With that he turned on his heel, signaling the porter to follow. I looked to Stoker, whose expression was one of naked astonishment edged with resentment.
“Why so vexed?” I asked. “You obviously wanted to come and now you’re here.”
“True,” he replied slowly. “I just resent like hell being Tiberius’ foregone conclusion.” He looked at me for a long moment. “What about you? Are you bothered that I have come?”
His jaw was set, his lips tight, belying the easy tone he had adopted. He was trying for nonchalance and very nearly achieved it. But I knew him too well for that.
I turned on my heel to follow Tiberius. “I have not yet decided,” I called over my shoulder. “Try not to use your kennel manners. We are guests.”
It was almost dark then, well past sunset with only the fading purple light of evening to illuminate the horizon. Off to the west, silhouetted against the violet sweep of the sky, a pointed black shape rose, thrusting itself upwards.
“St. Maddern’s Isle,” Tiberius said as I joined him, and there was a note in his voice I had never heard before, some strong emotion he was struggling with and very nearly concealing. But I heard it, and I saw it in the expression in his eyes before he looked away, brushing at some invisible lint on his sleeve.
“Come, Veronica. It would be best to make the crossing before nightfall.”
I followed him down to the quay and took his hand as he helped me into a narrow boat. Stoker followed, leaping nimbly into the boat with the grace of a seasoned sailor. A local fellow of advanced years sporting fisherman’s clothes and a Cornishman’s accent tugged at his cap and welcomed us aboard.
“Trefusis, I’m called. You’ll be the guests of the master of St. Maddern’s. I’ll have you over in a trice, my good lord, and your lady and t’other gentleman as well. Your bags will come over on the next boat, but you’ll be wanting to get across before the storm comes.”
“Storm?” I asked. The sky was as yet a soft plum color, with gentle gauzy wisps of clouds just masking the first glimmer of starlight.
“Aye, but not to fear, lady. A bit of a squall, no more. Gone by midnight and a fair day tomorrow,” he promised. “Now, stand you here if you like for the best view of St. Maddern’s Isle as we approach.” I did as he advised, and Tiberius came to stand behind me. Stoker remained in the stern of the boat, feet planted wide apart, hands thrust into his pockets as he lifted his head, sniffing the air. A mist had risen, shrouding the island and its castle from sight until we were quite close, and then, without preamble, a soft sigh of wind blew the shreds of fog away and there it was, looming above us, black and forbidding and utterly enormous from the vantage of the tiny boat in the open sea.
“There she be,” the Cornishman Trefusis said proudly. “The Isle.”
He beached the little craft and clambered into the water as Tiberius vaulted smoothly over the side of the boat. I dropped into his waiting arms, rather more solid limbs than I would have expected. To my surprise, there was nothing flirtatious in his embrace. He held me firmly against his chest as he strode with apparent ease through the thigh-deep water. When he had placed me solidly upon my feet on the shingle beach, he offered the Cornishman a coin before Stoker bent his shoulder to help old Trefusis turn the boat towards Pencarron. The Cornishman tugged his hat brim and set his course for home as Tiberius and I looked to the castle, Stoker standing just behind.
Tiberius had fallen silent and merely stood for a long moment, his gaze fixed upon the black stone built upon the eminence. He was sunk in some sort of reverie, and for a fleeting instant, something dark and terrible touched his face.
“Tiberius?” I asked gently, drawing him from his thoughts.
He shook himself with visible effort. “My apologies, Veronica. I had not thought to be here ever again. It is a curious and winding road, the path of fate.”
“Certainly,” I said briskly. “But the wind is rising. Should we not make our way up to the castle?”
“Of course. I seem to have misplaced my manners. What you must think of me for leaving you standing about!” He had found again his usual mocking tone, and when the starlight shone upon his face, I saw that his expression was guarded once more.
Before I could reply, he put a firm hand beneath my elbow and guided me towards the cliff towering above us, Stoker following silently behind. As we approached, I saw a staircase had been cut into the stone, switching back upon itself over and again as it rose towards the castle.
“There is a funicular on the other side of the island,” Tiberius told me as we began to mount the steps. “But it is a temperamental beast and means a walk of a few miles to go around that way. If you can bear the climb, this is much more direct.”
“Nothing would suit me better than a chance to stretch my limbs after the train journey,” I told him truthfully as I clambered ahead.
“If you get tired, I’ll push from the back side, shall I?” Stoker asked nastily.
“Do shut up,” I muttered as we pressed on.
Iron lanterns had been set at periodic intervals in the stone and someone had lit them; they glowed like small golden stars against the vast black reaches of the cliffside, pointing the way ahead. We climbed for what seemed hours, ever further, ever higher, until at last we reached the top and the last step led us to a stout stone wall fitted with a high archway.
I glanced upwards as we passed through. “Is that a portcullis?” I asked over my shoulder.
But it was not Tiberius’ voice which replied. “It is indeed, dear lady.”
The archway led us into a courtyard thick with shadows, illuminated by starlight and torchlight and the glimmer of dozens of golden windows set within the black walls. A broad door had been thrown back upon its hinges, letting more light spill over the paving stones. Standingjust before it, silhouetted against the warm glow, was a figure of a man. He stepped nearer, letting the light fall upon his face.
It must have once been an almost handsome face, I judged. The features were regular and agreeably arranged, and his physique was that of a common country squire, heavily muscled in shoulder and thigh. He looked the sort of gentleman England had made a speciality of producing, stalwart, principled, and with an air of dutiful determination about him, the kind of man who would have been in the first charge at Agincourt. But a second look showed eyes that were a little sunken, as if from sleepless nights, and there were deep lines incised from nose to chin that looked as if they had been drawn on with an unkind hand. If this had not persuaded me that he was troubled, a single glance at his hands would have done so. His fingernails were bitten to the quick, a slender thread of scarlet marking the end of each.
But his smile was gracious as he threw open his arms expansively. “Welcome to the Isle. You must be Miss Speedwell. I am your host, Malcolm Romilly.”
