“What was that for?” I ask, breathless.
He cups my face in his big hand. “Because you are perfect,” he says steadily.
“Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“I do,” he says simply and, retaking my hand, he steers me down a lane by the harbour. “Come along. We shall see my friend, and then I will feed you.”
On cue, my stomach rumbles. He takes a left and then another as we walk down cobbled streets crammed with fishermen’s cottages. The holiday lets have dark windows, but others glow warm against the gloom, and we pass little shops lit with bright Christmas decorations.
Sigurd looks up and takes a path between two tall houses. It wends upwards, narrow and dark. I look around uneasily. I can actually feel the magic here. There are no tourists or Christmas lights, and it feels wilder and darker, as if magic has been set free after a summer of confinement. Sigurd takes another turn, and we’re on a street which is so narrow the sides almost touch his shoulders. The cobbles are slick with rain. It’s lined with shops, and I blink when I see the contents of one of the windows. I come to a stop, staring in wonder.
Three huge glass bottles are set there. They’re red, yellow, and blue and remind me of old pictures I’ve seen of chemist shops in the seventies. However, those shops never displayed a cauldron. This one bubbles merrily, coloured smoke rising fromgurgling liquid and forming shapes—a steam train puffing along, a lady curtseying, a witch with her pointed hat.
A man exits the shop, the door chiming. He’s dressed in a cape and a top hat, and when he sees Sigurd, he bows, doffing his hat. I suppress my gasp when he straightens. His eyes are bright purple, and his ears are pointed. He looks at me curiously and then nods, making his way back down the street.
Sigurd leads us to the next shop. Its window glows warmly, and the door is painted a light turquoise, the colour of the sea at Porthcurno. A woman exits, and I inhale as a beautiful scent reaches me—fresh and clean but with a warm note underneath.
Sigurd opens the door and ushers me in, his hand at the small of my back. The warmth in the shop is like a hug, and I look around as we step inside. The floor is made of thick, polished planks of wood. The room is well-lit with lamps gleaming everywhere. Windchimes are festooned along the rafters, and as I take a few steps, they suddenly stir, letting off a cacophony of noise despite there being not the slightest hint of a breeze.
“That wasn’t me,” I whisper.
Sig chuckles. “A windchime likes wind. If they cannot find it, they’ll manufacture it. They’ll get bored in a second.”
True to his words, the little chimes fall silent, giving me peace to look properly around the shop. Tall shelving units are scattered throughout two rooms, each containing large baskets filled with soaps, body lotions, and oils. In one corner is a display of scarves, their colours echoing that of a beach in winter.
I head towards a shelf of candles like a homing pigeon as Sigurd moves towards the counter. The candles are obviously homemade and are set in dimpled glass jars in a variety of sand and earth colours. I pick up one in an orange glass jar labelledchocolate orangeand sniff, sighing in pleasure at the sugary scent.
“Well, I thought I would be seeing you soon, Sigurd. I am happy to see you at this great time.”
The voice comes from behind me, and it sounds familiar. I spin around and gasp. “You.”
It’s the lady from the steps on the first day I’d gone down to the hidden beach. She’s apparently come from the back of the shop and is now standing by the counter with Sigurd. She’s wearing jeans and a blue shirt. Her hair is long and blonde, falling to her knees.
Her eyes twinkle. “Me. Andyou.”
“This is Morveren Trewhella,” Sigurd says.
I smile at her. “Nice to meet you.”
Sigurd hugs her, murmuring something in a language I can’t understand. She cups his face, smiling and replying. A ring gleams gold on her wedding finger. They separate and turn to me.
“I met you on the steps down to the beach when I got tangled in the brambles,” I say to her.
She cocks her head. “Indeed. The Guardian has grown a little bold, Sigurd. You must speak to him.”
“Guardian?” I ask.
She smiles. It’s a triangular little smile, showing off her white teeth, and her eyes gleam. “Indeed. Did you think naught would guard the entrance to a dragon’s lair?”
“The brambles are a guardian?”
She nods. “One of his many forms. It is good that I was there, Cary.”
Sigurd grimaces. “I have already spoken to him. ’Twill not happen again.”
They exchange looks, and her chuckle is edged with an air of wildness. “Aye, I expect not.” She turns to me, and her smile warms, almost becoming kind. “’Tis good to finally meet you, Cary.”
“You said that before—that I was late.”
