Wrapped in the Stars Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Elena Mikalsen’s Fiction

  Wrapped in the Stars

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Quote

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Epilogue

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  I would like to say that I noticed the ring

  in the display right away, but I know now that it had recognized me first. After all, the ring’s features were not displayed in any special way that would catch the attention of shoppers. In fact, it was turned slightly around, as if somewhat shy. An old yellowed price tag half-covered it, suggesting it had been ignored by all but the rare Scottish sunlight for years. But I was unable to take my eyes away, somehow held by its power.

  The wooden door of the Royal Mile Antique Collection creaked as I opened it, my arms straining with effort. The shop smelled of the familiar aroma of most places in Edinburgh—mold and whisky. The dark interior revealed several open-shelved cabinets displaying mismatched teacups, whisky glasses, and various jewelry items. A small ray of light from the door in the back was making dust dance over the displays, and I moved toward it with hope.

  Praise for Elena Mikalsen’s Fiction

  WRAPPED IN THE STARS made the shortlist

  for the 2017 Del Sol Press First Novel Prize.

  “Written with passion and expertise, Elena Mikalsen’s WRAPPED IN THE STARS is an intelligent and beautifully crafted story that proves the power of love while illuminating the historical struggles of women in medicine. I love books that teach me something while also being thoroughly entertaining.”

  ~Kelli Estes, author of

  The Girl Who Wrote in Silk

  “Loved this story. Read it straight through in one sitting. Such a unique and charming work. Endearing characters and the plot is bewitching.”

  ~Fleeta Cunningham, author of the Santa Rita series available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  “Mikalsen effortlessly weaves past and present in this engaging tale…. A delightful debut!”

  ~Jessica Topper, author of Louder Than Love

  “A gripping tale.… The author's mastery at story telling and the beauty in her words kept me reading!”

  ~Negeen Papehn, author of Forbidden by Faith

  “An intriguing twist on the idea of a found object that connects the past and present. Smartly drawing from Carl Jung and quantum physics, Mikalsen evokes shared memories…a love story that lasts a century.”

  ~Jennifer Klepper, author of Unbroken Threads

  “I am very impressed with the scope and depth… viable, alive characters, …a well-paced and lively story. The author made me care…an incredible amount of serious research….”

  ~E. V. Svetova, author of Print in the Snow

  Wrapped

  in the Stars

  by

  Elena Mikalsen

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Wrapped in the Stars

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Elena Mikalsen

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Diana Carlile

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Vintage Rose Edition, 2018

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1860-8

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1861-5

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my husband—we were always meant to be.

  ~

  To my grandparents—you will never be forgotten.

  ~

  To the amazing writers

  of the Women's Fiction Writers Association—

  thank you for inspiring me and supporting me

  through every step of becoming an author.

  Acknowledgements

  I am very humbled by writing this list as I realize how many people have been generous throughout my journey as a debut author. Huge thank you to my publisher, The Wild Rose Press, whose team has been incredibly supportive at every step. My editor, Nan Swanson, has been kind and generous with her time, wisdom, and words. My fantastic colleagues in writing, the Women’s Fiction Writers Association, have held my hand through this entire process of struggling through learning the craft of writing and putting all my ideas together into a novel.

  I am forever indebted to my cheerleaders at the Outlander Nook who never once questioned my ability to write a book and answered random questions at all times of day. Thanks to Lori Christian Renfro for the hours she spent making suggestions on how to make the novel better. My wonderful helper from Scotland, Irene Paulton, was kind enough to assist with the dialect. Thank you, Ginger Wiseman, for checking on the German grammar. Thank you, Carroll Chapman for looking up historical facts. Big thanks to New Yorkers, Sandra Petrucco Sena and Wendy Gold Rossi, for finding some perfect New York locations for the novel. Gayla Cole Feachen—thank you for the research on family photos. Thanks to E.V. Svetova and Lori McConnell for their invaluable feedback that made this novel shine. Rachel Lipetz MacAulay, I am forever grateful for your careful edits.

  Thank you to my family, for allowing me to write for hours at a time and never making me feel guilty.

  And, finally, thank you to all the readers who buy this novel. This story is for you!

  Prologue

  In Quantum Physics, our bodies are described as walking energy fields. Our souls are imagined as systems of spinning particles, negative potential energy electrons with memory. Physicists say that, when we touch an object or a person, we exchange our energy fields. Some of our soul’s energy goes into the object or another person, and we gain some of theirs. Every touch changes us, as we are all connected through our minds and physical selves.

  What if you wished to share more of your soul?

  What if you wished for your memories to live forever?

  What if great love couldn’t die and its energy remained in the universe?

  “I seem to have loved you in num
berless forms, numberless times…

  In life after life, in age after age, forever.”

  ~Rabindranath Tagore

  Chapter 1

  Edinburgh, August, Thursday—Present Time

  I was lost. In my life in general, but also in the dark narrow alley of Edinburgh’s Old Town.

  This sudden realization nearly knocked me down, and I stopped short. I choked on thick fog, and my throat sealed shut. I shouldn’t have taken the shortcut. I shouldn’t have run away to Scotland.

  I’ve obviously made a mistake. Typical.

  I hated not knowing where I was going. I hated walking in the dark alone. I hated being alone. Years of getting home in the middle of the night, as a medical student in New York City’s hospitals, still didn’t take away my fear of danger lurking in dark alleys. I scanned my surroundings, fear pounding in my chest, making my rib cage ache. Was the street below a safer choice?

  I stood on the uneven, well-worn steps of a narrow walkway. Gray buildings towered over me on both sides. The stone beneath my feet was wet and slippery from the moisture dripping off the walls. There were a few small windows above me and an old streetlight up ahead, making the alleyway a little less dungeon-like. I willed my mind to focus on these small sources of light. My lungs unlocked, and I inhaled the cold wet air.

  The smell of mold immediately overwhelmed me. I hurried up the steep slippery steps toward the light. But no matter how fast I climbed, it seemed to get farther and farther away, and my stomach twisted tighter with each step.

  Moments later, I felt the world suddenly fall away beneath me as I landed on my right hip, hitting the sharp edge of a stone. I cursed, the words echoing off the moldy walls. Shifting a bit on the icy wet ground, I palpated my aching parts, making sure that my pelvis, femur, and acetabulum were only bruised and not fractured.

  Sitting still, I listened to the slow “drip, drip, drip” of water from the buildings and felt sorry for myself. I was in Edinburgh to have a break, after all; this was not fair! It was when I tried to get up that I heard the chirping. This tomb-like passageway surely couldn’t be the home of a bird? But there it was—on a bright green branch, growing over the wall of one of the buildings, sat a puffy little bird.

  Another old streetlight next to me suddenly turned on, filling the alley with a soft yellow light. I got back up on my feet slowly after some awkward maneuvering and tested my ability to walk. The bird chirped again, startling me so that I jumped, rather painfully for my bruised leg. Then the slight creature moved to the step directly above me.

  “You scared the shit out of me!” I yelled at it, holding on to the wall with one hand and rubbing my leg with the other.

  I leaned my back against a building. The bird turned its head and looked directly at me, chirping again. I sighed and squinted my eyes to see it better. It had a round white belly and a bright orange chest. I hadn’t seen a regular city bird in a long time. For the last seven months there had been only tropical ones around me. My breath stabilized, and my heart and stomach settled.

  “Listen,” I said to it. “You’re cute, but I need to get back to my hotel, okay?”

  The bird turned its head toward me, sang another verse of its song, and gently flew into the passageway in front of me, as if showing me the way.

  “Do I follow you or something?”

  I did. I followed it out to the street above, with no further trouble. To be honest, I was glad for its temporary friendship. Being lost had unsettled me thoroughly. Finally out of the alley, I found myself in the middle of the main street of the Old Town, Royal Mile, with crowds gathering for the Military Tattoo’s marching band performances. The lights were lit on Edinburgh Castle, and its flags waved to me in greeting.

  “All right, so where do I go next?” I asked. But the bird had disappeared.

  With my mind depleted of all rational thought and my feet begging for some relief, I looked around for a place to sit and realized I was standing in front of the dusty display window of a small antique shop.

  I would like to say that I noticed the ring in the display right away, but I know now that it had recognized me first. After all, the ring’s features were not displayed in any special way that would catch the attention of shoppers. In fact, it was turned slightly around, as if somewhat shy. An old yellowed price tag half-covered it, suggesting it had been ignored by all but the rare Scottish sunlight for years. But I was unable to take my eyes away, somehow held by its power.

  The wooden door of the Royal Mile Antique Collection creaked as I opened it, my arms straining with effort. The shop smelled of the familiar aroma of most places in Edinburgh—mold and whisky. The dark interior revealed several open-shelved cabinets displaying mismatched teacups, whisky glasses, and various jewelry items. A small ray of light from the door in the back was making dust dance over the displays, and I moved toward it with hope.

  “Hello?” I called out.

  A gawky teenager emerged from the door. “Um, were you needing somethin’? We’re getting ready to close.”

  “Can I please see that ring over there in the window?” I pointed.

  The teen fumbled with the display case and sighed. “It’s locked, miss. I don’t know if we’ve even got the key. Those items are just a decoration for the shop.”

  “I’d really appreciate it if you’d look,” I said and attempted a smile, my patience wearing thin.

  He shrugged his shoulders and disappeared back behind the small door, leaving it creaking and groaning as it closed slowly behind him.

  I paced in irritation, rubbing my injured hip and wondering whether this store didn’t get many customers or just didn’t care whether they made any sales at all. Lousy customer service, for sure. I walked to the display containing the ring, examining it closely. My reflection stared back at me—a tired and flushed face with a now-fading tan, frizzy brown curls escaping a loose ponytail, and a brand-new tartan lamb’s wool scarf befitting a tourist.

  The door opened, but, instead of the teen’s face, a head full of silver hair appeared, leaning low to avoid the doorframe. The head belonged to a handsome and ridiculously tall man. He resembled a college professor, with his pleated brown wool pants and the collar of his white shirt folded neatly over the neck of his sweater. Large glasses and a well-groomed cropped silver beard completed his rather academic appearance.

  “Good day. My grandson is telling me ye’re interested in one of my rings?” He gave me an appraising look and offered his hand. “Name’s Ian Fergusson. Which one is it, then?”

  “It’s the silver one with the white stone in the middle,” I said.

  “Why does this one catch your eye, may I ask?” He raised his brows, but his eyes were kind.

  “I’m not sure, actually. It’s just—calling to me.”

  He nodded his head a few times. “Aye, that’s the best way to find your pieces. Let them speak to you and tell their story. This ring must’ve found the right owner, then.”

  My heart beat faster as he opened the display, carefully removed the ring, and handed it to me.

  “What kind of stone is it?” I gently touched the glowing gemstone in the center.

  “A moonstone. It’s said to bring protection during travel. There’s another meaning to it also,” he continued. “Lovers exchange moonstones in the hope of eternal love. But you choose what meaning suits you best.”

  I laughed. “Who wouldn’t wish for eternal love? But I’d settle for travel protection.”

  “Been traveling, then?”

  “A while, yes.”

  “Are you staying in Scotland for a bit?”

  “I think I have to get home soon.” Eventually.

  “Your accent is difficult to place. A bit of the American and a bit of the…French?”

  “I live in New York,” I said. “But I was born in Ukraine. What are these?” I pointed at the sparkling rows of stones around the moonstone. I was anxious to switch the conversation back to the ring.

  “Marcasite. M
ade of pyrite, a type of iron. Used commonly in the last century. See how carefully it’s mounted in its place? Very delicate work. Gives the stone some extra sparkle.”

  “How old is it?”

  “Given the marcasite and the moonstone, I’d venture a guess it’s likely an Art Nouveau ring. Made somewhere between 1912 and 1920.”

  I turned the ring to look for an inscribed date and squinted to see something etched on the inside. “There are words here!”

  “Well, that’s unusual. Can I take a look?”

  I waited impatiently as he examined it with a magnifying glass.

  “German, certainly. I can sort out Ich, but the rest of the words are too faded and in need of cleaning. Very tricky to clean it properly though—may lose some of its tarnish. Do you want me to try to clean it a bit for you? Do you speak German?”

  “No, I don’t. Only Russian and Spanish. But that’s all right, you don’t need to clean it.” I stopped him from taking it again. “I’m not really shopping; I just wanted to look at it. I don’t buy very much jewelry.” I hesitated. “Do you know where this ring came from? If it has German writing in it, I wonder what it’s doing here, in Scotland.”

  He looked at me for a moment, head cocked to the side. “I have a few minutes. I can look in my records.”

  “I’m sorry I’m asking so many questions.”

  “It’s nay bother. My supper will keep.” He winked and walked behind the counter to a black desktop.

  “You have computer records for your inventory?”

  “This is modern times, you know. We’ve had a database for over ten years. If we bought the ring in that time, I can tell you a bit about where it came from.” He checked the faded tag, and I heard him typing numbers on the keyboard after he placed the ring back on the counter.

  I picked up the ring and held it up to the flower-shaped wall sconce to see the inscription. It caught the light and sparkled, blinding me for a second. As my vision cleared, my eyes were greeted by a tiny rainbow reflected onto the window of the shop. My heart skipped a beat, then another, then started again, making me shudder.

  My twin sister Ella had loved rainbows. She’d drawn them on every scrap of paper she found.