Being at her best friend’s antique shop wasn’t exactly what Dora Harding had in mind for the day. She scarcely knew what to do on her day off from being an apprentice to one of the most illustrious, up-and-coming artists in New York City. After all, she was fully prepared to lose herself in phthalo blue and cadmium yellow all day long. It seemed lately that she was drowning in a sea of pigments, even so much as dreaming of painting herself literally drowning. What would Freud say? 

Instead of wallowing in her inexplicable painting dreams, here she was at Timeless Antiques, where valuables and trinkets stand the test of time! 

Her best friend’s slogan. Not hers. She always found it a little bit corny, but she couldn’t complain too much. After all, the stuff inside the shop was always in great condition, even if it was a little bit out of her own price range. 

As the scent of acrid wood and aged things filled her senses with nostalgia, Dora sucked in a breath just like she always did every time she walked into the shop, which was the same as always. There, in one section, David called it the Happy Christmas section. He usually had trouble selling items from that out of season, but when it was time for the holidays, it would sell out before he even laid the items out. But it was around that time that there was any business coming in. After all, Timeless Antiques was but a drop in the ocean of the multitude of antique stores.

 In fact, Dora had become increasingly worried that the antique shop was losing more than it was bringing in. She had noticed a steady lack of costumers and she began fearing the worst after seeing some of the things that David had posted on social media. 

The lack of business, she supposed, was the reason why he went back to his home city of London to attend an antique auction. It had been several years since he had gone, and when she had heard that he came back with some great things, she had to see what he had collected during his stay. 

But out of the corner of her eye, Dora caught something peculiar. She had never noticed it before. Was it one of the new things that he had picked up when he was in London? In the jewelry display case that stood in front of the main window, she noticed how this particular trinket seemed to shimmer in the sunlight. It was like it was calling her name. It was such a lovely sight to behold and as she eyed it longer, she wanted it more. It was a pressed-flower necklace, round with a blue flower encapsulated inside something that was probably epoxy-resin. What year? She looked at the description. 

Pressed flower locket: Circa 1897. $500

“Well, no wonder why David’s shop is tanking. He’s got these prices too high.” “What’s too high?” a male voice said, with a honey-yellow tone like soft baked bread.

She turned around and saw David, leaning against a shelf fully stocked with books. 

“Oh, this pressed flower locket,” she said. “Why on earth are you charging 500 dollars for it?” 

“Well, Dora,” he said. “That’s how much I put it down for. I have to make a profit.” 

She nodded. “I know. I just would like to have it.” 

“Well, isn’t your birthday coming up? It’s November 12th soon.” He winked and smiled. 

“You’re right,” she said, nodding. “Maybe I’ll treat myself to it when Tilly pays me in a week.” 

“Nice,: he said, his eyes brightening. “And do you like your new job? I know she can be a bit much, from what I’ve heard.”

“Well, you did introduce her to me,” she said. “You know what she’s like.” 

He nodded. “Of course, but I don’t know what she’s like as your boss, only as a fellow British ex-pat. 

“Well, she’s great, despite the moods but enough of work talk. It’s my day off. So tell me, was London kind to you? That one post about the old man, well, what the heck was that? Some rant about a belligerent curmudgeon and that people like him ought to go back to the Victorian Era where they belong?” 

He grew red in the face. “God, I thought I deleted it.” 

“I took the liberty of making a screenshot for my stepmom. She thinks you ought to rant more often. It was a delight to read, according to her.” 

“Well, the story was that I bought something at the auction. I had to fight tooth and nail to get it because the old man wanted it that badly. I wanted it even more than him because it belonged to Sarah Greyson.” 

Dora heard Sarah Greyson and the world seemed to melt away, his words becoming a blur of sound, swirling around her. 

“Hold on, David. Did you just say Sarah Greyson, as in the artist?” 

“Yes,” he said, smiling. “Do you want to see it?” His eyes lit up. 

“Wouldn’t hurt.” 

She followed David past the antique plates on shelves, past the random assortment of Christmas items. One of them, standing out above the rest. A snowglobe from the 1920s that had engraving that read, My heart is with you every Christmas. It was a lovely little item, and Dora often wondered why it just sat there, never getting picked up, despite everything else selling out. 

She almost stopped dead in her tracks when she saw it. Was she in some kind of dream? In a part of the store, there was a lovely shimmering glow swirling a deep orchid with dust motes dancing through the sunlight that fell on top of it. The room felt slower with each step that she took, Dora could not quite explain the sensation of heaviness that weighed on her, but it was nothing like taking a muscle relaxer. It was somewhat light in its weight. 

“David,” she whispered, still sensing him nearby. “Do you see that?”

“See what?” he asked, but his voice sounded more distant than before. Strange. 

“That glow,” she said, slowly pointing her manicured finger toward it. “It’s so beautiful. Oh, it’s the loveliest thing that I have ever seen.” 

“No,” he said. “All I see is the new secretary desk that I bought at the auction. See, it’s right over there. Isn’t she beautiful? Sarah Grayson owned it.” 

She stroked the glossy cherry-wood finish with her finger, and as soon as it brushed against the surface, Dora felt a surge of electricity coursing through her veins. Then, it felt like wildfire, almost illuminating her senses. 

Oh, wow, this is insane. What’s going on with me? 

Dora hesitantly tapped on it the desk again, but as soon as that happened she opened her eyes and she was somewhere that she did not recognize at all as the antique store began to fade away, and David’s figure with it. 

Gone was the acrid scent of history and the room was unlike anything she had ever seen before. She stepped forward, away from the desk and peered out into a vast countryside, full of dark green pastures. A picturesque moment for a painting, she thought. 

“Dora,” a voice said from behind her, but when she turned to look and see who it was, she was back in the shop at New York. 

She began hyperventilating. “What was that. Oh, my God. What was that? David, are you all right? You’re looking at me funny.” 

“I should ask the same thing about you. You blanked out on me again.” 

“Oh, no,” she said, raking a trembling finger through her dark brown hair. “Oh, I don’t know. I’m sorry. I blanked out again?” 

“Here,” he said, his voice gentle. “Why don’t you sit down?” 

He dragged a chair from behind the front desk and she sat down. 

“Do you need anything else?” 

“Water. My throat hurts.” 

He walked away, and she scooted herself back, letting her mind fill with racing thoughts. How was she going to tell her dad and stepmom that the episodes were happening again? It had been three years since the last one and she had thought that their doctor, a good friend of her father, had it under control. Tears filled her eyes. The medicine, fludrocortisone, was supposed to work. It had been working. Not again. Not this again. She couldn’t be poked and prodded like a test subject. 

The glow, the sensation, and the strange image of being alone in a strange room with just a window. It all made sense now. She was having her peculiar hallucinations again. She did not want to go through rounds of tests again, not for anything. 

She glanced over at the patent secretary desk and could not help but stare at it. This had to have been the one thing he bought at that auction that was Sarah Greyson’s, her favorite artist. The artist that made Dora fall passionately in love with all things art and painting from the very first time her father and her stepmother Phoebe had brought her to the Louvre where she saw her painting, The Innocence. 

This desk belonged to Sarah Grayson. It was like the world had opened up again and Dora felt such a connection to the artist, for most of her life. 

         It was the highlight of her month, being somewhere so close to something that once belonged to her. She tried touching it again, fully expecting to feel whatever it was that happened earlier, but nothing happened. Her insides felt as normal as ever, and her head was clear as day.

Dora noticed something strange among the multitude of cabinets. There were so many. And was that a bit of old paint splattered on the desk? It was at that bit of paint that she noticed something strange inscribed on it. Looked like writing? She peered closer and closer until she could see it well enough. 

IH NOT EG. 

“Whatever that means,” she said with a laugh.

Just then, the door opened and the bell resonated through the store. A young child walked in with a huge smile on his face. He had bright blonde hair and oceanic blue eyes. He was wearing a black shirt that had 1983 written on it.

“Hello,” he said. “You work here?” 

He had a British accent. Dora shook her head. “No. I don’t work here.” 

He shrugged. “Okay, but perhaps you can point me in the right direction? I’m looking for a gift for my sister. She’s four today and we’re on vacation. My name’s Danny. What’s yours?” 

“Dora.” 

He smiled. “Dora… I like it.” 

“There’s some old toys in the back, but be careful. Some of them may not be safe because of lead paint, okay? There are some that are only for collectors.” 

“‘Kay. Thanks, Dora!” He said with a wave and rushed towards the back. 

“No running in the story, Danny!” She yelled out. 

“All right, sorry!” he said, his voice fading away. 

It was a few more seconds before David returned with a bottle of water and a red delicious apple. 

“You got me an apple too?” she asked, arching a brow. 

“Well, I figured you were hungry, so I’ll give you some of my lunch.” 

Dora laughed. “You don’t have to worry so much about me. I am more worried about you. You look like absolute hell, David. When I saw you earlier, you looked like you’ve been through it. That’s why I asked about London.” 

“Jet lag,” he said. 

Dora took a bite out of the apple, its juices running down the corner of her lip and down her neck. 

“David Graham,” she said, crossing her arms. “The time I’ve known you, all these years, you can’t tell a lie.” 

He sighed. “London wasn't easy. It was awful and I couldn’t wait to get back home. The old man who wanted this desk decided to make my life hell. He tried to tell them because I was an expat that I did not qualify to have the desk.” 

“That literally makes no sense.” 

“I have too many curses for that bloke,” he said. 

“Well, don’t do that because there’s a kid in the back, looking for toys for his little sister.” 

“What?” he asked, cocking his head to the side. 

“Blonde, blue eyes. Had a shirt with 1983 on it.” 

“But, Dora,” he said, shaking his head. “The bell didn’t ring. There’s also cameras in the security room. I didn’t notice anyone but you when I went to grab the apple.”
“I swear a kid was in here just a minute ago.” She scratched her neck. 

“There is only you and me here right now, Dora. No one else. I promise.”

           “No, he was just here. Said his name was Danny. He's looking for a present for his sister. I am not lying, David. Look in the back, I promise there's a kid there looking for a present for his sister. I even told him to be careful about some of the old toys that may have lead paint.” 

          “I'll go check but Dora, there's no one, at least no one that showed up on the security camera.”

            He left and came back and looked at Dora with a quizzical expression on his stubbly face. 

            “Dora, there's absolutely no one in the shop but us.”

           “What?” She shook her head, running a hand through her hair. “He was just here. I'll go back and check to make sure you're not messing with me.”

         As soon as Dora said those words,  she felt three quick vibrations in her pocket followed by a steady ringtone. Chopin’s Fantaisie Impromptu in C sharp minor. The one piece that was a favorite of none other than her boss, Tilly. 

“Hello?” Dora asked. 

“Dora, where on earth are you? I’ve sent you piles of texts. I need the flowers from the florist shop for the still life. I’ve been waiting for hours. This is so unlike you.” 

“But you said you were off today,” Dora replied, gulping against a dry throat. 

“Tomorrow, Love. Tomorrow. Please get here in a jiffy. I can’t waste any time. The client expects this painting by the weekend.” 

“Everything good?” David asked. 

“It’s Tilly,” she said. “It wasn’t my day off today. Oh, God. I’m going to get fired.” 

“Just go. You know Tilly loves you. She wouldn’t fire you over that. Maybe if you don’t show up. Go, I don’t want to be the reason you’re fired.”

She paced through the bustling Manhattan crowd, but the entire time, her thoughts were consumed by everything that she had experienced earlier. From the desk, to the blackout, to the little boy named Johnny. 

I could go back… I could… and just tell David that I want the desk. 

But she knew it was too late, for how could she ever be as great of an artist as Tilly Ravensdale if she did not go to her side and be the apprentice that she was hired to be?

Author's Note: Here you go, everyone! It's the first chapter of the rewrite of Ravensdale. I am going to be updating Ravensdale more regularly from now on. I will be putting up a writing schedule on my main profile and hopefully stick to that. I hope you guys will enjoy the new rewrite! -Alex-

If you're reading this now and are unaware, I have decided to restart Ravensdale from the beginning. The plot is still the same for the most part, with some minor changes and improvements. I hope you will enjoy what I have written.