Even the inn seemed like something out of time, I decided, as I pushed through the door and entered the low-ceilinged main room. The sign out front had depicted a fairly lascivious-looking mermaid, but within all was peaceful. Chairs and tables were scattered about, good plain oak, so darkened by time and polish that they were black as walnut. I glanced about for a proprietor, and to my surprise, the elderly woman from in front of the church appeared, cat trotting neatly at her heels.
“Good day to you, Miss Speedwell,” the woman said in a curious, creaking voice.
“How did you—” I paused and began to laugh. “Of course. It is a small island, after all.”
She smiled, displaying a surprisingly beautiful set of teeth. “Old Mother Nance knows more than you might believe, my dear.” She gestured with one long-fingered hand. “Come into the parlor and sit by the fire. The mist is rising and it won’t be long before the sun is gone. You must warm yourself and take some cider,” she insisted. She guided me into a smaller parlor where a merry fire was burning upon the hearth. It was much colder in this room with its stone walls and tiny windows and she noticed my shiver.
“This is the oldest part of the inn,” she told me. “Built into the living rock, it is. You can feel the damp, can you not? The whole island is laced with tunnels and secret passages.”
“Not surprising for a property owned by a Catholic family in the reign of Elizabeth,” I pointed out.
She laughed, a small wheezing sound that shook her bony shoulders. “Lord love you, my dear. You think they practiced secrecy because they were recusants? Nay, the Romillys were smugglers, child. That is how they made their coin and crafty they were with it. There’s not a square inch of this island that doesn’t hold a secret.” She turned away and busied herself for a moment before returning with a tray upon which perched a tankard. “Take it and drink,” she urged.
“Only if you will drink with me,” I told her.
She seemed pleased at the invitation. She fetched herself a tankard and we toasted before I sipped. Mertensia had been right. The cider was sweet and cold, but behind the bright apple taste was a sharp note of something dark and complex, like an excellent wine.
“You mark the difference,” Mother Nance said.
“Miss Romilly mentioned that the local apples are unique,” I agreed.
“Grown in the bones of a dead man,” she said solemnly.
I stared at her in horror.
“Heaven bless you, miss! Not a real dead man,” she said, wheezing again in amusement. “’Tis only the legend that the island was once a giant who strode across the seven seas before curling up to sleep. It is said the sea washed over him as he slept and he never waked again and only his bones were left, picked clean by the creatures of the deep and that is how the island came to be.”
“I suppose a place like this is thick with legends,” I said.
“That we are. We’ve our giant and a mermaid and more ghosts than we have living folk.”
“Ghosts—” I began, but we were interrupted by the boisterous arrival of a young boy, his dark hair tumbling over his brow as he bounded in. The cat twitched its whiskers at him but did not move.
“Hello, Gran,” the boy said, dropping a kiss to her worn cheek.
“Hello, poppet. Miss Speedwell, this is my grandson, Peter. Peterkin, this is Miss Speedwell from up the castle. You say a proper hello to the lady.”
He bowed from the waist in a gesture of such refined courtliness it would have done credit to a lord. I inclined my head. “Master Peter. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“How do you do?” he asked gravely.
His grandmother gave him a fond look. “He’s a right little gentleman, isn’t he?” she asked me. “Always reading books about his betters and practicing his manners.”
“Good manners will take him far in the world,” I observed.
“And he will go far,” Mother Nance said sagely. “I have seen it.”
“Seen it?”
“Gran is a witch,” the child said calmly.
There seemed no possible reply to this that could achieve both candor and politeness so I opted for a vague, noncommittal murmur.
Mother Nance gave another wheezing laugh as she petted her grandson’s curls. “Miss Speedwell thinks you’ve told a tale, my little love, but she’ll soon discover what’s what.”
The boy gave me an earnest look. “’Tis true, miss. Gran is a witch. Not the nasty sort. She shan’t put a spell on you and give you warts,” he said seriously. “She sees things. She has the sight.”
“The sight?”
“Things come to me,” Mother Nance said comfortably. “I do not ask them to come, mind, but come they do. Things from the past and things that have yet to be.”
“And ghosts,” her grandson reminded her.
“Aye, I have had more than a few chats with them that walk,” she agreed. She narrowed her gaze at me, but her expression was still kindly. “Miss Speedwell is a skeptic, poppet. She believes in what her eyes can tell her. She has yet to learn there is more to see than what the eyes can perceive.”
“I am skeptical, as you say. But I am willing to be persuaded,” I told her.
She laughed and exchanged a look with her grandson. “Persuaded! Lord love you, there’s no persuading to be done. Either you believe a thing or you don’t. And your believing doesn’t make it so. The ghosts don’t care if you see them or not,” she added.
I thought of
