The Island House by Posie Graeme-evans Page B

yes, hello, this is Freya Dane. I’m wondering if Mr. Walter Boyne is there please?” Silence for a moment.
    “Hello?” She could hear the anxiety in her voice. She sounded neurotic.
    “He’s not in. Try later.”
    “Could I leave a message?” She wasn’t quick enough. Freya looked at the phone in her hand. He’d hung up. She was annoyed now. Her friends in Sydney described a certain duck-and-cover look when Freya was pissed off. She wasn’t laughing.
    Freya hit Recents. This time the phone was answered a little faster.
    “Workshop.” Terse, definitely.
    Keep it light, Freya. This is not your country.
    “Hello there, Freya Dane again. I’m wondering if I can just—”
    “I’ve said he’s not here.” The man sounded hostile.
    Great. Just great. Freya locked her jaw; he’d hear her teeth grinding if she wasn’t careful.
    “Oh, please, I’m really, really sorry to bother you, but Mr. Boyne asked me to let him know when I’ll next be in Portsolly. Turns out I’m coming over today from Findnar—you know, the island? I’d love to buy him a coffee if he’s got a minute. And he told me there’s a boat over here, but I don’t know where it’s moored.” That was true—she’d not noticed any other vessel anchored in the cove last night.
    The stress was genuine suddenly; this was a child’s voice, squeaky and close to tears.
    Workshop Man said nothing.
    “Hello? Are you there?” Freya hated this. Her voice was shaking.
    “Yes. I’m here. Go down the path, Freya Dane. There’s a sea cave at the far end of the cove. Look there.” The phone clicked, and the dial tone kicked in.
    Freya felt like screaming, so she did. “Charming. Just. Bloody. CHARMING!”
    A cloud of gannets wheeled up from the cliff protesting loudly—a mist of honking black and white. Freya felt absurdly guilty; perhaps there’d be chicks in the nests still—how irresponsible was she? “Sorry! Going now.” A stage whisper.
    For a moment, she paused. The fog was rising fast from the strait. Soon Compline would be shrouded in white; she’d better get going or she might get lost. Lost? Findnar’s not big enough. I might fall over the cliff edge, though. Freya pulled her jacket tight; her wet-weather gear was all very well, but she wasn’t wearing thermals. Maybe in Portsolly she could buy a hat of the keep-your-head-and-ears-warm variety—and gloves? Might be a good idea if she really was going to stay, even for a while.
    Pushing her phone into a back pocket, Freya made careful progress down the track toward the house. The rain last night had left the mud slick as ice, but she could just see a line of smoke rising from the kitchen chimney; that was a pleasing sight, the first successful thing she’d done on Findnar—lighting that ancient stove.
    Mist and smoke, quite similar in their way.
    Freya sniffed and wiped her nose, dreaming of warmth. Maybe the water would be hot enough for a shower now, or a bath. Come to think of it, had there actually been a showerhead in the bathroom?
    She zipped her jacket and pulled up the hood, half-contemplating the ruined walls of the Abbey near the house. Fog was starting to obscure the meadow, but from this height she could see the space the structures had once occupied. Ridges ran away beneath the grass, and mounds of rubbled masonry showed thebuildings had once been extensive—surprisingly large for such a remote place.
    Freya trudged on, sneezing. A louder sneeze; she stopped and wiped her nose. Below, in the mist, something moved.
    Freya squinted. What was that? The air had thickened considerably.
    Walter? Had he come back to find out if she was okay? She picked up her pace as the track flattened out, hurrying toward the blur of half-broken walls. Whatever she’d seen, it had been about midway between . . .
    Close to the ruins, Freya paused. This was the place, wasn’t it?
    She turned in a circle. “Walter, hello?” There was no answering voice, but mist muffles sound. “Of