Page 63 of Under Gorse and Stone

“Ah, well, you are here now. All is well.”

I open my mouth to ask a question, but she turns to Sigurd. “I have your candles ready, Sigurd.” Everyone else seems to call him “dragon,” so I get the sense that these two are good friends.

She walks behind the counter, reaches down, and comes back up with a large wooden box. “Candles and more bath products.”

I edge closer. “Ooh, do you make the shower gel?” She nods. “It’s absolutely lovely. I’ve never used anything that smells or feels as nice.”

Her eyes brighten. “Thank you.”

Sigurd hands her a roll of notes that she tucks in her jeans. “How is Matthew?” he asks.

Her face softens. “He is well, thank you.” She looks at me. “Matthew Trewhella is my husband. He is a sailor.”

“Oh.” It’s an oddly formal way of putting it. The name seems familiar, and I rack my brain. I’ve heard it before, but where?

She turns to Sigurd. “He is looking after our Elowen’s offspring.”

Sigurd smiles. “How many great-great-great-great grandchildren is it now?”

“Ah. Twenty at the last count.” She laughs. “I lose track.”

“But that’s not possible,” I say without thinking. “You’re too young.”

She laughs, and it’s like the ringing of bells—a sweet chime of amusement. “Ah, mayhap I am older than I look, my child.”

“You’d have to be considerably so to have that many greats in grandchildren.”

“We must not keep you if the children are at home,” Sigurd says quickly.

“Ah, ’tis choir practice tonight. Matthew will pick me up in a bit.”

The connection between music and his name snaps my memory. “Matthew Trewhella was the name of the man who ran away with the Mermaid of Zennor, wasn’t it?” A funny silence drops, and I look between them. “I just remembered,” I explain. “My father used to tell me of the old myths.”

“Myths?” she says, cocking her head. “Is that what they were?”

“Of course.” I falter. “They were stories for children and sailors, weren’t they?”

“Are you sure of that?” she says.

As I watch, her skin seems to ripple, and silver and blue scales appear on her arms. The air fills with the scent of brine, and her hair blows back as if a sea wind had blown through the shop. The windchimes tinkle and spin, and then everything quiets and she appears normal again.

She winks at me and gives me a wicked smile. “Mayhap we are as real as a dragon, eh?”

“Oh my god,” I say faintly. The room seems to dip and whirl. “I need to sit down.”

Sigurd leaps to my side. “I wondered when it would fully hit you.”

“You’re the Mermaid of Zennor?” I ask, staring at her as Sigurd forces me into a chair. “You?”

She twinkles her eyes. “And if I am?”

I hesitate. “Well, it’s very nice to meet you,” I finally say.

She and Sigurd break into laughter.

“There are those manners again,” Sigurd says, brushing a kiss on my forehead. “He charmed Agnes earlier.”

Her eyes widen. “No one charms her. She is, by my reckoning, uncharmable.”