“Because we are trying to catchspies.”
“Oh yes, that. How dandy!” Myrtle said. “And to think you wondered why I initially tried to decline your invitation in favor of a good book in front of a crackling fire.”
“Oh, admit it.” Rose poked her friend’s arm with her elbow. “You want to see what is inside this mound as much as I do.”
Myrtle sighed. “The timing is devilishly inconvenient, though.”
“I preferatmospheric.”
“Tonightdoespossess a rather primordial feel,” Myrtle added as they climbed the last rise and stood before the mound. The moon rose directly above the howe, and the edges of the earthen structure seemed to shimmer against the star-carpeted sky.
“Should we start with the fish-drying shed?” Rose pointed to the stone structure on top of Fornhowe as she battled back her own anxiousness.
“Well, that obliterated the haunting romance,” Myrtle said as she tilted her head back. “I’d rather not start with the smelliest task. Besides, I’m interested in what’s inside the mound, not what’s on top of it.”
“You can investigate the perimeter, and I’ll peek into the drying shed. It doesn’t make sense to put it there. Why didn’t the islanders build it closer to the jetty? Why cart their catches all the way up here?” Saying the question squeezed Rose’s stomach like a vise, but she could not ignore her suspicions.
“More statements like that, and I’d say you’re well on your way to thinking like an archaeologist.”
“I was rather hoping that I was adopting the thinking of a spymaster rather than a professor,” Rose said with a lightness she certainly did not feel as she started up the side of Fornhowe. Her feet pressed deep into the springy ground—a perfect metaphor for the absolute bog forming inside her.
“Both involve the study of human nature and patterns, do they not?”
“I suppose.” Rose grunted as she stopped trying to stride up the surprisingly steep incline in any dignified manner. Using her hands as leverage, she scrambled up the uneven surface. “This is not an easy climb.” The uncomfortable sensation in her belly worsened. She still wanted answers, but she feared what they would cost her ... and the crofters. She hated how each detail of Fornhowe was making the islanders appear more and more guilty of hiding something.
Pushing her emotions aside along with her nervousness, Rose scurried up the rest of the hill. Mud squelched against her knees, and at times, it felt like she was sinking into the very earth. The island of Frest, it appeared, wouldn’t give up its secrets any more easily than would its inhabitants.
Slightly out of breath and dirty from waist to foot, Rose finally clambered to the side of the windowless structure. In America, it probably would have been a timber-built shack. Here, with wood so rare, even an outbuilding was built of expertly laid dry stone and as sturdy as a fortress ... or perhaps there was a more sinister reason for theseemingly innocuous structure to have such thick walls. An involuntary shiver raked up Rose’s spine.
She slowly stalked around the outside, but she could see no light escaping from any crack. Her heart fluttering like the wings of a sparrow in anticipation and dread, she pushed on the door and found it unsecured. She nudged it open, and each exposed inch tormented her. Darkness greeted her along with the pungent mix of fish, salt, and peat smoke. Slipping inside, she lifted the lantern’s shutter in one swift move, and a scream caught in her throat.
Hundreds of glistening orbs stared at her.
Fish eyes,Rose told herself. Trying to steady her bouncing nerves, she studied the harmless rows of dried fillets.
Her shoulders slumped. She did not know what she had expected to find, but she had feared what the people of Frest were hiding.
After shutting the door to avoid light spilling out of the building, she lifted her lantern high. It was hard to take a good inventory of the place with scales and fins hanging everywhere. Fishy eyes bored into her, each glistening like a grotesque sequin. Rose did not generally consider herself squeamish—even before her days as an ambulance driver—but another shiver skittered up and down her spine. Resolutely, she forced herself to scan for anything that would indicate clandestine activity, perhaps a hiding place to pass messages or tools like expensive binoculars that the crofters could not afford themselves.
There was a pit in the center of the floor, and Rose swung her lantern above it. She could see nothing but a deep, narrow shaft straight down. She lowered the lantern into the hole but could spy only rock reinforcements that created a chimney. The crofters must build a fire underground in the howe.
Renewed tension twisted Rose’s stomach into even tighter knots. There had to be an open space directlyunderher. A concealed one. In the center of an ancient mound. But how did they get to it?
This time Rose’s shudder shook her whole body. What covert deeds were the islanders going to such lengths to hide? Could they even be doing it now—concealed by both the night and centuries and centuries of dirt?
Sitting back on her haunches, Rose considered her next step as her swollen heart pounded in an almost brutal rhythm. She needed to get inside the mound, but the entrance was likely hidden. Searching the small shed again, she noticed a ball of twine that the crofters must have used to tie up the fish. After tying one end around her lantern, she slowly lowered it until it rested on the ground below. She peered inside, but she could not see anything below.
Losing no time, she hurried back into the night and skittered down the hill. This time dirt flew into her face, but she’d been covered with grime before. Even one long slip didn’t cause her to slacken her pace.
“Land sakes,” Myrtle hissed as she raised her half-shuttered lantern in Rose’s direction for a brief second. “You sound like a herd of angry ostriches. If this is your idea of subterfuge, I suggest you give up spy craft immediately.”
“There must be an entrance to Fornhowe on the ground.” Rose grasped her friend’s forearm. “Come on. Hopefully I’ve literally shined a light on it. Either that or I’ve already announced our presence.”
“You’re not making sense,” Myrtle hissed, but Rose ignored her friend as she dragged her along. They’d gone only about a quarter of the way around the howe when Rose spied a soft glow in the cracks of a jumble of rocks.
“There,” Rose said, still huffing and puffing. “That’s the way inside.”
Myrtle crouched down and used her own lantern for more illumination. “It looks like someone has either dug their way into the mound or cleaned out the original entrance.”
