A Cornish Christmas by Lily Graham Page A

her amazing life.
    I was sorry that she wouldn’t be staying longer, but glad that she was at least in the county, and we agreed to meet later on in the week, for an exclusive tour of the country surrounding the author’s old stomping grounds. It would be incredible to see this part of Cornwall from the eye of a biographer, and I was already looking forward to it.
    After she left, I got started on Detective Sergeant Fudge and the Case of the Missing Brolly , doing my best to ignore Rudolph’s shiny new nose. The day moved swiftly and I managed several illustrations for The Fudge Files . Catherine would be pleased. At this rate, we’d be early with the publishers... a first.
    Later, Tomas came over to consult on a case of septic-looking greens that Stuart had been examining with a magnifying glass. As Tomas passed me en route to the garden, he lifted the edge of his green beret with a gnarled finger, and drawled out a greeting, ‘’Ello, Eve...’
    His lips twitched, as I corrected, ‘Ivy,’ automatically.
    He shrugged his thin shoulders, in a manner that promised that he’d do it again, held up a bottle of sloe gin to Stuart with a twinkle in his clear blue eyes, and the two disappeared to discuss ‘business’ in the polytunnel.
    I scoffed – not looking forward to dealing with the after-effects of that in the morning, and headed back to the studio to work on Mr Tibbles and the Fairy’s Forest , where Mr Tibbles was about to receive a rather strange gift, from the Red Fairy. Only, she wouldn’t have any red hair if I didn’t find the missing paint.
    Somehow in the events of the day I’d forgotten about it. I had another search and sighed in frustration. Then I moved over to the writing desk and looked there again. Still nothing. Absently, I opened the bottom drawer which I hadn’t touched since I’d unpacked it the day before, only to stare at it in absolute, fearful shock. I jumped back, my heart pounding, the colour draining from my face.
    There they were.
    Every last tube. Every last pot. Every last bottle of red paint that I owned was there in the drawer. Not in a fan or in a row, or just scattered about.
    No.
    They were all grouped together to commit a single felony, to form one simple, damnable word, and it belonged to me: Ivy.

Chapter 4
The Scarlet Ribbon
    T here were two explanations really . The first, obvious, and least inspiring was that I was indeed going mad. Surprising really that it would happen now, after we seemed finally to be over the worst of our troubles.
    The second was that someone was playing a rather befuddling joke on me. Someone who thought I had a better handle on my sanity, because I’m quite sure it would backfire when the men in little white coats appeared to take me away. I couldn’t quite believe that Stuart would do that to me; it just wasn’t his style. He was far too aware of how it would hurt me.
    There was a third option too, of course, which was absurd.
    If I considered it I’d have to believe in fairy tales or magic, or ghosts... really.
    And I didn’t know if I was quite ready to believe that.
    So I did what any sane person would do... I went to the kitchen, opened a bottle of red wine and sat with my eyes closed while I sniffed it, breathing deeply of the luscious berry scent.
    â€˜And now?’ asked Stuart, coming in from the back door and looking at me quizzically, while I sat at the pale cream island with the bottle of wine held reverentially in my hands.
    â€˜I’m hoping that it will impart its magic... via osmosis.’
    He raised a brow, an amused smile playing on his lips.
    â€˜I think you’ll find,’ he said, placing an enormous ham on the countertop and giving it a firm, yet tender pat, ‘that you actually need to drink it for it to have any effect.’
    I gave him a look. ‘Yes, well... That’s off the cards for at least what... seven