“You’re living in a cave?”
“Yeah. I guess. Don’t you like it? I think it’s amazing.”
“Electricity?”
“Not a tickle.”
“Water?”
“Miraculously yes, but it does involve a hand pump. The bathroom’s otherworldly. The ceiling is all stalactites, and the bath is formed from a natural rock pool.”
“So, there’s more than just this room?” There were no obvious doorways she could see.
“Sure, a bathroom, and a bedroom upstairs. I can give you the tour if you like, and maybe find you a jumper, too.”
“Okay.” She was never turning down the chance of snuggling into something that belonged to him, and which would no doubt be saturated in his scent.
Hurricane lantern in hand, Spook headed towards the deep shadows at the back of the cave. Here, a narrow passageway ran into the bowels of the island on an upward trajectory. It wasn’t slippery, but there was a dampness in the air and significant slant to the floor. The whole place smelled of salt and stone. Just at the point where she was reconsidering, the darkness spread out from both sides.
They’d entered a roughly circular chamber. Spook lit some extra lanterns situated in natural shelves in the rock face. Every inch of the room except for the ceiling had been polished smooth. To the centre stood the bathtub pool he’d mentioned, and tucked away in one corner, what she assumed was some sort of compostable or sea-flushed loo.
“Who on earth made this place?”
“A battalion of eccentric spinster aunts, so I’m told.”
Tugging on her hand again, he swung them back to an archway that opened to the left of the one they’d entered by. This time there were stairs, hand carved and worn in the centres from use. It was pitch black save for within the halo of the lantern. “This isn’t the place for anyone afraid of the dark.”
“It’s not quite so gloomy during the day,” he replied.
“I’m not sure I believe you.”
“It’s true. A sunny morning’s spectacular, especially up here in the bedroom.”
They spilled into the upper chamber. Even by twilight Alle got the sense of lightness and air. This upper room held none of the chill of the lower floor, nor did it feel nearly so cave-like.
Instead, the space smelled of beeswax polish and old furniture. Natural light flooded in through a series of windows and skylights painting the mahogany fixtures in beautiful red-brown tones. There was another broad fireplace, a dresser, which must surely have been built in situ—how else could it have been got into the space?—and a vast, canopied bed neatly made with the top sheet turned back over a patchwork quilt that was definitely hand sewn. She could imagine a family gathered at their mother’s skirts, carefully cutting the myriad of squares from favourite shirts and dresses. Items that had been worn and treasured that evoked a multitude of memories. The walls themselves were even more impressive. They were neither papered nor painted, rather covered entirely with sea glass and seashells, hundreds upon thousands of them, like Neptune had crept inside and thrown his treasures about.
“Someone poured vast amounts of love and labour into this place.”
“A couple of sisters, if the Liddell family legends are to be believed. Rachel and Colette. The story goes that they were both forced into unwanted marriages with men from the mainland. Both returned within the year, happily widowed. There was no evidence that any wrongdoing had occurred, but folks were naturally suspicious, and the brother’s wife barred them from the fort. The fisherfolk wouldn’t have anything to do with them, so they moved into a cave, and slowly transformed it into what we see now. It’s a good yarn, don’t you think? Even if it’s not all true.”
“It is,” she agreed, while moving around the room. What attracted her more were the traces of him littered about the place. A sock pile in the corner, couple of dog-eared books on the nightstand. A roll of black tape sat square in the centre of the eiderdown.
“Has Xane been staying here with you?”
Spook pulled open a drawer in the antique dresser and began to rummage within. “He’s shacked up with Luthor and the rest of them at the other end of the island. I assume they’ve given you the tour.”
“Yeah.”
“Here.” He held out a knitted jumper to her. “Want some jeans too?”
“Don’t think yours will fit me.” She tucked the garment over her head. It certainly took the chill off her arms. And it did smell of him, cosy and woodsy and just a hint of whatever it was he used on his hair.
“Is there something you want to ask me, Alle?”
“No.” Only a hundred thousand things.
“I can virtually read it off your skin.” As if to prove it, he followed her gaze to the bed, and retrieved the roll of tape. He placed it on the nightstand instead.
