Free The Summer King by O.R. Melling Page B

pale scar. “I didn’t know what was going on. There was kind of a flurry, I grabbed at it and then …”
    His voice trailed off. He seemed genuinely unsure of what happened.
    Great, a psycho in the house. She made a mental note to put a chair against the door of her bedroom.
    “I wouldn’t kill anything deliberately,” he insisted. “And I have a thing for birds. I would never hurt them.”
    It sounded true. She was reminded of Fionn on the bus, and asked without thinking, “Can you read the patterns in their flight?”
    He gave her a funny look and snorted derisively.
    “I’d never’ve pegged you for the hippie-dippy type.”
    “People change.”
    Her tone was sharp, but she was more annoyed at herself. By giving him a hint of her secret world, she had allowed him to mock it. She wouldn’t make the same mistake again. Tread softly because you tread on my dreams. Wasn’t that what Honor once said when Laurel made fun of her beliefs?
    Another silence fell between them, but this one was volatile. All that was needed was a spark to set them off.
    Ian stood up.
    “It’s bloody cold in here. I’ll get the stove going.”
    She welcomed the distraction and offered to help.
    “Roll up some newspaper,” he said, “and bung it in with the firelighters.”
    He located the tongs for lifting the iron plates that lined the top of the stove. As he set the fire, he showed her what to do.
    “Put small bits in at first, then when the flames get going, shovel in a load and keep feeding it. There’s more turf and coal in the shed outside. If you’re leaving the house for a while or going to bed, cover the fire with slack. That’s the bucket of crushed coal, there. It forms a kind of cave over the flames and keeps them on a slow burn. If the fire stays lit, you’ll always have hot water in the radiators, and for the sinks and bath. But there’s an electric shower, too, so no panic.”
    Her grandfather had given her the same instructions, but she was glad to see them in action.
    By the time the radiators were singing with heat and the cottage was cozy, they were both feeling friendlier toward each other.
    “Cup of tea?” Ian suggested.
    Laurel shook her head. She was collapsing with exhaustion.
    “I’m going to bed. It’s been a long day.”
    It was only when she said good night that he asked the question she had hoped to avoid.
    “Why are you here on your own?”
    It was her turn to lower her eyes and struggle for explanations.
    “I … it’s … private,” she mumbled, before hurrying to her room.
    He would hear nothing from her about fairies and lost kings.
    The bedroom was small and had an iron bed covered with a patchwork quilt. There was a dressing table with a round mirror and a washstand with porcelain jug and bowl. Pots of dried lavender tinted the air. The bookcase was stacked with children’s books. The Chronicles of Narnia. Martin Pippin in the Apple Orchard. The Midnight Folk. The Enchanted Castle. The Turf-Cutter’s Donkey. The Blue Fairy Book . The musty hardbacks had notes scrawled inside their jackets. With a mild shock, she discovered her father’s name. Of course. These would have been his as a child.
    A wave of pain struck her as she thought of her dad and then her mom. She had shut them out the past year, living like a ghost in their home. It must have broken their hearts all over again, as if they had lost not one but two daughters.
    Mustn’t think about that, Laurel told herself. Don’t look back, only forward. Act as if you believe and all will be well.
    She dragged herself into bed. The mattress felt cold and damp. She cocooned herself in the quilt, glad of the flannel pajamas her grandmother had packed. The wind whistled in the eaves above her. Rain spattered the window panes. The susurrus of the sea sounded outside.
    Closing her eyes, she tried to will herself to sleep. So far, so good. Whatever surprises the day had brought—Granny, the raven-man, the hippie bus, and Ian—she