Crossing Paths
The cottage had been put neatly back to rights. Whoever she was - she was fastidious - he would give her that much. "Why the hell is she here?" he wondered. It did not matter. What mattered was finding what he needed. He had searched everywhere but the sleeping chambers the prior day.
Running his hands through the rough tumble of curls on his head, he looked about the small kitchen and sitting area for any spots he might have overlooked. He would have to be more careful this time. It wouldn't do to have her calling the locals in. He was lucky she hadn't done that already. Brave chit she was (or profoundly stupid), either way it worked in his favor. He didn't have the guarda on his back and that helped a great deal. They weren't the sort of blokes who would understand what he was trying to do. Their kind never did.
He felt the rough stubble on his jaw, remembered he had not shaved in several days. Best not get caught looking like this, he thought, he would scare her right out of her socks if she caught him now. Where was she anyway? He had not seen her leave for her morning trot along the cliffs. Odd occupation that, for a woman alone here on the coast, to go off running every morning. He shook his head, "Enough." He was not here to dwell on some foolish American. He needed to start searching.
He started in the unused chambers first. There were two of them: each had linens laid out, but the beds were not yet made. It was clear that someone had taken the time to oil and polish the old wood frames of the beds and heavy wooden armoires. He found three old-fashioned bed-warmers and wondered if the strange woman with the wild dark hair would be crazy enough to try to use these to comfort her guests when the nights became chill. He hoped for the guests' sake that summer held its heat and these were for decoration only. Easier to wrap a brick of heated peat and let it smolder in your bed, all the while praying not to start a fire, than to sleep without burning your feet on one of those archaic metal devices. Though he had to admit the pans would smell a good deal better. He rummaged through the armoire in the largest room, empty but for a few hangers and two new Aran sweaters. Grumbling he got down on the floor and scrummed up under the bed on his back. Using his torch he inspected the bottom coils. Nothing hidden there either. He checked under the side table for good measure, no reason to get up only to have to crawl around like a snake to check these lower areas again. Who was it that said St. Patrick had driven all the snakes from Ireland? Apparently, human snakes did not count.
He rose gingerly, inspected the layers of linens, the windows and sighed. This room was clean. It did not even yield an interestingly creaky floorboard. He checked the next empty room with similar results. Finally he came to her chamber. This space was different from all the other rooms in the cottage. Here was the chaos of living. She had jumpers tossed about and bits of paper everywhere. It was going to be much more difficult to search this space and leave it exactly as he had found it. Perhaps with this much going on, she would not notice a few things out of place, but he suspected she would sense it even if she could not reasonably determine that things had been shifted.
He was about a third of the way through his "treasure hunt" when he heard the sounds of her unmistakable footfall coming up the path. He would have to find another time to search this room. He needed to find a way out. He spotted the small window that led out to the garden in the rear of the cottage. He had it open with one leg in the air when he spotted the little green book. "Why not?," he thought, " She canna' be making a huge fuss over missing such a tiny thing with the place being such a wreck." He slipped it inside his shirt pocket, zippered his jacket and heaved himself out the window. Turning back to close it, he could just catch the faint lilt of a tune. She was singing. He knew that melody. He knew it very well indeed.
No comments:
Post a Comment