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was the last thing he wanted. Not a suitor, he hoped, gazing round the room that was dominated by the Orkney chair, its high back and wings woven to keep chill draughts at bay.
    Inga smiled. ‘This is Baubie Finn – my friend, Jeremy Faro.’
    The woman, who sat concealed by the chair, turned to greet him.
    She was a further surprise. Expecting an old crone, a wise woman bent by the years, this Baubie Finn at first glance in the faint light appeared just a little older than Inga. Small, slim and, far from the shawls and crude rags, an eccentricity imagination readily painted in a selkie, she was exceptionally neat, so conventionally dressed that she would not haveraised a single eyebrow in the congregation at the kirk that morning.
    In fact she was so ordinary, with black hair sleekly pulled back, a pleasant, round face with fresh colouring, he felt almost cross, cheated even, when she stretched out a mittened hand. He had expected Baubie Finn to be interesting, vaguely intimidating, himself in awe since childhood of a supernatural being, from what he had heard of selkies. He had never met one – until now.
    And as they talked, her conversation was quite normal and ordinary, only the round, luminous grey-blue eyes in that pleasant but oddly contourless face conjured up memories of the seals gathering around the ship as it docked.
    He suppressed a faint shudder, pushing that irreverent likeness aside. She had a lovely voice: gentle, hardly much above a whisper. For the imaginative, the inevitable hint was of mermaids’ siren songs. That almost convinced him, and he had a strange feeling that there was some magic about her after all.
    Then a new idea: if she was as old as Inga had told him, then perhaps she had known his grandmother who, had she lived, would have been roughly sixty now. But then he changed his mind; perhaps the business of age might offend a lady – one mentioned age at one’s perilin Edinburgh fine society, where all ladies tried to be at least a decade younger than nature and nurture intended.
    ‘You’ll have tea with us?’ Inga said. He accepted, and as she brought down from the oak dresser another fine flowered china cup and saucer, he took in his surroundings. Cosy and warm, comfortable armchairs. Nothing spoke of wealth or ostentation. It was all – he fought for a word – just homely , the kind of room a man could stretch out his legs on that home-made rag mat by the fire after a long day’s work and feel that good food and love would soon be on the menu.
    ‘Jeremy,’ Inga was laughing. ‘What a daydreamer you are. Come back, I’ve had to ask you twice already – had you any success with Thora Claydon?’
    Embarrassed, for Inga had been the subject of those dreams, he said he had delivered Macfie’s message. ‘I found her very friendly, not at all what I had been led to expect,’ he added reproachfully.
    Inga put her hands on her hips, stood back regarding him and laughed again. ‘Dear Jeremy, you are so naive. Look at him, Baubie – he hasn’t the least idea that all women find a good-looking young man irresistible. They all long to be your friend,’ she added sarcastically.
    Baubie was watching him, a slight smile playing about her lips making him feel foolish and self-conscious.
    ‘Well, she didn’t seem odd or strange at all,’ he said defensively.
    Inga turned to Baubie, who was listening intently. ‘You remember Thora, the seal king’s bride.’
    Baubie smiled. ‘That old story, of course, everyone knew about it. Best bit of gossip in years. One of the island’s great unsolved mysteries.’
    Inga, busy refilling teacups, turned to Faro who asked eagerly, ‘You were there … er … Mrs Finn. You knew her as a girl?’
    ‘I did, indeed, and I was here on the island the very night she walked into the sea and the day she reappeared a year and a day later – almost to the minute – on the very same spot.’
    ‘What did you think?’ Faro asked.
    Bauble shook her head.