Page 25 of Under Gorse and Stone

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. “Likeit? That's too mild a word for this room.”

His whole face lights up. “You like books, yes?”

“Ilovethem.” 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 putwaternear 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?”