Page 58 of Under Gorse and Stone

I don’t recall ever having a more fervent wish than to have that be true—to stay with Sigurd and spend our lives together in his lovely home. But while he’s introducing me to creatures that come from fairy tales, I need to remember my own life isn’t one. I’ll have to leave soon.

A thought occurs to me. “When I leave, will you bespell me, so I forget you?” I ask quietly.

His hands abruptly tighten on the steering wheel, and he gives me a startled glance. “Nay,” he says, and the steady honestyin his eyes reassures me. “I cannot do it, but I could possibly find someone else who can perform that spell.”

“No,” I say firmly. “I want to remember. I never,everwant to forget this.”

Something sad and wistful drifts across his face, but when we come to a crossroads his attention is dragged back to the road.

Soon, we come out above a sprawling town.

“St Ives,” Sigurd says.

My heart beats more quickly as he drives down into the town. The maze of roads is so narrow I hold my breath, thinking we’re going to get stuck. Little whitewashed cottages line the streets with fairy lights glowing red and gold in their windows.

“It’s lovely,” I say, and he smiles at me.

“It is a charming town. I think you may be seeing it at its best, despite the weather. It is powerfully busy in the summer with day trippers and tourists.”

He parks in a small car park in a tiny space that doesn’t seem like it would hold the Land Rover, but he’s as sure and steady in his movements as he appears to be with everything in life.

“I will have to get a ticket at the kiosk,” he announces.

Something about the mundaneness of the complaint strikes me as funny, and I snort.

His eyes twinkle. “Ah, magic only gets you so far,elskling. The council are no respecters of it.”

“Do you pay taxes?”

“Sadly, yes.” He sighs. “I have met cutthroat robber barons in my time that were less ruthless than His Majesty’s Revenue and Customs.”

His strides are long and fluid as he walks towards the ticket machine, and I watch as a woman eyes him appreciatively. I can’t blame her. He’s such a stunning man. And she doesn’t even know the half of him.

I climb out of the car and walk over to the stone wall that lines the car park. It overlooks a long stretch of pale, sandy beach. A few yards away is a café that’s closed for the winter, its windows dark and wet with rain. The sea is a cold turquoise, frothing madly as it pounds onto the beach, and I shake my head in wonder as I see the white horses again. They’re clearer this close, tossing their manes imperiously and prancing on the waves. When they reach the shore, they whinny in delight and then reform farther out to sea.

Warm hands slide around my waist, and I lean into Sigurd. “It is a wild day,” he murmurs.

“They’re the best.”

“Really?”

I nod, taking the hand he offers me. We start to walk and his warm fingers squeeze my hand, and he grins at me.

“I like the summer,” I say chattily. “But give me the rough weather and I’m happy. I love the wind.”

His eyes flame bright gold. “It is the best day to fly, Cary. Oh, to be in the sky riding the air.”

“Will we fly today?”

“If you wish.”

“I do. Where are we going now?”

“Ah, a friend of mine makes the candles I like to have in my hall. She also makes the bathing products in my bathroom.”

“Oh, they’re lovely. I caught the scent of them the very first day I was exploring your beach. When I thought there was an entrance between the caves.”

He winks at me.