Free Queen of Flowers by Kerry Greenwood Page A

Pages 16/3/04 4:38 PM Page 59
    KERRY GREENWOOD
    ‘My mother thought Grandma Murray was a witch,’ said James, amused. ‘But she’ll take good care of him. Back to the pub, eh? I’ll play you to sleep.’
    Phryne, with a mug of hot milk and whisky inside and a large down comforter outside, fell asleep to the sound of a violin playing a lullaby outside her window.
    And then to the dance, where joy was relatively unconfined and the wild notes of the fiddle stung the feet into action. Ian Hamilton, as promised, danced with several Orkney girls.
    Phryne watched the fiddler. He was compelling. And when he wanted to, he could make stones dance.
    With regret, Phryne left Orkney three days later. James had shown her some marvels. The Ring of Brogar by dawn light.
    The perfect chambered tomb of Maes Howe with its Viking graffiti: ‘Ingeborg is the fairest of women. A great treasure lies in the south west: happy the man who finds it.’ He had fed her Orkney lamb, which was pre-salé like the French delicacy because the sheep ate seaweed. He had shown her how to make oatcakes and he had lain down with her in a shed full of new-mown hay: a satisfying lover with enthusiasm and dash. James Murray. Where was James Murray now? She remembered the last conversation she had had with him, sitting on a hill watching the sea.
    ‘Will you ever leave Orkney?’ she asked.
    ‘Oh, I have left Orkney many times. I was a sailor before father opened his school. I have been to many places. But I get homesick for the dark, for the cold and the smell of peat smoke.’
    ‘I can understand that. There is no place like this anywhere in the world.’
    ‘That is true,’ he said comfortably. ‘And I will see you again, my hinny, my blossom. I am sure that I will see you again. And I’ll come down to the dock and play you away in the morning.’
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    Queen of Flowers - Pages 16/3/04 4:38 PM Page 60
    QUEEN OF THE FLOWERS
    And as the Cal-Mac ferry took Phryne away from Orkney, she heard the wild fiddle above the engines. Not a lullaby, this time. ‘Aye the cuckoo, oh the cuckoo, aye the cuckoo’s nest
    . . . I’ll give anyone a penny, and a bottle of the best, if they’ll ruffle up the feathers in my cuckoo’s nest!’ Extraordinary how all those respectable scholars, Sabine Baring Gould amongst them, hadn’t identified the cuckoo’s nest as the female genitalia when they censored all the lock and key references out of their songs. So many people trying so hard to keep us from enjoying ourselves, thought Phryne as she approached her own front door.
    Someone was coming out of the side gate. Phryne halted.
    The person was moving like a shadow. He was too far away to grab and the early dawn light cast the face into shadow.
    Probably a man. He was in the street now. Phryne yelled ‘Hi!’
    and leapt and grabbed, but he was too far away and too fast.
    She landed ignominiously on her knees with only a handful of shirt to show for her effort, and the footsteps raced away like a very fast drum.
    ‘Damn,’ swore Phryne. She stuffed the cloth into her pocket and slid down the sideway. No windows open, no sign of damage. It was too early to rouse the house if nothing was wrong. She slid a little, picked up what she had stepped on, and returned to the street.
    It was a small bunch of pink roses, tied up with a silver ribbon. Was some swain courting Ruth or Jane? She would have to get to the bottom of this. Suddenly Phryne longed for the days when she didn’t have a household or things to sort out.
    But it was her duty, as old Mrs Murray had said.
    She went inside and crept up the stairs without waking anyone. Fairly soon Mrs Butler would rise and put the kettle on and Phryne would be supplied with breakfast in due course.
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    Queen of Flowers - Pages 16/3/04 4:38 PM Page 61
    KERRY GREENWOOD
    For the moment, however, she shed the boy’s clothes, attended to her injuries, wrapped herself in a dressing gown and made coffee on her spirit stove. She opened