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“Riles me up.” He looks amused and perplexed at the same time.
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just look away as we exit the trees and start walking across the field. It slopes down to the commune, which lies spread out before us. It’s busy today—a car heads up the drive, probably with some kind of food delivery; Dani’s taking the younger kids for a walk through the vineyards; Lee is out digging post holes for a new fence. A car is parked out the front, and Isobel, one of the Elders, is greeting the two women who are currently exiting it.
We stop and look down at the view. Orson surveys it thoughtfully, scanning the vineyards, the vegetable gardens, the quiet but busy life taking place in the peaceful surroundings, a world removed from his opulent resort with its rich patrons, flash cars, and swanky buildings.
Is he secretly laughing inside? Having to hold himself back from mocking my way of life? I lift my chin. I don’t have to prove anything to him or anyone else.
“If you’re coming, let’s get on with it,” I say, and begin to walk down the hill. “Just please refrain from calling anyone a communalist. They won’t appreciate your sense of humor the way I do.”
Chapter Six
Orson
She appreciates my sense of humor, then? That makes me smile as I follow her down the hill toward the commune.
I admit that I’d half-expected to see a kind of medieval settlement, with dirt tracks for roads, ramshackle houses, filthy kids playing with sticks and hoops, and dogs and chickens running wild.
Instead, the small town, while definitely having a medieval feel, looks well planned and maintained. Neat roads form a simple grid system around a central village green with a duck pond in the center. A few shops line one side of the green, while on the other is what looks like a village hall, possibly a chapel although there’s no cross on the top, and a couple of other larger buildings. Behind them are several rows of small cottages that are hardly bigger than the villas our guests stay in at Midnight. But they’re all surrounded by a decent patch of land, with mown lawns, painted fences, flower borders, and veggie patches. On one side, there’s a large vegetable plot, so they obviously grow their own, and I can also see a couple of cows in the nearby field, and several goats. There are chickens, but they’re in a large coop.
They’re obviously modernized here—there are Sky dishes and my phone has a signal and Scarlett mentioned they have computers with the Internet in their communal library. The cars are newish, just not ostentatious. But there’s a sense of peace about the place that speaks of another time, before the craziness of the modern world became the norm.
I follow her down the slope and through the gate at the bottom. “There,” she says, stopping, “you delivered me safely. You can go now.”
“I told you, I’d like a tour.”
Her brows draw together. “Please go.”
“Why? I’m serious. I want to look around.” The truth is that I’m intrigued. It’s clear my father hasn’t told me the whole truth about Kahukura. He’s always painted Blake Stone, his family, and the commune with crazy paint, but Scarlett’s recent comments have suggested he’s offered a highly fictionalized account, which puzzles and angers me at the same time. I’m not sure what’s the truth and what’s made up, and I want to discover the reality for myself.
She glares at me. “I—” Immediately she stops as someone calls her name from behind her. We both turn, and I see a slightly younger version of Scarlett jogging up to us. She has the same build and the same color hair, although she sports a quirky pixie cut.
“Hello,” she says, slowing as she nears us. She gives Scarlett an amused look. “Who’s this, and why are you both soaking wet? Has it been raining?”
“I fell in the pool,” Scarlett says.
“That explains whyyou’rewet…”
“I rescued her,” I tell her.
Ana grins. “That was kind of you. She does have a habit of getting herself into strange situations.”
“I’m beginning to realize that.”
“I’m standing right here,” Scarlett says crossly. “Orson, this is my sister, Ana. Ana, this is Orson Cavendish.”
Ana stares at me, and her smile slowly fades. “Cavendish?”
“Spencer Cavendish’s son,” Scarlett adds.
Ana’s mouth forms an O. Her gaze slides down me slowly, from my tie, down my shirt, all the way down my trousers to my shoes, and then slowly back up.
“No forked tail,” I announce. “And no horns either.”
“I beg to differ,” Scarlett says sarcastically. “Come on, then, if you want to look around.”
“You’re giving him a tour?” Ana asks, astonished.
“He wants to check out the enemy so he can make fun of us more accurately,” Scarlett says.