But, while they had gone as far as the road went, they were not yet out of hill. Above them, the hillside rolled upward, and the pitched roof and upper walls of Mace’s rambling, gabled house were just visible above the rocks.
“Is that the stone house you told me about?” Luke asked, shading his eyes and frowning up the hill.
“Yeah. Mace and his family live there.”
Talk to Mace,her dad had said. Inga frowned up at the house, and then her gaze drifted nearer, to a gargoyle statue on the edge of the parking lot. It was life-size, and unique as all of them were, once you got to looking closely at the details. This one had the aspect of a hunched troll-like figure, slightly taller than Inga, with its hands resting on top of the handle of a massive battleaxe. It was gazing out to sea.
“Man, those things really are everywhere,” Luke said, having followed her gaze.
“They sure are. Do you want to go meet the sculptor?”
“Right now?”
“Why not now? We can at least see if they’re home. It’s not a bad time of day.” It was midmorning, the sun growing high overhead and starting to pick up some warmth. “We don’t have to stay for lunch, but we can stop in for a cup of coffee and a chat, and maybe see if Mace knows anything about that ship.”
A winding path led up the hillside from the parking lot. Here and there it was marked by cairns of stone. Inga, who was all too familiar with the winter weather here, guessed they were to identify the path when the snow was deep. Rogue trotted along behind them, tail waving like a flag.
As they started climbing, Luke said, “Do you know him well?”
“Who? Mace? No, I’ve never talked to him.”
Luke looked puzzled. “But you’re on a first-name basis?”
She had never really thought about it. “Well, I guess he’s just ... Mace. Everyone in town calls him that. He’s a fixture.”
Like the gargoyles. And this made her wonder how old Mace really was. She remembered him from when she was a child—or had that been his father?
And what did her dad, who she had never realized even knew Mace, think he might be able to help with?
LUKE
The closer they got,the more out of place the house looked, to Luke’s eyes, on the rocky, wild hillside. It looked as if it would belong in an English country setting, or perhaps a windswept Scottish moor. Here on the Newfoundland coast, it simply looked odd, as if it had been transplanted from the Old World and plunked down among the weathered rocks and scrubby, wind-twisted conifers.
They reached a stone wall with a gate in it. Inga looked for a bell or buzzer, and finding none, tested the gate’s latch-style handle. It opened easily to admit them.
On the other side was a garden of startling size and beauty. This early in the year, most of the plants were barely leafed out yet, aside from those with evergreen foliage. But it was clear that a great deal of work had gone into planning and maintaining the place, with curving paths and statues and fountains. Natural boulders had been made part of the landscaping.
“This is beautiful,” Inga breathed. She had stopped just inside the gate. “I really kinda feel like we’re trespassing.”
“You aren’t,” a woman’s voice spoke out of nowhere. “Come on in, but make sure you shut the gate.”
Inga jumped, and Rogue gave a deep bark. The woman was sitting at a patio table on a large stone-flagged terrace, holding a cup in her hands. She had been so still that she blended with the background somehow.
“Come join me,” she invited them when none of them moved or responded. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” Inga said, as the first to recover. “Is it all right to bring our dog?”
“Yes, go right ahead. I like dogs.”
They trooped onto the patio. Rogue politely nosed at the woman’s hand without licking or jumping, and she ruffled his ears and then stood up. She was surprisingly tall, nearly as tall as Luke himself, an angular woman with straight, shoulder-length brown hair tinted with a few strands of gray. Luke supposed her coloring was part of why they hadn’t seen her; she wore a gray sweater and brown corduroy trousers, and her skin was deeply tanned with clusters of freckles. Luke guessed she was in her early forties, but her face had a weathered, timeless quality.
“I’m Thea.” Small lines crinkled around her eyes when she smiled. She shook Inga’s hand. “You’re one of the Nilssons, right? I’ve met your brother Tor.”
“Really? Uh—I mean, yes, I’m Inga.”
“Luke.” He shook her hand in turn. She had long fingers and a strong grip.
“Please, sit.” Thea gestured to the other chairs. An open notebook lay on the table, which she appeared to have been studying or writing in, and there was a silver carafe, a single cup, and a plate with the crumbs of a demolished pastry. “You’re welcome to coffee, and—have you had anything to eat? I’ll need to get cups anyway.”
