Free The Prodigal Son by Anna Belfrage

Doom much earlier.”
    Alex rolled her eyes; what had possessed her to try and tell them the rambling, convoluted story of The Lord of the Rings ? Apart from the long and rather heated discussions as to whether the elves were like Scottish fairies (not, they decided), if hobbits had perhaps at one time lived on Skye (yes) and did Alex really expect them to believe Aragorn was over ninety years old (It’s a fairy tale!), Alex was now tagged by Ian and Mark who wanted to know more, pestering her with detailed questions before breaking off to argue among themselves as to if it was Aragorn or Frodo who was the real hero.
    At least it had proved the battering ram Alex had needed to get through to Ian, and so she replied patiently to his questions, all the while sneaking him quick looks. The pale boy of a month ago had bloomed into an active youngster and when the letter arrived requesting he be allowed to stay on further on account of Luke still doing poorly, he hadn’t seemed too depressed.
    “Stop!” she said. “There. Fill your basket, but make sure they’re undamaged.” She pointed at the rosehips in the huge briar bramble beside him.
    Ian eyed the thorns and sighed. “The whole basket?”
    “To the brim,” Alex said, going round to do her picking on the opposite side.
    “Aunt?”
    “Hmm?” Alex jerked back from her agreeable daydream of a huge salad, complete with tomatoes and feta cheese.
    “What happened to my grandfather?”
    Alex was glad he couldn’t see her, but bent down, just in case, to hide her face.
    “Your grandfather?”
    “Aye, Malcolm Graham.”
    “Why do you ask?”
    Ian fell silent and as moments became minutes Alex thought that perhaps he’d retreated into one of his customary silences.
    “Samuel told me he drowned,” Ian finally said.
    “You should really be asking Matthew this, it’s not as if I was here then.”
    “I don’t want to. Mayhap it would make him sad.”
    Alex smiled at the way he said it. Matthew Graham was working his magic on this young heart.
    “It probably would.” She peeked at him through the brambles. “You’re not picking! Get on with you, we’re not going home until your basket is full!”
    Ian grumbled but went back to tearing off the bright red fruit.
    “Yes, he drowned; in December of 1653. No one really knows what happened, but he was pulled in under the water wheel and… well, he died.”
    “Was he murdered?” Ian asked breathlessly.
    Yeah; in all probability by your beloved father, Alex thought.
    “Well it was all a bit strange. He received a message from the miller to come up because there was a problem, but the miller says he didn’t send any such message. And your grandfather didn’t know how to swim and was scared of water, so why would he have gotten close to the pond in the first place?” Alex wrinkled her brow in concentration. “There was something about a ring…”
    “A ring?” His eager voice made her smile.
    “Not one of those rings; I told you, the rings of power are just a fairy tale. No, this was a ring that he always carried but that wasn’t found on his person when they pulled him out.”
    “Mayhap it slipped off his finger in the millrace,” Ian suggested with valid logic.
    “Except that he carried it on a chain around his neck, tucked away under his shirt, and according to Matthew his clothes were mostly undamaged – it was more a matter of…” She broke off. He’d been crushed, poor man, the outside looking seemingly intact while most of his bones had been pulverised. “Anyway, it was his mother’s ring, three strands of gold braided together and decorated with one single blood-red stone the size of a small sea water pearl.”
    “A braided ring with a blood-red stone?” Ian squeaked.
    “Yes.” Alex peered at him through the brambles. He’d gone very pale, long arms hugging his knees tight. “What’s the matter?”
    “Nothing.” He gave her a bright smile.
    Alex shrugged. “Hips, young sir. And then