Chapter 8 #3
“Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“I do,” he says simply and, retaking my hand, he steers me down a lane by the harbour. “Come along. We shall see my friend, and then I will feed you.”
On cue, my stomach rumbles. He takes a left and then another as we walk down cobbled streets crammed with fishermen’s cottages. The holiday lets have dark windows, but others glow warm against the gloom, and we pass little shops lit with bright Christmas decorations.
Sigurd looks up and takes a path between two tall houses.
It wends upwards, narrow and dark. I look around uneasily.
I can actually feel the magic here. There are no tourists or Christmas lights, and it feels wilder and darker, as if magic has been set free after a summer of confinement.
Sigurd takes another turn, and we’re on a street which is so narrow the sides almost touch his shoulders.
The cobbles are slick with rain. It’s lined with shops, and I blink when I see the contents of one of the windows. I come to a stop, staring in wonder.
Three huge glass bottles are set there. They’re red, yellow, and blue and remind me of old pictures I’ve seen of chemist shops in the seventies.
However, those shops never displayed a cauldron.
This one bubbles merrily, coloured smoke rising from gurgling liquid and forming shapes—a steam train puffing along, a lady curtseying, a witch with her pointed hat.
A man exits the shop, the door chiming. He’s dressed in a cape and a top hat, and when he sees Sigurd, he bows, doffing his hat. I suppress my gasp when he straightens. His eyes are bright purple, and his ears are pointed. He looks at me curiously and then nods, making his way back down the street.
Sigurd leads us to the next shop. Its window glows warmly, and the door is painted a light turquoise, the colour of the sea at Porthcurno. A woman exits, and I inhale as a beautiful scent reaches me—fresh and clean but with a warm note underneath.
Sigurd opens the door and ushers me in, his hand at the small of my back.
The warmth in the shop is like a hug, and I look around as we step inside.
The floor is made of thick, polished planks of wood.
The room is well-lit with lamps gleaming everywhere.
Windchimes are festooned along the rafters, and as I take a few steps, they suddenly stir, letting off a cacophony of noise despite there being not the slightest hint of a breeze.
“That wasn’t me,” I whisper.
Sig chuckles. “A windchime likes wind. If they cannot find it, they’ll manufacture it. They’ll get bored in a second.”
True to his words, the little chimes fall silent, giving me peace to look properly around the shop.
Tall shelving units are scattered throughout two rooms, each containing large baskets filled with soaps, body lotions, and oils.
In one corner is a display of scarves, their colours echoing that of a beach in winter.
I head towards a shelf of candles like a homing pigeon as Sigurd moves towards the counter.
The candles are obviously homemade and are set in dimpled glass jars in a variety of sand and earth colours.
I pick up one in an orange glass jar labelled chocolate orange and sniff, sighing in pleasure at the sugary scent.
“Well, I thought I would be seeing you soon, Sigurd. I am happy to see you at this great time.”
The voice comes from behind me, and it sounds familiar. I spin around and gasp. “You.”
It’s the lady from the steps on the first day I’d gone down to the hidden beach. She’s apparently come from the back of the shop and is now standing by the counter with Sigurd. She’s wearing jeans and a blue shirt. Her hair is long and blonde, falling to her knees.
Her eyes twinkle. “Me. And you.”
“This is Morveren Trewhella,” Sigurd says.
I smile at her. “Nice to meet you.”
Sigurd hugs her, murmuring something in a language I can’t understand. She cups his face, smiling and replying. A ring gleams gold on her wedding finger. They separate and turn to me.
“I met you on the steps down to the beach when I got tangled in the brambles,” I say to her.
She cocks her head. “Indeed. The Guardian has grown a little bold, Sigurd. You must speak to him.”
“Guardian?” I ask.
She smiles. It’s a triangular little smile, showing off her white teeth, and her eyes gleam. “Indeed. Did you think naught would guard the entrance to a dragon’s lair?”
“The brambles are a guardian?”
She nods. “One of his many forms. It is good that I was there, Cary.”
Sigurd grimaces. “I have already spoken to him. ’Twill not happen again.”
They exchange looks, and her chuckle is edged with an air of wildness. “Aye, I expect not.” She turns to me, and her smile warms, almost becoming kind. “’Tis good to finally meet you, Cary.”
“You said that before—that I was late.”
“Ah, well, you are here now. All is well.”
I open my mouth to ask a question, but she turns to Sigurd. “I have your candles ready, Sigurd.” Everyone else seems to call him “dragon,” so I get the sense that these two are good friends.
She walks behind the counter, reaches down, and comes back up with a large wooden box. “Candles and more bath products.”
I edge closer. “Ooh, do you make the shower gel?” She nods. “It’s absolutely lovely. I’ve never used anything that smells or feels as nice.”
Her eyes brighten. “Thank you.”
Sigurd hands her a roll of notes that she tucks in her jeans. “How is Matthew?” he asks.
Her face softens. “He is well, thank you.” She looks at me. “Matthew Trewhella is my husband. He is a sailor.”
“Oh.” It’s an oddly formal way of putting it. The name seems familiar, and I rack my brain. I’ve heard it before, but where?
She turns to Sigurd. “He is looking after our Elowen’s offspring.”
Sigurd smiles. “How many great-great-great-great grandchildren is it now?”
“Ah. Twenty at the last count.” She laughs. “I lose track.”
“But that’s not possible,” I say without thinking. “You’re too young.”
She laughs, and it’s like the ringing of bells—a sweet chime of amusement. “Ah, mayhap I am older than I look, my child.”
“You’d have to be considerably so to have that many greats in grandchildren.”
“We must not keep you if the children are at home,” Sigurd says quickly.
“Ah, ’tis choir practice tonight. Matthew will pick me up in a bit.”
The connection between music and his name snaps my memory. “Matthew Trewhella was the name of the man who ran away with the Mermaid of Zennor, wasn’t it?” A funny silence drops, and I look between them. “I just remembered,” I explain. “My father used to tell me of the old myths.”
“Myths?” she says, cocking her head. “Is that what they were?”
“Of course.” I falter. “They were stories for children and sailors, weren’t they?”
“Are you sure of that?” she says.
As I watch, her skin seems to ripple, and silver and blue scales appear on her arms. The air fills with the scent of brine, and her hair blows back as if a sea wind had blown through the shop. The windchimes tinkle and spin, and then everything quiets and she appears normal again.
She winks at me and gives me a wicked smile. “Mayhap we are as real as a dragon, eh?”
“Oh my god,” I say faintly. The room seems to dip and whirl. “I need to sit down.”
Sigurd leaps to my side. “I wondered when it would fully hit you.”
“You’re the Mermaid of Zennor?” I ask, staring at her as Sigurd forces me into a chair. “You?”
She twinkles her eyes. “And if I am?”
I hesitate. “Well, it’s very nice to meet you,” I finally say.
She and Sigurd break into laughter.
“There are those manners again,” Sigurd says, brushing a kiss on my forehead. “He charmed Agnes earlier.”
Her eyes widen. “No one charms her. She is, by my reckoning, uncharmable.”
He shrugs, pushing my hair back and retaking my hand. “Well, Cary managed it.”
“I will get you a drink, Cary,” Morveren says and disappears into the back of the shop.
I shake my head. “Magic is real.”
“It is indeed.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s wonderful,” I say fervently.
“It has been a very odd morning for you, elskling.” His eyes crinkle.
“You have no idea,” I say, and he laughs.
Morveren appears and hands me a cup. “Hot chocolate,” she says. “Made by my own hand.”
I take a sip and cough. “Brandy?”
Her eyes twinkle again. “I have learnt that brandy improves most of the drinks you humans consume.”
I take another sip and hum appreciatively. It’s sweet, and I feel warmth spreading through me. “Is this magic, too?” I ask.
“I think hot chocolate is magic enough without tinkering with it, yes?”
I nod and sip the drink, feeling a little like a small child as they discuss an order Sigurd wants to place, but I can’t deny it’s good to have the opportunity to be quiet and sit with what I now know.
Sigurd and Morveren appear so normal—just two friends chatting—and if I didn’t know better, I wouldn’t guess they’re magical beings.
But now I see the signs. Their eyes are a little brighter than a human’s, and there’s an edge of wildness and unpredictability in their gestures, the way they stand, the way they interact with the world.
A display case in the glass counter draws my attention, and I lean closer. It’s full of woven leather bracelets, and their sturdy delicacy is beautiful. One in particular catches my eye. It’s brown leather woven into a tight plait, with tiny gold specks embedded within the leather.
“You like them, Cary?”
I look up at Morveren. “They’re beautiful,” I say softly, and her eyes gleam with pleasure.
“Thank you.”
“Did you make them?”
She nods and withdraws the case, setting it on the counter. “Which one took your eye?” I open my mouth to answer, but I close it when she runs her fingers along the bracelets and then pauses to take out the bracelet I was looking at.
She offers it to me and I hold it in my palm. The leather has a curious feel. It’s weathered-looking but soft as silk.
“This is a special bracelet,” she says gravely. “It is designed to hold a charm.”