Reginald wanted to see the world-famous burial mounds, so Ben offered to take the grandparents and Babushka for a quick tour of the island. Emilia wanted to shoot some photographs around the harbour. As the moron had declared he and the professor would stay behind to keep Enid company—and he’d said this with a straight face not glancing up at the bedroom—Aleksey and Miles were left on St Mary’s for the morning with Molly. He watched Emilia walking away. She was wearing some wide-legged linen trousers she’d run up on her new machine, with his leather jacket, as she’d been shivering on the boat over and he’d given it to her. For once, her hair wasn’t braided, but was piled on the top of her head, in what she had informed her grandmother, when Babushka had offered her a comb, wasintendedto be a messy bun. Curling strands of auburn framed her pale face. At nearly five-eleven, and as slim as a long-distance runner, she looked like a super-model off one of the yachts anchored in the tranquil Scilly waters: a casual, eccentric dresser who could get away with anything, because if she was wearing it, it was, by definition, fashionable.
He was very aware that Emilia and her rare beauty might be seen as something to be desired, taken, and then kept—a trophy. He knew all this because he had once seen a pair of green eyes in a face and body even more exceptionally beautiful than hers, and he had desired that man, taken him, and intended to keep him. He glanced down at Molly, who was swinging, bored, around his leg. A lot of people had been sacrificed for that possession.
He desperately wanted to shield Emilia from that darkness.
* * *
There was a moment of embarrassment between him and Morwenna when he pushed into the shop behind the children. On his previous visit, they’d shared something other than their usual mutual hostility, and he wasn’t at all sure what that something was. His offer of a trip to the island hung between them, but also her confession of her strange history. Was this something you were supposed to probe or discreetly ignore? Deciding he’d had enough probing of any kind for one day, glad just to be standing up, he merely gave her a nod. She responded in kind but then asked, ‘Did you have a nice Christmas?’
Fortunately for him, he didn’t have to work out how to respond to this without alluding to her own slightly sad circumstances, for Molly piped up,
‘I’ve got a camera that takes real pictures of things.’
Morwenna leaned on the counter to regard her seriously. ‘That sounds mysterious. What does my camera do then?’ She tapped the phone lying beside her.
Molly frowned. ‘It takes pictures, but it just holds them like a memory in your head, but they aren’t really real. They can just go—poof. Papa deleteslotsof the photos he takes. Poof, and they’re gone.’
Clearly trying not to laugh, or catch his eye, the woman straightened. ‘Well, that doesn’t actually surprise me. How about a nice book to stick your real pictures into then? You could write about each one alongside it—make a photo journal.’
Molly happily skipped off to choose her scrapbook, and Morwenna smiled at Miles.
‘What are you into? I suppose you’ve read the whole Harry Potter series already?’
Miles sighed deeply. ‘I think encouraging children to believe in things like magic is terribly problematic.’ Aleksey turned away to hide his smile, so he sensed rather than saw Morwenna’s confusion. Never one to leave anyone puzzling for long if he could be helpful with his theories, Miles continued, ‘Did you know that everything that seems to be magical or supernatural can actually be explained by science?’
‘No, I didn’t know that.’
Thinking perhaps that the boy was unknowingly treading on dangerous ground—that Morwenna might like a scientist to explain where her family had gone—he ushered him towards the non-fiction section, but Miles cast over his shoulder, ‘Quantum physics supports the premise we’re all living in a simulation. It’s something I’m giving serious consideration to, and I think that’s a lot more interesting than magic.’
Morwenna snorted. ‘Well that sounds just like magic to me, so maybe our ancestors understood quantum physics before us but just called it magic?’ Miles opened his mouth to reply but appeared to think this interesting concept needed more consideration. Aleksey returned to the counter and was pleased when she laughed at his eye roll. ‘If this is a simulation, I’d like a word with the programmer.’
Aleksey reckoned his code had been written just fine, so changed the subject. ‘Have you heard from Dr Mark since our meeting?’
She smirked. ‘Hard not to have, as I cooked him bacon and eggs’— she checked her watch—‘three hours ago.’
Aleksey felt a prickle of alarm shiver down his spine. ‘He’s here? On the island? Now?’
Hearing something in his tone, she responded slowly, ‘It’s usually easier to eat that way—when you’re actually present. What’s wrong?’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Wait one; I’ll just check his ankle monitor.’
Suspecting he knew the answer to his question—the delectable Dr Mark was down at the harbour where the photogenic boats apparently were—he turned and snapped sharply to the two children, ‘Come.’ He grit his teeth at the soft snort from behind the counter when this was entirely ignored, but strode back to scoop Molly up from the beanbag she’d nestled into.
‘Can I buy all these, Papa?’
‘Yes. Miles, come.’
Molly wriggled to be put down and ran up the counter to empty her pockets of her usual treasures: shells, some beads, slightly squished-looking chocolate coins that Aleksey suspected Angel Donkey had stolen from the baby Jesus, and a feather. He supposed Morwenna was lucky it wasn’t a severed, rotting foot—Light Island was an absolute treasure trove for such things, apparently. As the woman was ringing up Molly’s selection of books, he prompted a little gruffly, ‘So, dinner.’
She quickly replied, ‘Oh, yes. As you said,’ which led him to suspect she’d been thinking the same thing as he had.
‘Would Tuesday suit?’ He wasn’t sure he’d ever asked a woman to dinner and couldn’t work out the right tone to use. But then he’d once asked Ben on a date and had been greeted with hilarity and derision, he seemed to recall. Not that this was a date—obviously.
‘Yes, thank you. That would be lovely.’
‘I’ll send the mor—one of my employees to bring you over.’
