“Are you sure?” I mutter, following him.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.”
I come out onto the patio and I’m immediately glad of my coat. The wind is strong and so cold it brings tears to my eyes. Sigurd is standing with his hands in the pockets of his jeans as he stares out over the rocks and the sea. It’s a fantastic view, but he’s much prettier. His feet are bare, and I frown as I come closer.
“Your feet will get cold,” I scold.
He turns, his whole face lighting up. It’s immensely flattering to be the object of this regard, and I smile helplessly at him. He raises his arm, and I immediately slide under it, feeling himpress a kiss to my temple. “I do not get cold,” he says softly. “’Tis not possible.”
“Ah, dragon,” I say, laughing.
He nods. “It has its advantages.”
“I’ll say.” I snuggle closer to him. “You’re like a fire. I’m never cold around you.”
His smile is startled and pleased. “That is good, Cary, for I would always have you warm and cosy.”
“What were you looking at so intently?” I ask curiously.
He cocks his head. “I was waiting, and the wind has turned just in time.” He pauses, and I hear that ship bell again. I look around, but the sea is clear, the waves white and bright under the full moon. “It is nearly time.” He tugs me in front of him and wraps his arms around me. I’m instantly warm and snug, the wind fresh in my face. “Look,” he says, pointing. I follow his direction and gasp.
A thick sea mist is rolling in over the beach. It hovers over the sand, leaving the sky clear and the stars shining brightly.
“That’s similar to what I saw on the beach the first time. Is it a ground mist?” I ask.
“Nay,” he says softly. “Watch, Cary.”
The mist glows eerily as it surges back and forth over the sand. “It’s like the tide,” I breathe.
He kisses my head. “My Cary is very clever. It is a true sea mist in every sense of the word. A mist for the dead to sail upon.”
The bell sounds again, and I glance around. “Where is the ship, Sigurd?”
“There,” he says, pointing, and my mouth drops open.
A ship has appeared near the rocks on the far side of the beach. It’s an old galleon, the sort that appears in the pictures in children’s storybooks. It rides the sea mist, its sails tattered and black, and I hear the sound of men shouting from it and the distant snatches of a song.
“What is that?” I whisper.
“’Tis the ship of the dead,” he says. “The Porthcurno Phantom Ship. It drives into Porthcurno against the wind and sails on moonlit nights down the coastline.”
“Oh my god, my father used to tell tales of that.”
His mouth quirks. “Did he indeed?”
“Yes, but it’s real?”
“But of course. Old tales are always correct, but you humans have learnt to ignore the warnings contained in them. You shut your eyes when you hear the ship’s bell and huddle under the bedclothes, telling yourself that it is just the sound of the wind.” He hugs me close. “And mayhap you are right to do so, for all humans who hear the bell and see the ship are compelled to join the crew.”
“Oh my god, I don’t want to be a pirate,” I breathe. “I mean, I did consider it when I saw Johnny Depp as Captain Sparrow, but I went off the idea when I realised that they didn’t wash their clothes. It was a lost dream when I got seasick on a Calais booze cruise.”
He chuckles. “You are safe with me, Cary. None shall take you from me.” He pulls me a little closer as if to emphasise the fact.
The ship is close now, and I watch in fascination as the mist wreathes around us, tattered tendrils drifting on the breeze. When it touches my feet, it’s ice cold, and the scent of salt is strong.
The ship slows as it nears us, bobbing on the swells of the misty waves. The ragged sails billow in the wind, and the huge skull and bones flag snaps out. Men scurry on the deck and a fiddle plays, the sound of singing ringing out. The song is so infectious that my feet start to tap.
