The Island House by Posie Graeme-evans Page A

only a couple of places on Findnar where Freya’s mobile phone actually worked. Inside the house the signal was uncertain—the bars coming and going depending on which way she faced—however, the top of the hill behind the house seemed okay.
    It was piercingly cold standing on that smooth, green dome and shouting toward Australia. Sydney winter clothes were no help on this sharp morning of a northern summer.
    “Hello, Mum. Sorry you’re not home. I’ve arrived, got here last night. Long trip but no dramas.”
    Freya closed her eyes with the rush of images. It was true, the dramas had come later. “The place is amazing, like nothing I’ve seen. The house is really interesting too; nice.”
    Nice. That was an inadequate word for something so stamped with her father’s presence. “And there are ruins—church buildings of some kind, I think. There’s even a ring of stones.” Freya was staring toward the east, toward the circle of tall gray stones surrounded by a wider ring of mostly broken monoliths. “Imagine that. My very own standing stones, so lots of things to explore. And the view is . . . It really is spectacular.”
    Freya looked down on Compline, roosting like a gray bird on the top of the cliff. Beneath, the strait between the island and mainland to the west was covered in a carpet of solid white. “There’s fog on the water at the moment. It’s very pretty—just like lamb’s fleece—though I think it’ll burn off a bit later, once the sun’sproperly up . . .” Maybe. If anything, the mist was getting thicker as she watched.
    Why was it so hard to tell the truth, say what she really intended instead of well-meaning platitudes?
    “Look, I should just let you know a couple of things. There’s no power at the house because Dad never sorted that out. I guess there were fewer options, technology-wise, when he came here or he liked it that way. I have paraffin lamps, though—very pretty, colored glass and all that. Anyway, the problem is, I can’t charge my phone on the island, so that means I can’t call very often, but we can text back and forth and I’ll pick up messages a couple of times a day. I’ll reply as soon as I can, promise.”
    Freya glanced down at the battery strength bars on her phone. “This place is full of Dad’s things, though. That’s a bit weird.” Her mother would be curious about Michael’s house, though she’d pretend otherwise.
    “I’ll go over to Portsolly a bit later—Dad had a boat, and it’s the nearest village on the mainland—so I’ll try calling again from there when I’ve sorted myself out some. Still not sure what I’ll do with this place, though. I might just stay for the summer and work on my thesis. It’ll be a good place to work—no distractions; then I’ll see if someone wants to buy Findnar. There must be someone out there who’d like an island paradise, even if it’s not the Bahamas—all the tranquillity and serenity you just don’t get in Mosman. Better go. Love you.”
    Freya cut the call. Glib. Elizabeth would know there was a subtext. And Freya hadn’t mentioned the letter; maybe the isolation was good in more ways than one right now . . .
    She looked down over Findnar. The island was shaped roughly like a teardrop with a dent on one side—that was the landing beach. As far as she could tell, the rest of the coast was cliffs, sheer cliffs and even more, bigger sheer cliffs. Wind nudged at her jacket, and she looked at the phone in her hand. There was another difficult call she had to make—but it was necessary.
    She’d put the number into her phone, so after thumbing the keypad she pondered her new domain as the phone connected. And rang. And kept on ringing. “Please be there . . .” Six rings, seven, eight, nine, but who was counting ?
    “Workshop.” Abrupt. Male. But not the person she wanted. “Workshop, hello?” The man’s voice had an edge, the first time Freya had heard broad Scots sound anything but cozy.
    “Oh,