mobility when he smiled at her. His scarecrow hair was faded to a brindled straw but his brows were still dark and strong, crooked above the bright eyes that shone with a light that was not quite laughter but something deeper and more solemn. She wondered about his name (a sobriquet? a nickname?) but was too polite to ask.
“And Lougarry.” Will indicated the dog. A shaggy animal without a collar who looked part Alsatian and all wolf. But Gaynor had grown up with dogs and was not particularly deterred. She extended her hand and the dog sniffed briefly, apparently more out of courtesy than curiosity.
“And how is Fernanda?” asked the man called Ragginbone.
“Still resolved on matrimony,” said Will. “It’s making hervery jumpy. She picked a fight with me last night, just to prove she was doing the right thing.”
“She has to choose for herself,” said the old man. “Neither you nor I have the right to coerce her, or even advise”
Gaynor found his air of authority somewhat incongruous, but before she had time to consider her surprise he had turned to talk to her, and was enquiring about her work and displaying an unexpected familiarity with the subject. The three of them walked along together for some distance, the dog padding at their heels. Will said little. They turned back toward Yarrowdale, following a different path that plunged down into the valley and brought them eventually to the river. Spring was unfolding among the trees but the leaves of many winters lay thickly on the ground.
“Was this where Alison drowned?” Gaynor said suddenly.
“Yes and no,” said Will. “This is where they found her. In the Yarrow. Farther down from here.”
Ragginbone made no comment, but she felt his gaze.
Where the path branched they separated, man and dog going their own way.
“You’ll stay around, won’t you?” Will said to him.
“There’s nothing I can do.”
“I know, but…”
“Something troubles you? Something more than your sister’s obduracy?”
“There’s too much tension in the air. I don’t think it’s all coming from her.” He appealed to Gaynor. “You’ve felt it, too, haven’t you?” She remembered her nightmare in front of the television and the owl dream, and for no reason at all there was a sick little jolt of fear in her stomach. “It isn’t like the last time, hounds sniffing in the night: nothing like that. But I have a sense of someone or something watching … spying. An uncomfortable tingle on the nape of my neck. I might be imagining it.”
“We’ll be here,” said Ragginbone.
He strode off at great speed, the dog always beside him, unbidden and silent. “I suppose he’s a wizard?” Gaynor said with a wavering attempt at sarcasm.
“Oh no,” said Will. “Not anymore.”
* * *
Fern was sitting at the kitchen table, an untidy pile of cards, gifts, and wrappings on one side of her, a tidy pile of sealed and addressed envelopes on the other. There was a cup of coffee at her elbow, almost untouched. She glanced up as her friend came in, her expression preoccupied, a brief smile coming and going. Perhaps because she wore no makeup she looked visibly strained, the small bones showing sharply beneath her skin, faint shadow bruises under her eyes. But she did not look like a witch. Gaynor’s concept of the twenty-first-century sorceress was drawn from books and films: she visualized something between the Narnian Jadis and Cher in one of her more glamorous roles, a statuesque creature with aquiline profile and waist-length elflocks. Fern looked compact, practical, wearily efficient. A PR executive frustrated by rural privations. A bride with premarital nerves. The antithesis of all that was magical and strange. “I’ve run out of stamps,” she announced. “I wish I could do these things on the laptop: it would take half the time and at least they’d be legible. My handwriting’s turning into Arabic.”
“Why can’t you?”
“The older generation
“And Lougarry.” Will indicated the dog. A shaggy animal without a collar who looked part Alsatian and all wolf. But Gaynor had grown up with dogs and was not particularly deterred. She extended her hand and the dog sniffed briefly, apparently more out of courtesy than curiosity.
“And how is Fernanda?” asked the man called Ragginbone.
“Still resolved on matrimony,” said Will. “It’s making hervery jumpy. She picked a fight with me last night, just to prove she was doing the right thing.”
“She has to choose for herself,” said the old man. “Neither you nor I have the right to coerce her, or even advise”
Gaynor found his air of authority somewhat incongruous, but before she had time to consider her surprise he had turned to talk to her, and was enquiring about her work and displaying an unexpected familiarity with the subject. The three of them walked along together for some distance, the dog padding at their heels. Will said little. They turned back toward Yarrowdale, following a different path that plunged down into the valley and brought them eventually to the river. Spring was unfolding among the trees but the leaves of many winters lay thickly on the ground.
“Was this where Alison drowned?” Gaynor said suddenly.
“Yes and no,” said Will. “This is where they found her. In the Yarrow. Farther down from here.”
Ragginbone made no comment, but she felt his gaze.
Where the path branched they separated, man and dog going their own way.
“You’ll stay around, won’t you?” Will said to him.
“There’s nothing I can do.”
“I know, but…”
“Something troubles you? Something more than your sister’s obduracy?”
“There’s too much tension in the air. I don’t think it’s all coming from her.” He appealed to Gaynor. “You’ve felt it, too, haven’t you?” She remembered her nightmare in front of the television and the owl dream, and for no reason at all there was a sick little jolt of fear in her stomach. “It isn’t like the last time, hounds sniffing in the night: nothing like that. But I have a sense of someone or something watching … spying. An uncomfortable tingle on the nape of my neck. I might be imagining it.”
“We’ll be here,” said Ragginbone.
He strode off at great speed, the dog always beside him, unbidden and silent. “I suppose he’s a wizard?” Gaynor said with a wavering attempt at sarcasm.
“Oh no,” said Will. “Not anymore.”
* * *
Fern was sitting at the kitchen table, an untidy pile of cards, gifts, and wrappings on one side of her, a tidy pile of sealed and addressed envelopes on the other. There was a cup of coffee at her elbow, almost untouched. She glanced up as her friend came in, her expression preoccupied, a brief smile coming and going. Perhaps because she wore no makeup she looked visibly strained, the small bones showing sharply beneath her skin, faint shadow bruises under her eyes. But she did not look like a witch. Gaynor’s concept of the twenty-first-century sorceress was drawn from books and films: she visualized something between the Narnian Jadis and Cher in one of her more glamorous roles, a statuesque creature with aquiline profile and waist-length elflocks. Fern looked compact, practical, wearily efficient. A PR executive frustrated by rural privations. A bride with premarital nerves. The antithesis of all that was magical and strange. “I’ve run out of stamps,” she announced. “I wish I could do these things on the laptop: it would take half the time and at least they’d be legible. My handwriting’s turning into Arabic.”
“Why can’t you?”
“The older generation
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