Page 29 of Under Gorse and Stone

“Not at all.”

“You lie.”

He snorts. “I cannot lie to you.”

“You’re far too charming for your own good.”

We step into the office, and the heat hits us immediately. I unfasten my jacket and step up to the counter. The man behind it smiles at me.

“Hello,” I say. “My name is Cary Sutton. I rang earlier with a problem with my hired car.”

“Ah, the one in Porthcurno. They just brought it in, sir. One of our mechanics lives in the village and he had the tow truck which was handy timing. Your case is here.”

“Oh, thank you so much,” I say gratefully. “You said you had a spare car for me, so I need to pick up the keys and sign the new paperwork.”

“Yes, sir.” The man reaches for a file and then goes still when Sigurd steps up to the counter. They stare at each other, and there’s a strange beat of silence.

“So, paperwork?” I prompt.

There’s a small movement to my right. I glance at Sigurd and notice he’s doing something with his hand—a lazy, almostidle flick of his wrist. He catches my gaze and gives me a very innocent smile, eyebrows rising.

I turn back to the man behind the counter. His eyes seem glassy. “Erm, the paperwork?” I say again. What’s the matter with him? “Hello?”

Sigurd snaps his fingers, and the man’s eyes focus again. “So sorry,” he says breathily. “Hello. Nice to meet you. How can I help you?”

“Erm. You were just going to give me a car,” I say slowly. Cornwall is proving to be very pretty, but equally as weird. I watch in disbelief as he shakes his head.

“Ah, no. Sorry, sir. We don’t have any available cars.”

“What? But you just said you did.”

“Ah.” He taps on his computer. “Unfortunately, someone booked it.”

“In the last fiveseconds?”

He nods eagerly. “Yes. I’m so glad you understand.”

“I don’t?—”

Sigurd intervenes. “Ah, that is very sad, is it not, Cary? I will take his bag for him.” He holds out his hand, and the assistant hastens to pass him my case. Sigurd turns to me. “We shall go, yes?”

“But I can’t. I have to get a car.”

“Ah, not from here.” He pulls what he obviously thinks is a tragic face. “So sad. Too bad.”

My eyes narrow, and I look between them, but the assistant is tapping on his computer as if we don’t exist, and Sigurd’s face is blank. “Cary?” he prompts.

“We’ll try another car firm,” I say firmly.

He sighs. I repress a smile and usher him out of the shop.

The urge to smile has deserted me after an hour. We’ve travelled the length and breadth of Penzance and seen three carhire places where the people behaved just as oddly as the first one, and all with the same message of no cars at the inn.

I sigh after we come out of the last shop. “It would be easier to get a donkey, some shepherds, and three wise men than hire a car in Cornwall,” I observe.

“It is very strange,” he says solemnly. “I cannot think of anywhere else to try, Cary.”

We walk past a group of carollers positioned in front of the town’s huge Christmas tree. They’re singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” and their voices are sweet and clear.