduring love."—Cathy Marie Buchanan, bestselling author of The Painted Girls

One

I was about to knock, when I heard someone talking on the other side of the door.

"You mustn't run downstairs like that!" a woman insisted. The vigor of her voice surprised me; I'd been told that Marged Brice was quite elderly and rather frail.

Then I thought I heard a little girl's muffled laugh.

"You'll frighten people. You wouldn't want to do that, would you?" This time the woman spoke more gently. "Come now, promise me that you won't."

I heard a soft thud and then the sound of small feet pattering on the floor. What was a child doing in her room? Edna had said Miss Brice would be alone for the interview.

I gave the door a few quick raps and then slowly pushed it open. "Hello," I called out. "May I come in? It's Professor-it's Garth Hellyer."

There was no answer. I stood awkwardly in the doorway, peering into the dimness. After a few seconds my eyes spotted a shadowy figure in the corner of the room. A woman was sitting quietly in a wheelchair by a large window with her face turned toward the trees outside. She seemed to be stroking the screen lightly with her fingertips. A branch on the other side was tapping against the glass above her-almost as if it were trying to warn her that someone had entered the room.

Suddenly she looked over at me, very startled, and reached into her pocket. She hastily drew out a dark-colored scarf, pulling it up over her head and then drawing it down so that only her mouth was visible.

I took a step toward her when I felt something soft and sticky brush against my hand; a second later the door slammed shut.

"Oh dear," the woman murmured. "I'm so sorry. There are so many new people here, and it's a bit confusing for her."

"No need to apologize," I said pleasantly, shaking off what appeared to be clumps of hair on my hand. "I'm well acquainted with Cookie. She's a very skittish cat and probably thought I had my dog with me. Actually, I almost did bring Farley up to meet you."

"Farley?"

"Yes, he's Cookie's canine counterpart at the Clarkson-very friendly and very spoiled by everyone here. Maybe I'll bring him up to meet you sometime."

There was a soft rustle of wind and then a light tapping sound as a bough rubbed against the glass. I pulled up a chair and sat down, laying my briefcase to one side. "How are you this morning, Miss Brice?"

She appeared to be scrutinizing me carefully, so I let her take her time. It was hard to tell just how old she was, and I wondered how I might get her to remove the scarf.

"They told me you would be coming today," she announced after a short pause. "But I was expecting an older man. When Edna said you were a historian and a professor, I thought you would be in your sixties. But you-you couldn't be much more than forty."

"That's an excellent guess. As a matter of fact, I'm turning forty next month."

"Ah, then you're still just a young man."

I laughed and told her that I liked coming to the Clarkson because its residents often told me I was young.

"Oh, but you are young," she asserted. "Your best years are still ahead of you." She leaned toward me, peering intently at my face. "Why...you remind me very much of Andrew!" This time her tone was friendlier. "You're taller, though, like George. But dark," she mused. "Dark like Andrew."

"Tall? Dark?" I jested, "Don't I get ‘handsome,' too?"

She eyed me for a few seconds and then nodded, placing a hand on the arm of her chair; I was struck by how long and supple her fingers were.

"And you're a single man from what I'm told?" she continued.

I couldn't help grinning-so she wasn't all that different from the other grannies at the home. Most of them were intensely interested in my matrimonial prospects. "Who's given away my secret?" I asked.

"Isn't it true?" she retorted icily.

"Yes, it's true. At the moment I'm still available. Can the same be said of you?"

She let me wait a few seconds. "I'm afraid I must disappoint you. I might be single, but I'm certainly not available."

"A disappointment, indeed," I shot back, and watched her mouth curve into a reluctant smile.

We sat there eyeing each other for a minute or so. Obviously she wasn't going to make this easy for me. "Miss Brice," I began gently, "I'm here on behalf of the Longevity Project."

"Longevity Project? Oh, yes, they told me about it. About some group wanting to find the oldest living person in the world."

"Well, yes, although there's more to it than that." I briefly told her about my research at the home and explained that I had been asked to follow up with her because Edna-the Clarkson's director-thought there had been some sort of mix-up with her date of birth.

"There's no mix-up," she told me calmly. "I have my birth certificate. I just didn't want to leave it downstairs in that office. I have it here."

"May I see it, please?"

She hesitated and then reached into her pocket, this time taking out a letter-size envelope. "I know all about your interviews with war veterans here at the home," she said, handing me a yellowed sheet of paper. "But the main thing is that Edna said I could trust you."

I looked down and saw that I was holding the birth certificate of a person named Marged Granger Brice, born November 13, 1878. The document had been issued by L'Église Sainte-Anne in Montreal.

"Whose birth certificate is this?" I asked.

She looked at me steadily. "It's mine."

I did a quick calculation: the birth certificate had been issued one hundred thirty-four years ago.

"There must be some mistake," I started to say.

She laughed and lifted up the edge of her scarf; clearly she was enjoying my confusion. "I told you-you are young! Imagine being my age. But, of course, my circumstances are somewhat unusual."

"Unusual?" I echoed. "‘Unusual' would be an understatement if you were one hundred and thirty-four. Miraculous would be more like it. The average life expectancy for an adult female in Canada is between eighty and eighty-two years old."

"Oh, I was eighty ages ago." She waved a hand airily. "That was in-1958, I believe. I remember because I met the prime minister that year-Mr. Diefenbaker. Such a gracious man..."

"Miss Brice, I might be young in your eyes, but I certainly wasn't born yesterday. Now, whose birth certificate is this?"

"Professor Hellyer-" she addressed me crisply, straightening her shoulders and beginning to bristle.

"Please, call me Garth."

"Garth," she continued, even more crisply. "That is my birth certificate." Then she folded her arms and pursed her lips.

She began to tap the arm of her chair impatiently. "You'd like me to remove this scarf, wouldn't you? All right, then, let's see if I at least look one hundred and thirty-four years old!" Without any warning she abruptly pushed her scarf back from her face.

For a few seconds I was speechless.

"I'm sorry," she murmured contritely, keeping her eyes lowered. "I don't mean to startle you. It's not what one might expect, is it?"

I hardly knew what to say. I had interviewed dozens of elderly people, some of them well over a hundred, but I had never seen anything like her face before. There were several prominent seams that ran down each of her cheeks, but the rest of her face was literally bereft of wrinkles. Her skin appeared tautly stretched, giving the impression of polished stone. As the light from the window cast soft shadows across her features, Marged Brice suddenly seemed made of marble...but a warm, subtle, tractable marble.

"Don't ask me to explain it," Miss Brice was saying as I tried to stop myself from staring at her. "I looked very much like one of those apple-faced dolls for a brief period, but then my wrinkles steadily began to...