“Oh, sorry. Outside, I asked if you were a student, and you said you’d been studying the English for a while.”
“Ah, no. I am… I’m a writer.”
I have a sudden conviction that secrets lie behind his words.
“What do you write?” I ask, taking another sip of cider.
He smiles, his eyes warm. He’s really a very charming man. “Very dull treatises of England’s legends and myths.”
“I’m sure nothing you could write would be boring,” I say, my cheeks flushing at the passion I hear in my voice.
His eyes twinkle. “Thank you,” he says gravely.
“Myths?” I rush on. “Like Lyonesse and Cornish giants?”
He takes a sip of his drink, his powerful throat working. “That is exactly what I write about.”
“How interesting. My father used to tell me stories of Cornwall’s legends when I was little.”
“Really?”
I nod. “I heard all about the court of Arthur, piskies, and mine knockers.” I shrug. “It’s almost sad when you grow up and have to put the childish beliefs away, isn’t it? There’s a sense of loss.”
A beat of silence falls as he watches me, his eyes now intent and earnest. “Sad it is,” he agrees. “One should never lose sight of the other world, because it is a surety that it never loses sight of you.”
I stare at him. What did that mean?
“Hmm,” I say after a moment.
His face clears, his eyes once more a little amused. Again, I sense his amusement is not at my cost; it seems like it’s about something he couldn’t explain even if he wanted.
“Well, I’d love to believe in all that again. It’s my favourite memory of my parents.”
He hesitates. “Memory? Have they passed, then?”
“Oh no. Sorry. They’re on a cruise at the moment.”
My fork scrapes on my plate, and I realise I’ve finished my meal while we were talking. “Gosh, that was lovely.”
He smiles. “I hope you have room for dessert.”
“Always. I have a terrible sweet tooth.”
“Then I must brush up on my dessert repertoire.”
“Smooth.” I wrinkle my nose.
He chuckles. “Thank you.”
He takes my plate and his and dumps both of them in the sink. Then, grabbing a tea towel, he opens the oven door and produces a baking tray. A sweet, sugary smell fills the kitchen, and I inhale greedily. “That smells yummy.”
He sets the tray down on the counter. On it is what looks like a thick pretzel covered with icing, and I hang over it, watching as he cuts two thick slices.
“That looks so good.”
“It is kringle—a soft pastry made with cinnamon sugar and topped with icing. It is a sweet treat where I was brought up. The catholic monks brought it into my country. Such excitement amongst the children when that happened, but then our lives could be rather dull.”
“You sound like you were there.”
