“I believe Susannah is ready.”
Obediently I rose and made my way out to the courtyard.
Susannah kicked impatiently at a dandelion growing between the flagstones. When she saw me she muttered, “It’s this way,” and marched unerringly toward the wild purple landscape edging the cultivated lawn beyond the ha-ha.
With a flounce Susannah plunged on over a hillock of furze. I struggled behind her, snatching the hem of my gown away from the reaching claws of mugwort and razor grass demanding my attention. I prayed that I would not twist my good ankle over the broken rocks that littered the hillside.
Shuddering quietly, I ignored the voices wafting about me. Wind tinged with fog and the scent of peat scraped back my hair, and as I reached the crescent of the impending hill, panting, Susannah finally looked over her shoulder at me. She barely leashed her impatience.
“The Quoit,” she said, nodding toward a pointed spire of speckled granite tilting away from the sea wind that blasted it.
It exhilarated me despite my best intention. Memory swirled around the rocky turret: a cataclysm, a screaming aftermath, and this appeasement, thrust among the decay of graves.
The remnants have forgotten .
This land did not stoically acquiesce to the ebb and flow of time as it did in the North, I thought. I bent to examine a tuft of moss growing inside the seam of a cracked boulder. Gently I pushed the spongy mass aside. Delicate blue blossoms met my eye, slim stems twisting inside their cramped shelter.
“Susannah, can you tell me the Cornish name for this flower?” I called over my shoulder.
The wind wailed quietly. I straightened up and looked about. Susannah was gone.
I stilled a bead of alarm as I called out again. This time I thought I heard a laugh as the Quoit watched impassively.
Annoyed and a little hurt at being the object of fun, I followed the sound of her laughter, certain she would be waiting just over the next hillock, then the next, her small mouth stretched in smug amusement.
Trickles of rusty water scored the furze as I stumbled onward. Once I misplaced my foot from the path, plunging it into a stinking bog. I grew tired and more frightened as the minutes passed. This Cornish land was nothing like that of the North, I realized. In the North, the land bore its insults patiently knowing that the snow and cold would avenge the injustices dealt it; here the land crouched, waiting for an opportunity.
On I lurched, my bad foot aching and my head splitting, body beginning to weary as my hem grew heavy with mud. I reflected that Susannah had a lot to answer for, but thought that even she, with her patent dislike, would not leave me in a truly dangerous place.
A winking light floated some little distance before me, hovering in the gray mizzle suffocating the sunlight. Then I saw two. Thinking it could belong to a shepherd or perhaps a tinker, I stumbled after it. Peaty mud sucked about my ankles as if holding me back from sure disaster, but for once I did not listen. I wanted to get to the homely safety of the twinkling light.
They led me to a tumbled pile of rock. Without a thought I scrambled up its steep side, fingers snagging the razor grass for purchase, until I reached the crest.
A sob gurgled in my throat. The winking pinpoints were still just out of reach in the gathering darkness, beckoning.
Without volition I leaned forward. My senses opened to the lights offering blessed relief from the stabbing ache in my leg. They were stars, plump and sweet like ripe plums, ready to burst in my mouth with their honeyed antidote. I reached for their frozen fire, letting the wind fill me. The tips of my toes grazed the rock--
“Hold up there!”
An arm came about my waist, snatching me back.
The darkness broke apart. I stood at the edge of a cliff, blinking in the sudden flood of a noontide sun, and turned to look into Roger Penwyth’s disbelieving eyes.
CHAPTER SIX
“What are you about, Miss Persia
Obediently I rose and made my way out to the courtyard.
Susannah kicked impatiently at a dandelion growing between the flagstones. When she saw me she muttered, “It’s this way,” and marched unerringly toward the wild purple landscape edging the cultivated lawn beyond the ha-ha.
With a flounce Susannah plunged on over a hillock of furze. I struggled behind her, snatching the hem of my gown away from the reaching claws of mugwort and razor grass demanding my attention. I prayed that I would not twist my good ankle over the broken rocks that littered the hillside.
Shuddering quietly, I ignored the voices wafting about me. Wind tinged with fog and the scent of peat scraped back my hair, and as I reached the crescent of the impending hill, panting, Susannah finally looked over her shoulder at me. She barely leashed her impatience.
“The Quoit,” she said, nodding toward a pointed spire of speckled granite tilting away from the sea wind that blasted it.
It exhilarated me despite my best intention. Memory swirled around the rocky turret: a cataclysm, a screaming aftermath, and this appeasement, thrust among the decay of graves.
The remnants have forgotten .
This land did not stoically acquiesce to the ebb and flow of time as it did in the North, I thought. I bent to examine a tuft of moss growing inside the seam of a cracked boulder. Gently I pushed the spongy mass aside. Delicate blue blossoms met my eye, slim stems twisting inside their cramped shelter.
“Susannah, can you tell me the Cornish name for this flower?” I called over my shoulder.
The wind wailed quietly. I straightened up and looked about. Susannah was gone.
I stilled a bead of alarm as I called out again. This time I thought I heard a laugh as the Quoit watched impassively.
Annoyed and a little hurt at being the object of fun, I followed the sound of her laughter, certain she would be waiting just over the next hillock, then the next, her small mouth stretched in smug amusement.
Trickles of rusty water scored the furze as I stumbled onward. Once I misplaced my foot from the path, plunging it into a stinking bog. I grew tired and more frightened as the minutes passed. This Cornish land was nothing like that of the North, I realized. In the North, the land bore its insults patiently knowing that the snow and cold would avenge the injustices dealt it; here the land crouched, waiting for an opportunity.
On I lurched, my bad foot aching and my head splitting, body beginning to weary as my hem grew heavy with mud. I reflected that Susannah had a lot to answer for, but thought that even she, with her patent dislike, would not leave me in a truly dangerous place.
A winking light floated some little distance before me, hovering in the gray mizzle suffocating the sunlight. Then I saw two. Thinking it could belong to a shepherd or perhaps a tinker, I stumbled after it. Peaty mud sucked about my ankles as if holding me back from sure disaster, but for once I did not listen. I wanted to get to the homely safety of the twinkling light.
They led me to a tumbled pile of rock. Without a thought I scrambled up its steep side, fingers snagging the razor grass for purchase, until I reached the crest.
A sob gurgled in my throat. The winking pinpoints were still just out of reach in the gathering darkness, beckoning.
Without volition I leaned forward. My senses opened to the lights offering blessed relief from the stabbing ache in my leg. They were stars, plump and sweet like ripe plums, ready to burst in my mouth with their honeyed antidote. I reached for their frozen fire, letting the wind fill me. The tips of my toes grazed the rock--
“Hold up there!”
An arm came about my waist, snatching me back.
The darkness broke apart. I stood at the edge of a cliff, blinking in the sudden flood of a noontide sun, and turned to look into Roger Penwyth’s disbelieving eyes.
CHAPTER SIX
“What are you about, Miss Persia
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