Prologue
Matilda Hartley knew she was dying. She had known for some time now, alerted by the weariness in her bones, the breathlessness that came too easily and the way the world around her had begun to slip into a gentle haze. But at eighty-five, she could not complain. Life had been long, rich and, in many ways, full. Yet she knew there were some wounds that had never healed.
For the past sixty years, Matilda had lived on Anchor Way, where she ran her beloved antique shop, No. 17 Curiosity Lane. Today, she had made her final visit to Edgar Carmichael, the local solicitor, whose office sat just next door to the shop. Edgar had been both her solicitor and her friend for six decades, and he was a man she trusted completely. This morning, he had simply nodded as she signed her name on the final will and testament, the document that would ensure the shop she had poured her heart and soul into wouldn’t end up in the wrong hands. She had left everything to Fern Talbot. Her sister’s grandchild.
Fern likely had no idea Matilda even existed. They’d been strangers all their lives, with Matilda estranged from her family for what felt like for ever. Still, Fern had been going through life unaware that, somewhere in the background, an old woman had been quietly watching over her all along.
Matilda had long ago accepted that there would never be any family reconciliation, and now her sister had passed away, there was no chance. But Fern was different. Hopefully, she had not been poisoned by the events of the past, and didn’t know anything about the lies. Hopefully, her innocence would help her to uncover the truth.
Matilda traced a finger along the edge of the vinyl record she held in her hands. The label bore a name that everyone knew, a name that should have been hers. Beside it sat the music box, its ornate carvings delicate yet sturdy, a relic of a secret so long buried that only two men alive still knew its weight. She exhaled. The past had done its best to bury her, but now, with the end in sight, she wasn’t about to go quietly. Sixty-five years ago, she’d gone to her family looking for help, hoping for some kind of justice. Instead, they’d looked at her with cold eyes and shut the door. They didn’t believe her. Worse still, her sister turned on her, whispering that she was merely jealous, and losing her mind.
She had lost everything that day.
Her family. Her reputation. Her name.
Yet, decades later, she still held the key to the truth. But
time was running out.
Matilda looked around the shop and stared at all the oddities and artefacts she had gathered over a lifetime. She had spent years crafting this place into a sanctuary for lost things and forgotten stories. Perhaps, if fate willed it, Fern would find the truth Matilda had so carefully buried in the shop, knowing it was the only thing that could change history.
Chapter 1
Fern Talbot shut the lid of her laptop before stretching her arms above her head and then rolling her shoulders. Another workday done. Her inbox was still overflowing with interview requests and press releases, but for now, they could wait. Music journalism was her passion, but even she needed a break from industry gossip and album reviews at six p.m. on a Friday.
Swinging her legs off the couch, she padded across the polished wooden floor of her Fulham apartment, the rumble of the London traffic a distant backdrop through the open window. Her home was everything she’d ever wanted; chic yet cosy, filled with sleek furniture, framed vinyl covers, and a record player that sat beside a neatly stacked collection of albums. The top-floor flat offered a sliver of a view of the iconic London skyline through its large sash windows, and was an urban haven that suited her perfectly.
Hearing the letterbox clang, she bent down to collect the post from the doormat. A fan of digital convenience, she rarely received anything important by mail. The usual assortment greeted her: a pizza menu, a flyer for a yoga retreat, and yet another reminder about retirement planning, something she was determined to ignore for at least another few decades. But nestled among the junk was something different. A thick, cream-coloured envelope embossed with a solicitor’s stamp.
She turned it over in her hands. The name printed on the front … Edgar Carmichael & Associates – meant nothing to her, nor did the address beneath it: Puffin Island. She had never even heard of the place. Intrigued, she slid her finger under the flap and tore it open. The paper inside was thick and smooth, the kind that suggested some kind of importance. The enclosed letter was as formal as it was bewildering.
Dear Ms. Talbot,
We regret to inform you of the passing of your great-aunt, Matilda Hartley. As the sole beneficiary of her estate, you have inherited her business, No. 17 Curiosity Lane, Puffin Island…
A great-aunt? She didn’t have a great-aunt. At least, not one she was aware of. Fern had never met a Matilda Hartley in her life. She barely had any family left; her parents were gone, her grandparents long since passed, and no one had ever mentioned a Matilda Hartley. Her own story had always been a quiet one. She had been adopted as a baby by older parents who’d longed for children but had been forced to give up hope of a biological child and instead seek other avenues to fulfil their dream of being parents. Her mother was fifty at the time, her father nearly seventy, but they were young at heart and energetic, throwing themselves into raising her. But time marched on and things changed. By the time Fern turned ten, her father was gone, and when she was twenty-two, she lost her mother, too. And there had never been talk of distant cousins or great-aunts with antique shops.
Yet, according to the letter, this Matilda was her great-aunt. And for reasons unknown, she had left Fern an antique shop of all things. She had never once set foot in an antique shop unless you counted the time she’d bought a vintage Rolling Stones T-shirt at a flea market in Camden.
Fern blinked. Then she read the letter again, this time aloud, as if the words might make more sense if spoken.
‘No. 17 Curiosity Lane?’ she muttered. ‘What in the actual…’
Perplexed, she grabbed her laptop and googled ‘Puffin Island’.
Immediately, images and a description popped up.
Puffin Island gives a distinct and spectacular character to the Northumberland coastline just off the town of Sea’s End.
She clicked on the images. Independent shops lined a charismatic old high street called Lighthouse Lane, and more bespoke shops were dotted along the picture-postcard harbour beside a pretty lighthouse. There were rainbow cottages, an art gallery, a book shop, a café and, apparently, one antique shop that now belonged to her.
And then she saw it. A photo of No. 17 Curiosity Lane. Fern zoomed in to take a closer look. From the outside it looked like a relic of a bygone era. Its exterior, no doubt once charming, showed signs of wear and neglect, the large windows at the front framed by peeling, chipped wood, revealing cluttered windowsills inside. The sign, ‘No. 17 Curiosity Lane’ in vintage lettering hung askew, the faded ‘Matilda Hartley’ beneath the name barely legible. Fern could imagine the sign creaking in the coastal breeze, scarcely clinging to its last days of grandeur.
Outside the shop was a trestle table cluttered with old things: books, trinkets, cups and saucers… It all looked horrifying to Fern. It was not a world she was familiar with.
‘What am I supposed to do with an antique shop?’ she muttered to herself, pacing her minimalist kitchen. Her entire world was built around music: reviewing albums, interviewing bands, chasing the next big thing. Her life was backstage passes and exclusive listening parties, not dusty old furniture and porcelain figurines. She shuddered just thinking about it.
She pulled up her emails and fired off a quick message to the solicitor, requesting clarification. Maybe there had been a mistake. Maybe there was another Fern Talbot out there, one who actually cared about brass candlesticks and Victorian tea sets.
She wasn’t expecting a reply at this time on a Friday night, but by the time she had finished drafting an article about a rising indie band, the reply had come through.
No mistake. You are the named beneficiary. The shop and all its contents are legally yours.
Fern still couldn’t quite believe it. ‘Bloody hell, why me? A shop full of junk to clear out and a dilapidated building to sell.’
It was absurd. Completely and utterly ridiculous. But there was no avoiding it. She needed to go to Puffin Island, sift through whatever mess this mysterious great-aunt had left behind and offload the place as quickly as possible. Then she could get back to real life – the one that didn’t involve dusty antiques or crumbling shopfronts.
Her phone buzzed.
It was Ella.
Ella had been her friend since the very first day of primary school, when they both had freckles across their noses, kneehigh white socks and rucksacks that were far too big for their small shoulders. They’d been placed in the same class, two nervous five-year-olds sitting side by side, eyeing each other cautiously until disaster struck.
During break time, Ella had struggled to open her juice box, her small fingers fumbling with the straw. In a moment of unfortunate determination, she squeezed too hard, sending a stream of orange juice straight down the front of Fern’s pristine uniform. There had been a split second of horror, Ella’s eyes
widening, Fern’s mouth dropping open, before Fern, instead of bursting into tears, had simply grinned. And in a moment of pure five-year-old logic, she had deliberately squeezed her own juice box right back at Ella.
By the time the teacher arrived to break up the ‘juice war’, the two girls were howling with laughter, their uniforms sticky, their friendship cemented.
From that day on, they were inseparable. They went through primary and high school side by side, surviving disastrous haircuts, impossible maths exams and terrible dates, and now, by some stroke of fate – or perhaps the sheer strength of their long-standing friendship – they worked at the same music magazine and lived in the same London apartment block, just a few doors apart.
Ella was the holy trinity of Fern’s social life, part agony aunt, the sharer of her cocktails, and the voice of reason she occasionally ignored.
ELLA
You’re coming tonight, right?
Fern swiped open the message just as a second one came through.
ELLA
You cannot bail on me! LUST THEORY are in town!
Ah. That explained the urgency. Every time the band rolled through London, Fern and Ella were front and centre. It was tradition. Drinks, music, a little too much fun and, more often than not, an over-friendly liaison for Fern with Jax Devlin, the band’s lead singer.
Jax was everything a rock star should be – leather jackets, wild curls and a voice that could melt anyone within a fifty-mile radius. Charisma dripped off him like expensive aftershave, and he knew exactly how to use it. He was trouble. Glorious, thrilling, predictable trouble.
Fern’s gaze flicked between Ella’s texts and the letter clutched in her other hand.
The sensible thing, the easy thing, would be to go out, drink overpriced cocktails and wake up tomorrow with a headache and the scent of Jax’s aftershave lingering on her skin.
Instead, she typed a reply.
FERN
Something’s come up this weekend. I’m taking annual leave for a week. There’s been an unexpected death in my family. I’ll update you soon. Sorry!
She hit send before she could change her mind then sent her boss an email. She knew he would understand, and if anything urgent came up she could work remotely.
After the email was sent, Fern checked the train app, noting that the earliest departure from London to Northumberland was at eight a.m. She would need to change trains at Newcastle at 11.15 a.m., before boarding a connecting service to Alnwick at 11.45 a.m. From there, a final local train to Sea’s End would depart at 12.30 p.m., arriving just before 1.15 p.m.
The journey would take just over five hours, not including the time it would take to cross the causeway to Puffin Island, assuming the tide was on her side.
Walking into her bedroom, she pulled out a suitcase from under her bed, unzipped it and opened her wardrobe doors. ‘What does one even pack for an island full of antiques?’ she mused, half to herself, half to the void. Definitely not the leather jacket she wore to gigs or the towering heels she’d perfected the art of running in. With a sigh, she packed the usual necessities then tossed in some jeans, a couple of sweaters and – grudgingly – a pair of practical boots. Her laptop followed, because there was no way she was abandoning work completely, even if it meant writing from the middle of nowhere.
She hesitated as she reached for her notebook, the one where she scribbled unfinished thoughts about the state of the music industry, half-written reviews and, occasionally, lyrics she would never admit to writing. Tucking it into the side pocket, she zipped up the case and exhaled. Tomorrow, she’d be on her way to Puffin Island, a place she’d never been, to deal with an inheritance she’d never wanted, left by a woman she’d never known.
Whatever she found there, she was certain of one thing: it wouldn’t change a thing. She’d sell the shop, wrap up any loose ends and be back in London before anyone even noticed she was gone.
She was packed and she was ready. Or as ready as she could ever be.
To find out what happens next in No. 17 Curiosity Lane, you can purchase the book here, in paperback or eBook format.
No. 17 Curiosity Lane : ©️ Christie Barlow 2026