the shelf for months.
‘Not Mrs Protheroe,’ he thought, ‘definitely not her style!’ The book fell open at East Coker.
‘In my beginning is my end,’
Mark read. One of Tristan’s favourites. He looked up, a whiff of rose oil caught his nose, another of Tristan’s favourites.
‘What is it, old man? What do you want?’
Again nothing answered him but he could sense a presence in the room, a frisson in the air.
‘If you want to tell me something you’ll have to do better than that,’ Mark told it. ‘I never was up to snuff like you with all the faer folk, the Ellyon, walking between worlds. You know I’m as thick as a brick when it comes to that stuff, always was. I know you could, but I don’t, not easily. It’s got to be more solid if you want me to understand.’
Embar put up a paw and pulled his hand back to scratching his ear. The moment was gone. It had been a long day, driving down from London that morning, shopping, getting the house as he wanted it, making dinner. He was tired, he dozed, responding to the rhythm of the cat’s purring.
It seemed he opened his eyes. The room had changed. It was like when Tristan was alive, the scent of him was in the room. Embar was alert, ears pricked, pointing. Mark could see nothing but he could sense the presence, he sat perfectly still, holding his breath.
There was a shadow sat on the piano stool. It turned towards the door just as the door opened. Another shadow came in. They seemed to talk, Mark could hear a rustling, like whispers, but could make out no words. It all faded. Then the French window was open, a scent of wet earth coming in. The shadow was besidethe window now, speaking again. Suddenly, there was a bright flash and it was all gone. Mark woke suddenly, shaking his head at the soundless noise which still made his ears ring. Embar was asleep now, as though nothing had happened. But Mark knew it had.
He got up gently and put the cat back in the chair. A car was pulling up outside.
Isoldé drove down from Exeter in continuous rain. It poured down in bucket-loads over the car, splashed up like tidal waves from the big lorries on the A30. She needed all her concentration to stay driving safely. The traffic thinned out a bit after Okehampton and once she crossed the Tamar she truly felt herself to be entering another land. It had none of the feel of the Irish Celt of home, nor of the Gaelic of the trips to Scotland. This was very different. A bright darkness seemed to hang in the very air. The little people here would be very different from those at home in Ireland.
It was a long, dreary haul to Launceston and she breathed a sigh of relief when she crossed Davidstow moor and found the by-road which took her twisting down the steep cliffs to Caer Bottreaux. The clouds lifted as she slid down the hill, giving her a glimpse of the sea. And the sunset.
She found the little road to Tintagel and took it, skimming along the narrow, wet lanes high above the sea. Then the road dived down to a hairpin bend. This must be it, she thought, pulling up and peering round. The gate into Caergollo was all but invisible when she finally saw it. Rain dripped off the trees and down her neck as she opened it. She slid the car through then got out again to close it behind her. As she did so there was a rustle in the bushes by the stream. A pair of large brown eyes topped by two long ears looked up at her, Isoldé stood transfixed. The hare sat for a moment, then flicked off into the undergrowth. Isoldé remembered to let out the breath she’d been holding, she’d neverseen a hare that close before. She got back into the car, let in the clutch and slid down the track to the house.
The car door opened and Mark watched the slight, fey figure climb out and fling a transparent, silk rain-cape over her head. It flew out like wings to either side as she fled across the wet gravel to the front porch. Instinctively, he put out his arms in greeting, she ran into them. In the
‘Not Mrs Protheroe,’ he thought, ‘definitely not her style!’ The book fell open at East Coker.
‘In my beginning is my end,’
Mark read. One of Tristan’s favourites. He looked up, a whiff of rose oil caught his nose, another of Tristan’s favourites.
‘What is it, old man? What do you want?’
Again nothing answered him but he could sense a presence in the room, a frisson in the air.
‘If you want to tell me something you’ll have to do better than that,’ Mark told it. ‘I never was up to snuff like you with all the faer folk, the Ellyon, walking between worlds. You know I’m as thick as a brick when it comes to that stuff, always was. I know you could, but I don’t, not easily. It’s got to be more solid if you want me to understand.’
Embar put up a paw and pulled his hand back to scratching his ear. The moment was gone. It had been a long day, driving down from London that morning, shopping, getting the house as he wanted it, making dinner. He was tired, he dozed, responding to the rhythm of the cat’s purring.
It seemed he opened his eyes. The room had changed. It was like when Tristan was alive, the scent of him was in the room. Embar was alert, ears pricked, pointing. Mark could see nothing but he could sense the presence, he sat perfectly still, holding his breath.
There was a shadow sat on the piano stool. It turned towards the door just as the door opened. Another shadow came in. They seemed to talk, Mark could hear a rustling, like whispers, but could make out no words. It all faded. Then the French window was open, a scent of wet earth coming in. The shadow was besidethe window now, speaking again. Suddenly, there was a bright flash and it was all gone. Mark woke suddenly, shaking his head at the soundless noise which still made his ears ring. Embar was asleep now, as though nothing had happened. But Mark knew it had.
He got up gently and put the cat back in the chair. A car was pulling up outside.
Isoldé drove down from Exeter in continuous rain. It poured down in bucket-loads over the car, splashed up like tidal waves from the big lorries on the A30. She needed all her concentration to stay driving safely. The traffic thinned out a bit after Okehampton and once she crossed the Tamar she truly felt herself to be entering another land. It had none of the feel of the Irish Celt of home, nor of the Gaelic of the trips to Scotland. This was very different. A bright darkness seemed to hang in the very air. The little people here would be very different from those at home in Ireland.
It was a long, dreary haul to Launceston and she breathed a sigh of relief when she crossed Davidstow moor and found the by-road which took her twisting down the steep cliffs to Caer Bottreaux. The clouds lifted as she slid down the hill, giving her a glimpse of the sea. And the sunset.
She found the little road to Tintagel and took it, skimming along the narrow, wet lanes high above the sea. Then the road dived down to a hairpin bend. This must be it, she thought, pulling up and peering round. The gate into Caergollo was all but invisible when she finally saw it. Rain dripped off the trees and down her neck as she opened it. She slid the car through then got out again to close it behind her. As she did so there was a rustle in the bushes by the stream. A pair of large brown eyes topped by two long ears looked up at her, Isoldé stood transfixed. The hare sat for a moment, then flicked off into the undergrowth. Isoldé remembered to let out the breath she’d been holding, she’d neverseen a hare that close before. She got back into the car, let in the clutch and slid down the track to the house.
The car door opened and Mark watched the slight, fey figure climb out and fling a transparent, silk rain-cape over her head. It flew out like wings to either side as she fled across the wet gravel to the front porch. Instinctively, he put out his arms in greeting, she ran into them. In the
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