She frowned at the fragment. “How old, and how can you tell?”
He hesitated. “Very, very old, I think, though it’s hard to explain why I feel that way. It’s a kind of sixth sense I’ve developed from handling so many potshards and other artifacts in my explorations. A couple of years ago I tested myself by visiting a private antiquarian museum where the age of most items was known. I held various objects and found that if they felt old to me, they really were old. My guesses about how old were in the right range. Though it was a range of centuries.”
“That is interesting,” she admitted. “Maybe you started developing that sixth sense early by living in Thorsay, because there are old artifacts all over the islands.”
“If so, you might have acquired a similar sense. Close your eyes and concentrate on that piece of bowl and see if you can get a sense of its age.”
Obediently she closed her eyes and focused on the potshard. She thought of hands making the bowl, women laughing over food preparation, the bowl a treasured possession in a very modest home. Surprised, she opened her eyes. “I see what you mean. This broken bowl has been in this midden for a long time. Do you have any idea how old it might be?”
He shook his head. “Centuries, probably many of them. I’ve never seen a potshard quite like this.”
“I have a bowl that looks similar, only it’s intact and a little smaller,” she told him as she handed the piece back. “I’ve never thought about its age.”
He became instantly alert. “Really? Where did it come from?”
“I found it in the ruins of an old fort on Sandsay. I was calling on a farm family there and found the bowl when one of the children asked me to play with her among the old stones. Pure luck that I found the bowl. The farmer and his wife said I could keep it. I use it when I need a bowl that size.”
He laughed. “I’d like to see it. Does it feel old?”
She considered. “I’ve never thought about that, but considering where I found it, I’m sure it is. I’ll take a closer look when I get home.” She scrambled to her feet. “And it’s about time we got out of this midden!”
Ramsay rose to his feet and brushed dirt from his boots, but his gaze was on the side wall of the pit. “I wonder what I might find if I do a little more digging?”
“Not today,” she said firmly. “We need to get going if we want to reach the kelp works at a reasonable hour.”
“No time for just a little more digging?” he asked, a mischievous glint in his eyes. He tossed his little shovel onto level ground, then scrambled up to the surface and turned to offer her his hand.
The pit was deep enough that his aid was useful. He easily helped her up to level ground, then continued to hold her hand. Smiling with dangerous charm, he said softly, “I think there really is anus.”
“That’s in the same category as your nonsense about goddesses,” she said pleasantly. “And if you don’t release my hand, I’ll push you back into the midden.”
He laughed and let her go. “If you do, I’ll ask you to toss my shovel down so I can start digging again.”
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “On your horse, Ramsay. The midden has been here for a very long time, and it will be here next time you come by.”
“Yes, madam schoolteacher,” he said with mock obedience.
She could have pointed out that he was being foolish, but she didn’t. It was good to see him smile.
* * *
They smelled the kelp works before they saw it. Ramsay wrinkled his nose as they crested the final hill above the sea and drew the horses to a halt so they could survey the site. “I haven’t smelled kelp being burned since I left Thorsay, but that acrid odor instantly brings me back here.”
“The wind is blowing in from the sea, so we’re getting the full effect,” Signy observed. “Did you ever visit the works before you left Thorsay?”
“A time or two.” He studied the long, sweeping curve of shingled beach. Kelp was harvested from the shallows when the tide was out. A low islet lay several hundred yards out from the shore, and the area between islet and shore was an abundant source of rippling seaweed. A couple of dozen laborers of both sexes were harvesting the kelp with short sickles, and two burly men were pushing wheelbarrows piled with kelp to the shore.
“That building at the far left end of the beach contains offices and storage,” Signy explained.
Ramsay noted a short pier by the storage area, though no boats were currently docked there. Scattered along the shingle were a number of kilns for burning kelp down to the valuable slag. Unlike enclosed pottery kilns, these kilns were shallow, stone-edged fire pits about four feet across and a foot or so deep. Sooty figures tended the fires, pushing kelp from the edges into the flames. Observing the dark plumes of smoke rising from the kilns, Ramsay remarked, “The beach looks like the volcanic plains around Mount Etna in Sicily.”
“At least there’s no spewing of lava.” Signy’s nose wrinkled. “Only bad smells.”
“Is the water always this rough?” he asked. “Here on the Atlantic side of the island, I know the currents are strong and often treacherous.”
“Usually the water is calmer,” Signy said. “These high waves must be the result of a storm out over the ocean.”
“With the tide rising, the cutters will have to come in soon.” Ramsay studied the workers in the water. “The place is busier than I remember. More laborers cutting kelp. More kelp spread out to dry on the hillside. More kilns and more smoke yellowing all the plants around. That building on the far right is new, isn’t it?”
