was certain. This Alex Woding had once nearly lost his life because of her. It would be wise of him to remember that.
Alex drew an arrow on his chart through Cassiopeia, noting the time along its length. It was the fifteenth arrow on his chart so far tonight, marking the path of a shooting star. If he were one to believe in omens, he thought it would have been a good one that his first night observing in his new home should be one so rich in data.
He sketched in another arrow, this time through the heart of Pegasus. Time: 3:20 a.m.
It was strange that it should yet be so early. Most nights with such a frequency of falling stars, the dawn would come before he was ready, the time having flown by with the swiftness of the wind. Tonight he was not concentrating as he usually did, and despite the falling stars could not lose himself in his observations. Ever since Underhill’s abrupt arrival just before midnight, he had been distracted by the sense that he was not alone: that, in fact, someone even now watched him as he made his notes.
He had to restrain himself from checking over his shoulder. This was all probably his own imagination, fired by Underhill’s tales. Ghosts did not exist. Serena did not exist. He was aware that those were the same thoughts that had gone through his head as a boy, the night he’d fallen.
At any rate, even if Serena did exist, he would not give her the satisfaction of being noticed. Like a mischievous child, if he ignored her long enough she would likely go away. His musings on his possible childhood encounter with her were pleasant only because the incident was distant and unreal, and therefore suited to idle musing.
He returned his gaze to the heavens, and twenty minutes later marked the path of another falling star.
It would be just his luck to have deliberately surrounded himself with the undemanding, relaxed company of men, and then to find himself haunted by a woman.
Chapter Six
Serena sat on the path in the sun, amid the flowers of the garden, Beezely stretched out nearby, asleep. The leaves of her cherry tree rustled in a breeze, and she could almost feel the warmth of the sun on its fresh green leaves. The blossoms came and fell later and later each year, the tree warping and cracking with age. She didn’t know what the normal life span of a cherry tree was, but it seemed reasonable to assume that five hundred years was past its limit. She tried to chase the thought from her mind.
The clank of the garden gate latch drew her attention, and she heaved a great sigh of annoyance as an old man and a boy of about thirteen came through, the boy pushing a wheelbarrow from which a hoe and shovel stuck out.
Serena stood, stepping out of their way, but Beezely slept on.
The old man suddenly stopped, looking down at the cat. “Why, hello there,” he said, “I almost didn’t see you.” The man squatted down, reaching out to scratch Beezely, who opened a green eye to stare at the man as his hand approached.
“Grandpa, who are you talking to?” the boy asked.
“This old—” the man began, then stopped as Beezely slowly faded away before his eyes. “Cat.”
The boy leaned to one side, trying to see around his grandfather. “What old cat?”
The man stood, chewing at his upper lip for a moment. “A marmalade, rough old tom by the look of him. He’s gone now. Must have spooked him.”
“I didn’t see any cat.”
“No,” the old man said. “You wouldn’t have.”
Serena left the garden, not wanting to be around in any form while the males worked, and willing enough to leave them unmolested. She appreciated the flowers too much to disturb those who tended them.
She didn’t know why the old man had been able to see Beezely. Was it something to do with him, with the weather, with the alignment of the stars? The cat had been seen often over the years, apparently without any intention on Beezely’s part, although she could not be sure of that. Who knew what went on in the
Alex drew an arrow on his chart through Cassiopeia, noting the time along its length. It was the fifteenth arrow on his chart so far tonight, marking the path of a shooting star. If he were one to believe in omens, he thought it would have been a good one that his first night observing in his new home should be one so rich in data.
He sketched in another arrow, this time through the heart of Pegasus. Time: 3:20 a.m.
It was strange that it should yet be so early. Most nights with such a frequency of falling stars, the dawn would come before he was ready, the time having flown by with the swiftness of the wind. Tonight he was not concentrating as he usually did, and despite the falling stars could not lose himself in his observations. Ever since Underhill’s abrupt arrival just before midnight, he had been distracted by the sense that he was not alone: that, in fact, someone even now watched him as he made his notes.
He had to restrain himself from checking over his shoulder. This was all probably his own imagination, fired by Underhill’s tales. Ghosts did not exist. Serena did not exist. He was aware that those were the same thoughts that had gone through his head as a boy, the night he’d fallen.
At any rate, even if Serena did exist, he would not give her the satisfaction of being noticed. Like a mischievous child, if he ignored her long enough she would likely go away. His musings on his possible childhood encounter with her were pleasant only because the incident was distant and unreal, and therefore suited to idle musing.
He returned his gaze to the heavens, and twenty minutes later marked the path of another falling star.
It would be just his luck to have deliberately surrounded himself with the undemanding, relaxed company of men, and then to find himself haunted by a woman.
Chapter Six
Serena sat on the path in the sun, amid the flowers of the garden, Beezely stretched out nearby, asleep. The leaves of her cherry tree rustled in a breeze, and she could almost feel the warmth of the sun on its fresh green leaves. The blossoms came and fell later and later each year, the tree warping and cracking with age. She didn’t know what the normal life span of a cherry tree was, but it seemed reasonable to assume that five hundred years was past its limit. She tried to chase the thought from her mind.
The clank of the garden gate latch drew her attention, and she heaved a great sigh of annoyance as an old man and a boy of about thirteen came through, the boy pushing a wheelbarrow from which a hoe and shovel stuck out.
Serena stood, stepping out of their way, but Beezely slept on.
The old man suddenly stopped, looking down at the cat. “Why, hello there,” he said, “I almost didn’t see you.” The man squatted down, reaching out to scratch Beezely, who opened a green eye to stare at the man as his hand approached.
“Grandpa, who are you talking to?” the boy asked.
“This old—” the man began, then stopped as Beezely slowly faded away before his eyes. “Cat.”
The boy leaned to one side, trying to see around his grandfather. “What old cat?”
The man stood, chewing at his upper lip for a moment. “A marmalade, rough old tom by the look of him. He’s gone now. Must have spooked him.”
“I didn’t see any cat.”
“No,” the old man said. “You wouldn’t have.”
Serena left the garden, not wanting to be around in any form while the males worked, and willing enough to leave them unmolested. She appreciated the flowers too much to disturb those who tended them.
She didn’t know why the old man had been able to see Beezely. Was it something to do with him, with the weather, with the alignment of the stars? The cat had been seen often over the years, apparently without any intention on Beezely’s part, although she could not be sure of that. Who knew what went on in the
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