His lip quirks. “It is not possible to steal what is yours.”
I couldn’t have heard that correctly. “Sorry?”
“Do you wish to see more?” he asks in a very innocent voice.
“More what?”
He goes to turn a page in Roland’s chronicle, and without thinking, I step back and put my hand on his strong wrist. His skin is hot beneath mine, and powerful energy thrums so strongly that I release it with a gasp. He raises his eyebrow in question, and I remember what I was doing.
“I know we don’t use gloves anymore to handle old manuscripts, but surely you should only touch the page after cleaning your hands?” I say softly. “The natural oils on your skin can damage the paper.”
His eyes soften. “Ah, you are right.” He raises his hand and the page turns, seemingly on its own.
My mouth drops open, and I look around wildly. “Where did that draft come from?”
He casually waves his hand toward the window. “Ah, there are many drafty corners in this old place.”
I eye him for a second, and then the book lures me to the table again. When I saw it in Germany, it was behind glass. I couldn’t see the marks on the pages where the monk’s quill dropped ink, or the marks of fingertips on the parchment, and inhale the dry dusty smell.
The first page is a chapter headed “Goblins.”
“Oh my god,” I say, enchanted. Fairies dance around the title holding hands, while others sit in the letters, their pointy earsgiving them a mischievous, jaunty air. “How are they here?” I breathe. “The other copy has no illustrations.”
“Ah, this one is from my own personal collection. No human has seen this in centuries.”
I straighten, staring at him. “But how do you know that?”
He blinks as if coming to from a dream. I open my mouth to repeat my question, but he closes the book, his big hands gentle on the cracked leather. “I am so sorry. I am keeping you from your task. I believe you wanted the phone.”
“Pardon?”
He gestures at the landline sitting on the big desk.
“Oh yes.” I look at the book yearningly.
He smiles. “I promise you may look at it again. But you wanted to attend to your car, did you not?”
“I did.”
“You may use my laptop if you like. There is no password.” He nods at me and, hefting the big tome, he slides it into its place on the shelf. “I will leave you to it,” he says, inclining his head in a courtly bow.
I nod, watching him leave the room in his big strides, his body moving gracefully.
I stand for a few moments, looking around the room, my thoughts racing, and then jerk back to reality. I grab the laptop. It opens to a beautiful aerial shot of a beach. It’s stunning and I’m pretty sure I recognise it as Pedn Vounder. I remember reading somewhere that the beach is one of the most beautiful in Cornwall, but it is secluded because of the difficulty of getting to it. Someone with a drone must have taken this photo.
I stare at it for a long few seconds. The mysteries about Sigurd are multiplying. So much doesn’t add up. There’s something odd about him, but do I fear him because of that?
I consider the question for a few moments and conclude I don’t. I feel no fear whatsoever. He’s gentle and kind, and allmy instincts say I should trust him. Then I remind myself that it’s immaterial because I’m going home today. Suppressing the sharp pang of regret, I click on Google to find the nearest branch of my car hire company.
Five minutes later, I stroll into the kitchen. Sigurd is reading a book, his long legs propped up on the table, and a steaming cup of coffee by his side. He looks very content. He looks up queryingly.
I grimace. “The hire car people say they have a car in Penzance if I want it. They’ll send someone to pick up the dud from the Porthcurno car park.”
He sets the book down on the table. “Penzance is not far from here. I will take you.”
“Oh, there’s no need. I’ve already put you out.”
His eyes twinkle. “Yes, but there were unforeseen benefits to that.”
