Page 56 of Under Gorse and Stone

“Yes, indeed, but I need to go to St Ives. I thought we could eat there. There is a little shop that does the best breakfast rolls. What do you think?”

I nod, unable to hide my smile. “It sounds good.” He looks pleased as if my happiness means something to him. I’ve never had that before, and it’s curiously seductive. “Are we flying?”

“Ah, you like that?”

“It’s unbelievably wonderful,” I say honestly, and his eyes sparkle like sunshine on the waves.

“I am glad you think so,” he says solemnly. “But today I will drive. I need to stop into the shop a friend of mine owns and pick up some house supplies.” He leans in and snatches a kiss, his lips soft and warm on mine.

I run my hand through his thick hair and tug him back, taking another kiss from him and smiling when he gives a lusty laugh.

“I’ll get dressed.”

Chapter Eight

I love flying with him. It’s possibly the best thing I’ve ever done. But the drive to St Ives is still lovely. He takes the coast road, and we hug winding roads that curve around small coves, the sand pale in the winter light. The sea is a stormy grey. Wind batters the car, and rain splatters the windscreen, but inside, it’s snug and warm, the radio playing “Stop the Cavalry” by Jona Lewie.

Sigurd leaves the coast, and we plunge into a moorland, the heather a dun brown and gloomy in the rain. “It’s very desolate,” I say, watching as he navigates the steep curves, his big hands secure on the steering wheel.

He shoots me a quick look. “All moors can seem that way. You have to know where to look to see the life inside them.”

“Does that mean magic or human life?”

“A bit of both,elskling.”

I look out of the window with renewed interest. To the left of the narrow road is a group of fantastical rock formations that gleam wet grey in the rain. Boulders and stones are strewn around them as if thrown by a careless giant. We stop to let a tractor pass, and one particular formation catches my eye. There’s an enormous central rock with smaller boulders surrounding it, and it looks so much like a crouching man thatI fancy I can see his head tilted downward as if examining the ground.

Then I cry out and grab Sigurd’s arm. “Oh my god, itmoved,” I gasp.

He turns his attention away from the tractor and looks at where I’m pointing. “What did?”

“The stone.” I rub my eyes. “It moved.”

“Well, of course,” he says simply. “I’d imagine he’s getting cramped.”

“Who is?” I whisper.

“Breock,” he says and waves.

My gaze follows his gesture. My mouth opens and shuts, but no words come out. A huge man is standing by the side of the road. He’s easily nine or ten feet tall. Even as I watch, he steps down onto the road and ambles to Sigurd’s window. The ground shakes, and my coffee cup falls into the well between the seats.

“Sigurd,” I breathe. “Drive away.”

He pats my hand, his face kind and solemn. “I will never allow harm to come to you. Breock means no ill will. Alright?”

After a moment, I nod, and he gives my hand an appreciative squeeze. He lowers his window, and the giant slowly bends to talk to him. When his face comes into view, my fear lifts. It’s as craggy as the rocks he was formed from, but there’s kindness and humour in his expression.

“Dragon,” he says, giving Sigurd a smile that shows a few jagged teeth. “I thought it was you.” His voice is very deep with a strong Cornish accent.

“How are you, Breock?” Sigurd says.

“Oh, fine, fine. The missus is getting fretful with talk of housing expansion into the moor. Have you heard aught?”

“It will not happen,” Sigurd says solemnly.

The giant man seems to relax. “Ah, I shall tell her you said so. Do not forget that you are expected for supper next week.”

Sigurd nods. “I will not forget.”