The Island House (42 page)

Simon tapped the sketch. “There are lots of possibilities for Compline, depending on budget. We could make the kitchen work really well, and the rest of the house too.”

Freya scanned the sheet carefully. “Looks great.”
It really does,
she thought wistfully.

“The roof would be glass, as you suggested, but tempered. Tougher than a tank and traps heat really well.” Standing behind her shoulder, Simon removed the sketch from Freya’s fingers, but very gently. “I’ve modeled this on a conservatory.”

“Conservatory?” Freya swallowed as she turned toward him. There was very little room.

Simon nodded. He said, gravely, “You can grow things under glass, even in this climate. Tomatoes, lettuces, herbs. Fresh food in winter.” He tipped her chin up with one finger. She could not avoid his eyes when he bent down, just a little. And kissed her.

She said, breathlessly, “The weather here. Quite entertaining.”

He murmured, “Especially when you have to stay inside.” He drew her closer, kissed her again, and she did not resist. In fact, she enjoyed what he was doing, kissed him back languorously, her eyes half-closed.

Yet something hovered. Simon was waiting for something, waiting for her to
say
something. As if, by inviting him to Findnar, she’d somehow called down this storm and contrived that they’d be forced together and, being sequestered from the world, that she would . . .
Stop it, Freya!

He released her, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Freya swayed. She smiled at him uncertainly. “Tea?” He nodded. She could see he was amused.

“With milk too. After all your trouble, that seems only fair.”

“Coming up.” She tried not to spill the tea as she filled his
mug. Not the easiest thing in the world. Perhaps Simon thought her awkward, even childish, but Freya thought how nice it would be to get to know him slowly—just as a friend—and then see what happened. But maybe they’d crossed a line, though she had to take responsibility for that too. She could have avoided kissing him. Possibly.
Really?

Freya cleared her throat. “So . . . will it be much more expensive doing alterations over here? If that’s what I do.” From somewhere else, the embarrassed place she’d gone to, she noted that her voice was calm, the tone faintly wry. She admired herself for that.

Companionably, Simon beckoned Freya to sit beside him on the couch. “Getting the materials over the strait and up to the house will cost you a bit. But after that, it’s all about being clever and not in a hurry.” He stifled a yawn. The stove in the kitchen was roaring, and transferred heat made the big room cozy.

“Keeping you up, are we? Must be time to go home.”

“Not at all.” His smile was beguiling. “I like being here.” His voice was a low, warm rumble, almost a purr.

There was something of the cat in Simon Fettler, Freya decided. A big tomcat blinking in the warmth. “Thanks for the sketch, Simon. I appreciate it, excellent food for thought.” She peered toward the rain-swept strait.
Where is it?
But there was no sign of the sun as fleets of clouds were driven across the horizon.
Why am I so on edge?
But she knew why. The kiss remained wrong in some way. Enjoyable, yes. But wrong.

“Tell you what . . .”

“What?” Freya swung around. The response was sharp.

He said, mildly, “Are you okay?”

Her face flamed. She bumbled, hastily. “Of course. What was the what?”
Lighten up! He’ll think you’re an idiot.

“Well, this house is intriguing.”

Freya forgot to be nervous for a moment. “It really is. I went looking for information”—she pointed to the pile of library
books—“but haven’t been able to get to it yet. Quite a few theories, apparently.”

Simon interrupted politely. “I have online access to the Faculty of Architecture library in Ardleith—it’s a fantastic resource. Unique aspects to this structure were mentioned when I did a bit of research after I met you.” He grinned. “Couldn’t resist. And not that you’d know it up here but . . . the undercroft?”

“The undercroft.” Freya echoed the word. Why was she reluctant suddenly to talk about Compline?

Simon nodded. “I’d love to see it. Just thinking about similarities to my church.” He smiled at her expectantly.

“Oh, your building is much older than my cellar.” She deliberately used the modern word. “That’s Gothic or even later.” She didn’t want to make the offer; she wanted time to think. But in a normal world, the one other people, like Simon, inhabited, it would have been rude not to. “So, would you like to see it?” She twitched a smile back.

A low whistle. “But this is fantastic. Astonishing.” It wasn’t the vaulted ceiling Simon was struck by, it was the stone pillar at the bottom of the stairs. “Can I use the lantern?”

“Sure.” Freya handed him the camping light. In the bright blue-white, the enigmatic symbols stood out etched in shadow. She was getting used to the reaction now—Compline’s tour guide.

Simon peered at the surface. “I haven’t seen anything like these symbols.”

“Perhaps it’s Pictish work—some of the carvings suggest that.” Freya was deliberately low-key.

“Picts. That would make this really old.” Simon stood back, and the light spilled into the space around them. He blinked. “This place is huge! Hang on . . .”

He strode over to the side wall. “You didn’t tell me about this,
Freya. Bad girl.” He said it merrily. They both stared at the carved panel.

Why
hadn’t
she told him?

“Do you think this could be related to my little guy?”

Freya tried to sound enthusiastic. “Quite possibly, if both are local work. An artisan of the time could have been multiskilled. Of course, the wood needs dendrochronology for a date and—”

She stopped herself. It occurred to her that she didn’t want to offer an easy way of making comparison between the panel and the angry little man Simon had showed her. What she wanted, most, was to be in daylight again.

He nodded toward the Compactus. “Lot of storage down here. Useful. Must have been hell to get up that path.”

Freya managed a smile. “My thoughts exactly.”

“Your dad built these?” Her guest wandered toward the cupboards.

Freya tensed. She hurried toward the deep-set windows. “I think the rain’s stopping. Truly. We should seize the chance if you want to see anything of the island again.”

“Hmm?” Staring at the anonymous steel cupboards, Simon seemed distracted.

“Yes. I’d like to show you where I need the crane. Can’t afford to keep you here all day, can I?” She strode to the bottom of the stairs. “Coming?”

“Of course. Though I’m really not in a hurry to get back. Mate’s rates apply to you.” Simon ambled after her, smiling gently. “So long as I’m not outwearing my welcome.”

“They’re still huge. I was expecting them to look smaller, somehow. Less impressive.”

“Why?” Now that they were standing in front of the double ring of stones, possessiveness crept up on Freya.

“Oh, you know. Kids. Everything seems enormous when you’re
seven. We didn’t come up here very much, though, when we were on the island. Off-limits—all the kids were warned off—really the only part of Findnar the Buchans seemed to want to keep to themselves.”

Freya led Simon toward the inner ring of stones. “Maybe they were worried about damage.”

He peered closely at a patch of lichen on one of the monoliths. “No, that wasn’t it.”

Why did she want to know? “So what was the problem?”

Simon paused, remembering. “I think this is where they thought it was, and they didn’t want anyone else to find it.”

“
It
meaning a hoard?”

He nodded. “Archaeologists don’t approve of treasure hunts, do they?”

“No, not generally.”
Except when it suits them.

“Scholarship is all—of course, dear Dr. Dane.” Simon bowed gracefully and flourished an imaginary hat off his head.

That drew a smile as Freya pointed toward the trench. “Not a doctor yet, but over there’s where the crane is needed.”

Simon paused and pointed back toward the Abbey ruins. “Quite a bit of monastic ware turned up over the years apparently—broken pots and suchlike. Nothing of much importance. They did find a bell, though—bronze, I believe, and marked with the cross inside a circle: Celtic Church. By the way, Ardleith Museum has a small exhibit of finds from Findnar. The Buchans donated material over the years.”

“A bell—you’ve seen it?” She searched his face.
I’ve heard it.

“Yes, I was at Ardleith last weekend. The museum was open, and it’s the best thing in the exhibit, I thought. Does that interest you?”

Freya busied herself lifting the tarpaulin. “You mentioned a Celtic cross. Did it look like this?” She pointed to the symbol carved in the stone. At least the surface of the slab was dry. That was great after all the rain.

Simon squatted. “Yes.”

She crouched beside him. “I want to know if there’s anything under there.”

Simon surged to his feet.

Startled by the sudden movement, Freya blinked. “So, what do you think?” A dazzle of sun, clearing from behind cloud, flared into her eyes. It was hard to see his face. “Will it be difficult to raise?”

“Not especially.”

Perhaps it was her imagination, but he seemed tense. Freya got up; her jeans were muddy from kneeling. “Good to know. I’ll just cover this again, if you don’t mind waiting.”

“Not at all. I’ll have a look around, see what else I remember. Won’t go far.” He gestured toward the meadow and strolled away.

It didn’t take long for Freya to stretch the tarpaulin and peg it down securely. Simon joined her as she finished, and they set out for the house together.

“I’m starved. What about a sandwich? Least I can do.” She projected light and bright.

“I thought you’d never ask.” He responded just as breezily. But that was forced too.

It was during the last part of the still, humid afternoon that Freya took Simon back to Portsolly. The sea was the color of pewter and moved with a swollen, dangerous roll.

He squinted toward the horizon. “It’s glowering out there. You’d better be careful on the return trip; crazy weather, but that’s Scotland for you.”

“It’s dry at least.” She peered toward the little town. “Thanks for all the advice, Simon. You’ve given me lots to think about.”

He grinned. “My pleasure entirely. Just remember. It needn’t be as scary as you think—the money, I mean.”

Freya said, drily, “That’s good. Money and me—always a dysfunctional relationship.”

He glinted a smile. “Better find that hoard, then.”

She throttled back, and the cruiser lost momentum, idling down to a respectable approach speed. “Please don’t forget the costings, Simon. You said you’d let me know.”

He laughed. “So proud, Freya Dane. Of course. But designing the crane—that’s just pure pleasure and I like the challenge. Gratis, free, and for nothing. A housewarming present.”

Freya flicked a glance at her passenger. He seemed so lighthearted, and she liked his droll way with words; she liked the curve of his mouth too.

Their eyes met. He smiled at her. That conversation, again. The one without words.