Free Cold Fusion by Harper Fox Page B

of furniture—a desk, in this case—and laid the paper on the back of my right shoulder while he added to the note. “There. It isn’t far—only eight-tenths of a mile.”
    “Eight-tenths of a mile?” I was surprised he hadn’t refined it further, but maybe he was making allowances for me. “All right. I won’t read your private mail, but what magic happens if I put this under the white stone? Do the fairies fly our order down to the Kerra shop?”
    “You shouldn’t call them by their name. I understand it’s best to say the good folk.”
    I spun round to see if he was serious. But who could tell? His expression was neutral, the angle of his high cheekbones enigmatic in the fading afternoon light. If he was the elfin king around these parts, that would actually explain a lot. Then he shrugged and looked ordinary again. “My father had a steward, an old man called Alfred who helped him look after the castle and the grounds. He drives past the end of the lane twice a day. If he sees that note under the stone, he’ll do some shopping for me and bring it back within the hour.”
    I couldn’t resist. I bit my lower lip, but the bubble of amusement kept on rising. “Hang on. You have a faithful old family retainer—a butler , you might say—called Alfred?”
    “Yes. What about it?”
    I shook my head. I put the note into my pocket and headed for the door. I paused on the step, enjoying without thinking about it the clean, bouncing sweep of the wind. “Never mind. You just carry on with your wiring, Bruce. And once you’ve got it all fixed up, you and I need to sit down and watch some serious TV.”
    I set off down the track. To retrace my steps like this was weird, although only the most basic things had changed. I was clean and warmly dressed, the dragging burden of my rucksack taken from me. My empty stomach only made me more keenly aware of the frozen-sea wave-scape of the dunes, the shift in the air towards winter. I could have tackled the first sharp rise of the track as I had done as a child, grabbing at the marram to haul myself up, leaping from clump to clump of turf. The thrifts were dry and dead but still gave off hot summer scents underfoot, and the yarrows with their endless flowering season were everywhere. I crushed one leaf between my fingers to release the spicy oils, felt a surge of energy and broke into a run.
    Alice Maguire would have liked to have been here too, no doubt, smelling the yarrows and running the crests of the dunes. I hadn’t known Oskar well enough to be sure how he spent his off-duty, but he probably would have enjoyed the air and the views out towards that deceiving Greek-blue sea. Just breathing and seeing, both of them… I couldn’t begin to fathom the differences between the way they were when I’d stood on the Sea Hawk ’s deck and talked to them last, and the way they were now. My mind wouldn’t compass it. But the change was my fault. Somehow over the last few hours I’d managed to forget that. The strength ran out of my limbs, and I dropped back to a walk.
    Vivian’s eight-tenths of a mile felt long. I’d never have made it all the way down to the village. Coming to a halt at the place where the track met a rutted farm road winding down from the hills, I picked out the white marker stone. I took out the sheet from my pocket. I wouldn’t have read his private mail, but his handwriting was large and clear and caught my eye. I have a guest. Please bring nice things.
    I was setting the rock back into place when a distant roar made me look up. A Range Rover was bouncing down the hillside. It was battered and elderly, but a gold-painted family crest shone on its panels. I couldn’t see a driver, and I rubbed my eyes as it apparently made its way down the last few yards of the road all by itself. Then I got a glimpse of cropped white hair, and the door swung wide to reveal a short, sparely built old man in magnificent tweeds. He got out of the vehicle and stood