They’d married a few months ago in Exeter with none of their Polish or Russian families in attendance. Minty and Jowan had been the only witnesses and they’d stopped off for fish and chips on the drive back to Clove Lore in Minty’s rusty old Discovery. And that had been it; a far too small celebration to mark the culmination of years of long-distance yearning, during which time the pair had read to each other in three languages every evening via Skype, wishing there was a way for them to be in the same time zone as one another.
Minty, for all her battiness, held the answer, and had arranged the paperwork, and provided the permits and the permanent address.
Now the husbands resided in Minty’s converted attic rooms, which they’d turned into a jungle of hanging plants and climbing greenery, never quite daring to believe they’d actually been left in peace in England and always waiting for letters demanding yet more documentation to prove they weren’t somehow aliens or – Leonid’s deepest fear – simply telling him he must leave.
Perhaps that was why they clung to each other the way they did, like it was their last day in the other’s company, and why anybody who so much as glanced at them could see their devotion.
The sight of their hands clasped so tightly made Magnús simultaneous happy for them and desolate for himself. He rubbed at the little twinge in his chest. All he knew was that these two were hard to encounter when he’d been so bleak for so long.
‘Let’s look,’ Magnús told them and they scoured the shelves of gardening books, eventually turning up a general guide to acid-loving shrubs.
‘You’re coming to the donkey blessing tomorrow?’ Izaak said, having held out his card to pay the four pounds fifty that made Magnús want to roll his eyes at the pricing system. That wouldn’t even cover the cost of his favourite double-shotíslattein a Reykjavík coffee shop. A timely reminder that this place was a sham, and he shouldn’t be falling for its charm.
‘The what?’ He couldn’t have heard that correctly. ‘My English…’ he began, even though he’d spoken English fluently for as long as he could remember.
‘You heard right,’ Izaak told him. ‘A service for the village donkeys up at the Big House chapel. We’ll be there.’
‘Minty wants you to come,’ Leonid said, gravely, making Izaak smile.
‘I can’t,’ Magnús told them bluntly, hitting the buttons on the card machine and working the till. For all that this was a play shop, this part still felt good.
‘You can’tnotcome,’ Izaak laughed. ‘Trust us. Minty will only send Bovis to escort you. It’s easier if you come of your own free will.’
Magnús appreciated his dry tone, and only nodded his acceptance.
‘Six thirty tomorrow, drinks afterwards in the ballroom,’ Leonid threw in, placing his new book under his arm.
‘Do I bring anything to an English donkey blessing?’ Magnús wanted to know.
‘Just your incense and white robes,’ Leonid smirked.
As they stepped outside again into the little cobbled square, Izaak called over the sound of the whistling winds, ‘Is something burning?’ making Magnús curse and run for his forgottenJólakaka.
Chapter Nine
The Customer is Always Right
Alex peered around the door, making the little brass bell above her head chime. The bookshop smelled good, like a proper Christmas long ago: fireside, books and something freshly baked.
She would definitely have smiled more if it wasn’t for the embarrassment and the nerves making her fidget. Plus, she wasn’t exactly dressed for visiting.
Mrs Crocombe had brought her clothes back to her still warm from the dryer, but when she’d washed ashore that morning she’d been wearing the same thing she’d run off in; her boots (still rather damp now), inky jeans (from a high street store’s ‘tall’ range), a white rollneck and the holey, oversized indigo jumper she’d been wearing every winter for years. The entire look was topped off with mismatched black woollen mittens, a brown scarf and an incongruously pink baggy beany she shoved her hair under on damp sailing days. If not exactly smart, it was at least fresh and dry. Mrs Crocombe had valiantly laundered and pressed the lot, and told her she must keep the T-shirt and pyjama pants too. How did you thank someone for that kind of goodness? Alex had wanted to cry. Instead, she’d kissed Mrs C. on the cheek.
Now she stood on the bookshop doormat under her voluminous coat, feeling totally ridiculous. What must the Icelander be thinking? He was immobile and stiff-necked, standing in the middle of his shop, and so far he hadn’t said a word.
She’d come to thank him, but his look of incredulity made her wonder if he actually wanted an apology.
‘Hi,’ she said, raising an awkward hand.
‘It’s you,’ Magnús informed her.
‘Jowan told me you worked here.’
‘I don’t. I’m on vacation,’ he corrected, before tutting at himself, which Alex thought a little odd.
‘Well… this morning… you were great and…’ Alex struggled, wishing he’d help her out by waving a dismissive hand, and sayingOh that? It’s nothing, but he was just staring at her. ‘I wanted to thank you.’ Still nothing. ‘And… I’m sorry I was… there.’
‘I’m glad you were there,’ he blurted unthinkingly, before turning his back on her in an instant and rearranging the self-help section, which to Alex’s eye didn’t look all that untidy or urgent. He seemed to be having some kind of argument with himself and was shaking his head crossly.
