wasn’t the kind of news—no petty personal resentment—that would make me jump and stride anyway. This took the legs out from under me.
“Vivian,” I said urgently. “I know you don’t want to talk about your dad and his property, and fair enough. But you have to contact whoever he did leave the land to and tell them they can’t do this. That you’re gonna contest the will, start a huge lawsuit, whatever it takes to make a fuss and delay things.” I rubbed my hair up the wrong way in frustration. “I can’t believe it’s gone this far. How did they get planning permission? Isn’t this place part of a wildlife reserve, or a site of scientific interest, or—?”
“No. It’s a wasteland. It was safe during my father’s lifetime, although he received many offers for it from NorthEx and their competitors. I don’t know who he made his heir.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? You were his only son!”
“I asked him not to tell me, and he agreed.”
Great. Two nutcase English aristocrats, living alone in their Victorian fantasy until each was as mad as the other. I sank my face into my hands. “For Christ’s sake.”
Something brushed my shoulder. A fleeting warmth reached my skin, flashing through three layers of clothes, deep and sweet and…
Wholly imaginary, as it turned out. I jerked up my head, and Vivian’s hands were clasped loosely in his lap. “Don’t concern yourself about it, Mallory,” he said. “None of this matters.”
I snapped. “It might not matter to you, you ivory-tower freak. But to people who haven’t grown up in a fucking castle with five billion acres of land to play with…”
He turned to me. Face-to-face, those three inches felt like no distance at all. I lost my point and sat in silence, barely breathing. I felt as if I’d been poking a mountain lion with a stick through the bars of a cage at the zoo, and someone had opened the cage. A gaze as blank and pitiless as the sun… Those were Yeats’s words, not mine, although I’d have killed to have written them. Yeats’s apocalyptic beast, staring at me muzzle to nose on a far-flung Scottish beach. I shouldn’t have called him a freak. I held my ground, though my mouth had gone dry and my heart was beating fast. “How the hell can you say this doesn’t matter ?”
“Because of my work here.”
“What?”
“Soon none of it will matter. Not drilling, not fracking, not nuclear waste. Soon all of that will be gone.”
“Oh, my God. What do you think you’ve invented up there—cold fusion?”
His expression altered. That should have been a relief, but now I had the sensation of being under his microscope, flattened between slides for analysis. What was he looking for? I didn’t have anything he could possibly want.
“No,” he said after a moment. “I haven’t invented it. I’ve made it work.”
I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t want to do it in his face, so I lurched upright and backed off. Everything was catching up with me—my journey, the reception I’d met with at home, the quart of scotch I’d knocked back on an empty gut the night before.
“Cold fusion ?” I knew all about cold fusion. Peace Warrior taught it like gospel in their lectures and online courses. The holy grail of environmentalists across the globe, a something-for-nothing energy source which lasted forever and produced no waste. But that was all it was—a quest, a dream of a golden age. “Cold fusion’s a myth. Discredited back in the eighties. There isn’t a serious scientist left on the planet who still believes in it now.”
“Nevertheless.”
I put a hand to my mouth and breathed deeply through my fingers until I calmed down. “Are you telling me all those cables up there—your kettle, and that poor wee toaster you detonated this morning…”
“All part of my experiments, yes. In fact the cold fusion part of it’s not the problem. I’m struggling to connect things. That’s
“Vivian,” I said urgently. “I know you don’t want to talk about your dad and his property, and fair enough. But you have to contact whoever he did leave the land to and tell them they can’t do this. That you’re gonna contest the will, start a huge lawsuit, whatever it takes to make a fuss and delay things.” I rubbed my hair up the wrong way in frustration. “I can’t believe it’s gone this far. How did they get planning permission? Isn’t this place part of a wildlife reserve, or a site of scientific interest, or—?”
“No. It’s a wasteland. It was safe during my father’s lifetime, although he received many offers for it from NorthEx and their competitors. I don’t know who he made his heir.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? You were his only son!”
“I asked him not to tell me, and he agreed.”
Great. Two nutcase English aristocrats, living alone in their Victorian fantasy until each was as mad as the other. I sank my face into my hands. “For Christ’s sake.”
Something brushed my shoulder. A fleeting warmth reached my skin, flashing through three layers of clothes, deep and sweet and…
Wholly imaginary, as it turned out. I jerked up my head, and Vivian’s hands were clasped loosely in his lap. “Don’t concern yourself about it, Mallory,” he said. “None of this matters.”
I snapped. “It might not matter to you, you ivory-tower freak. But to people who haven’t grown up in a fucking castle with five billion acres of land to play with…”
He turned to me. Face-to-face, those three inches felt like no distance at all. I lost my point and sat in silence, barely breathing. I felt as if I’d been poking a mountain lion with a stick through the bars of a cage at the zoo, and someone had opened the cage. A gaze as blank and pitiless as the sun… Those were Yeats’s words, not mine, although I’d have killed to have written them. Yeats’s apocalyptic beast, staring at me muzzle to nose on a far-flung Scottish beach. I shouldn’t have called him a freak. I held my ground, though my mouth had gone dry and my heart was beating fast. “How the hell can you say this doesn’t matter ?”
“Because of my work here.”
“What?”
“Soon none of it will matter. Not drilling, not fracking, not nuclear waste. Soon all of that will be gone.”
“Oh, my God. What do you think you’ve invented up there—cold fusion?”
His expression altered. That should have been a relief, but now I had the sensation of being under his microscope, flattened between slides for analysis. What was he looking for? I didn’t have anything he could possibly want.
“No,” he said after a moment. “I haven’t invented it. I’ve made it work.”
I burst out laughing. I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t want to do it in his face, so I lurched upright and backed off. Everything was catching up with me—my journey, the reception I’d met with at home, the quart of scotch I’d knocked back on an empty gut the night before.
“Cold fusion ?” I knew all about cold fusion. Peace Warrior taught it like gospel in their lectures and online courses. The holy grail of environmentalists across the globe, a something-for-nothing energy source which lasted forever and produced no waste. But that was all it was—a quest, a dream of a golden age. “Cold fusion’s a myth. Discredited back in the eighties. There isn’t a serious scientist left on the planet who still believes in it now.”
“Nevertheless.”
I put a hand to my mouth and breathed deeply through my fingers until I calmed down. “Are you telling me all those cables up there—your kettle, and that poor wee toaster you detonated this morning…”
“All part of my experiments, yes. In fact the cold fusion part of it’s not the problem. I’m struggling to connect things. That’s
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