Chapter 4 #2
He nods and leaves the room, and I let out a sigh I didn’t know I was holding in.
Throwing myself back on the bed, I bury my head in his pillow, taking in deep gusts of his scent.
For some odd reason, it seems to centre me, calming me and giving me a funny feeling of peace.
Then I make myself pull away and head for the shower.
Twenty minutes later, I walk into the kitchen.
Sigurd doesn’t appear to hear me. He’s standing, leaning against the worksurface, staring out of the big window that looks down on the beach, his gaze seemingly fixed on the stormy sky where the clouds skid along.
There’s something almost longing in his face—something distant and yearning.
I clear my throat, and he jumps, turning around. “Cary,” he exclaims, sounding as pleased as if he hadn’t seen me for forty years.
“That’s me.” I can’t help but smile at him, but then I sober. “Any luck with my phone?”
“Erm, no,” he says quickly. “I think you must have got it very wet.”
“Shit.”
He licks his lips. “I have put the battery in the rice to see if it dries out, but I do not hold out much hope.” He hesitates. “Do you have someone you need to contact?”
“Eh?”
He gestures expansively. “A… a partner.”
“Oh. Oh no. I’m single.” I watch, bemused, as his shoulders relax. “I suppose I could phone Adrian. But I’m pretty sure he’d prefer it if I fell off a cliff and bounced a few times on landing rather than ring him.”
“Adrian?”
“Yes, my ex. I told you. He brought me here. Well, brought me and then promptly dumped me, but let’s not split hairs or we’ll both end up bald.”
“Dump?”
I want to smile at his confused expression. It’s very endearing. “Finished with me. Ended our relationship.”
He makes a funny noise that sounds almost like a growl.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
His eyebrows rise. “Never better. Why?”
I think of mentioning that noise but then leave it. Maybe it was his belly rumbling. “Erm, could I possibly use your phone?”
“Of course, Cary.”
He gestures for me to follow him, and I traipse after him down a long, stone-flagged corridor. He opens a door and waves me through. My mouth promptly drops open.
“Oh my god,” I say faintly.
The room is enormous, with a vaulted midnight-blue ceiling painted with golden stars.
The walls are lined from top to bottom with shelves packed with books.
More books sit in piles around the room, sharing space with squashy sofas filled with bright cushions.
Big table lamps offer pools of golden light warming the grey day, and a fire blazes in a marble fireplace.
A floor-to-ceiling mullioned window looks down on the rocks, and when I wander over, I spot a seagull perched nearby, his head cocked as if examining the behaviour of us puzzling humans.
“You like it, Cary?” Sigurd sounds almost shy.
I turn and smile at him. “Like it? That's too mild a word for this room.”
His whole face lights up. “You like books, yes?”
“I love them.” I spin in a circle. “How many do you have?”
“Pah. Too many to count.”
I stroke a finger down one of the lamps on a side table. It’s a ginger jar with a periwinkle-blue linen shade. “A collection this huge must have taken years.”
When I look back at him, his eyes are twinkling as if he’s laughing at some joke. “It did take many years.”
“You don’t look old enough for that. When did you start collecting? When you were three?”
He laughs. “Some of them belong to my family.”
I drift towards the shelves as if the books are summoning me. The shelf closest to me has books with old leather bindings and titles written in gilt letters. One book draws my eyes. It’s tall and the midnight-blue leather of the spine is old and worn. I look closer at the title.
“The Chronicles of Cornwall,” I say. “That’s the definitive source for the Cornish myths and legends of the third century.”
He’s watching me closely. His gaze is steady, but his eyes gleam with a hint of mischief. “Yes. It is a first edition.”
I hesitate. “Really? But that can’t be. The only surviving edition is located in a library in Dortmund, Germany. I know because I saw it on a trip with my university.”
His mouth quirks. “Well, obviously not the only original copy, for there sits one on my shelf.”
I stare at him in astonishment. “Does anyone know about it?” He shrugs and I look at the book again. “B-But it must be worth an absolute fortune, not to mention its cultural and historical significance. And it’s just on a shelf. Shouldn’t it be in a glass case?”
“Where no one can read it?” He shakes his head. “Nay. Books are meant to be read, Cary. That is their sole function. To deny them that would be like denying water to a fish.”
“Well, hopefully you don’t put water near this book.” He laughs at my horrified tone, and I shake my head. “Oh my god,” I say reverently. My hand hovers on the spine longingly. Movement comes from next to me, and I watch as his big hand pulls out the book.
“Oh, watch your fingers,” I say in anguish, but he just smiles at me and sets the old tome on a table nearby. He gestures to it.
“Do you wish to look inside?”
“Rather more than I’d like to breathe.”
He chuckles. “Well, your breath is precious to me, so maybe do not choose that option.”
“Pardon?”
He waves at the book. “Open it, then.”
I step a little closer. “Roland the monk. He was amongst the first to bring Christianity to Cornwall, wasn’t he?”
He’s watching me closely, something playing over his face. “He was, indeed. But he was a singular man. His eyes were not closed by his religion. Rather, they were open to the other world.”
“Other world?”
He blinks as if coming to from a dream. “The magic world,” he says calmly.
He opens the cover, the leather creaking with a sound that never fails to make my heart light.
He opens the book, and on the title page is a portrait of a monk, and next to the beautiful drawing, written in tiny letters, is the name Roland.
I exclaim and step next to him. This close, I can feel the heat from his body and smell his warm scent. “But that’s not possible,” I breathe. “There are no self-portraits of him.”
“No known portraits,” he corrects me. “And this was not a self-portrait.”
I shake my head. “I can’t believe this. I’ve never heard there was a portrait of Roland. Who was the artist?”
His lip quirks. “I believe a friend of his drew this.” His eyes are fastened on the rough sketch of a little man sitting on some rocks.
Whoever the artist was, they were talented.
They've captured the man’s vivacity. He looks like a cherub with his full, round face and a tonsure surrounded by mousy curls.
His eyes are creased in happiness, his cheeks red.
“He looks jolly,’ I say, hovering over the page. The smell of old parchment is heavy in my nostrils, and I inhale greedily. “Like a pigeon.”
“Ah, he was a most engaging and curious man.”
I glance at him. “Pardon?”
He blinks. “What?”
I chuckle. “You almost sound like you knew him.”
“Do I? But that is impossible, yes?” I nod, and he pats my shoulder. “He was the subject of much of my learning.”
“Oh, did you do a dissertation on him?”
“You could say that,” he says gravely, but his eyes are twinkling. His hand stays on my shoulder—a warm weight as I draw closer to the book. “You like learning?” he asks.
I look up to see his gaze fixed on me in open fascination. “Oh yes,” I say. “I’m actually a qualified librarian, but it doesn’t pay much, so I took a job with a research institute a few years ago.”
“But that isn’t what you want to do?” His gaze seems to sear into me, burning through all the past layers of rejection and the years of making do, until it reaches my deepest self, who is happiest curling up with books.
“I actually do really enjoy research. It’s a bit like playing hide and seek with facts and words. Although, to be honest, I’d be happiest just reading all day. Unfortunately, it doesn’t pay the bills.”
He brightens. “Then you must avail yourself of my library while you are here, Cary.”
Has he forgotten I’m going in an hour or so? I stare at him. “Just like that?”
“Of course.”
“But you hardly know me.” I look at the shelves and my eyes widen, my breath coming short. “Oh my god, is that Shakespeare’s First Folio?”
He nods solemnly. “One of the original seven-hundred-fifty copies.”
“How is that possible?” I drift closer to the shelves, my eyes running down them. “Bloody hell, that’s the Codex of Leicester.”
“Leonardo da Vinci was a very entertaining man.”
“But they’re absolutely priceless. I could steal them. You don’t know me at all, and you’d let me loose in here?”
“Loose? You are not a horse.” His head cocks, a curious look on his face. “You could not steal from me, Cary.”
“And why is that?”
His lip quirks. “It is not possible to steal what is yours.”
I couldn’t have heard that correctly. “Sorry?”
“Do you wish to see more?” he asks in a very innocent voice.
“More what?”
He goes to turn a page in Roland’s chronicle, and without thinking, I step back and put my hand on his strong wrist. His skin is hot beneath mine, and powerful energy thrums so strongly that I release it with a gasp. He raises his eyebrow in question, and I remember what I was doing.
“I know we don’t use gloves anymore to handle old manuscripts, but surely you should only touch the page after cleaning your hands?” I say softly. “The natural oils on your skin can damage the paper.”
His eyes soften. “Ah, you are right.” He raises his hand and the page turns, seemingly on its own.
My mouth drops open, and I look around wildly. “Where did that draft come from?”
He casually waves his hand toward the window. “Ah, there are many drafty corners in this old place.”
I eye him for a second, and then the book lures me to the table again. When I saw it in Germany, it was behind glass. I couldn’t see the marks on the pages where the monk’s quill dropped ink, or the marks of fingertips on the parchment, and inhale the dry dusty smell.