Bourn’s Edge (4 page)

A few more paces took Cassie past the GP’s surgery and a little hardware shop where her Dad could have spent several enjoyable hours browsing. A splash of colour caught her eye, and she found herself peering in the window of an art shop cum gallery. Several of the paintings were hunting scenes by an artist who signed himself “Tarian.” Odd how the horses had been painted true to life yet everything else seemed distorted. The dogs were too large, and the trees and spear-carrying riders looked oddly elongated. She shrugged and continued on, the hollow feeling in her stomach propelling her across the road, past the pub, to the post office store.

The bell above the door tinkled as she pushed her way inside. The little shop was divided into two. The postmistress was in the post office half, behind the grille, weighing a parcel for a customer. She looked up, smiled at Cassie, and pointed.

“Baskets are over there.”

Cassie smiled her thanks, grabbed a shopping basket, and began to peruse the crowded shelves in the other half of the shop.

Chicken and mushroom pot noodles? Perhaps not
. The bell over the door tinkled, and the postmistress called out a greeting.
Weetabix. Hm. There are sachets of sugar in my room. If I were to buy some fresh milk
. . .

A shadow fell over her, and she turned to find the postmistress standing behind her and the shop now empty.

“You’ll be that Cassie Lewis who’s staying with Liz Hayward.” The young woman’s bright eyes and cheeky manner reminding Cassie of a robin. “Word gets around.” She scanned the contents of Cassie’s basket: a tin of corned beef, a Kit Kat, a packet of salted peanuts, and an apple. “Didn’t go for Liz’s packed lunch, eh? Can’t say I blame you. Bread’s over there.” She pointed to a shelf of pre-sliced loaves.

“Thank you. I was looking for those.” Cassie popped a wholemeal loaf in her basket, added a packet of butter from the chilled food cabinet, and, for something to read, a copy of The Guardian.

“If you ever get peckish,” said the postmistress, “the Green Man does decent pub grub.”

“Thanks. That’s worth knowing.”

“I’m Cath, by the way. What brings you to Bourn’s Edge in the off season?”

“Just passing through. Seemed as good a place as any to stop while I get my car fixed.”

“I heard you’d been in an accident.” Cath glanced at the basket. “That your lot?” Cassie nodded and made her way to the counter.

While Cath rang up her purchases, she looked around the little shop and saw a corkboard with notices and adverts pinned to it. She went to investigate. The “Bring and Buy” at the church hall that afternoon might be worth going to—it would give her something to do, and, in her experience, such events sold great homemade cakes. Then an announcement about a Scarecrow Contest, to be judged this Saturday by the vicar, caught her attention.

“Oh, so
that’s
why.”

Cath followed the direction of her gaze. “Why there are scarecrows all over the village, you mean?” She laughed. “Tradition. Can’t remember who started it or when, but we do it every year. To raise funds for the church spire.” She rang up the last item. “It’s ten pence for a carrier bag, I’m afraid. Would you like one?”

Cassie nodded and pulled out a ten-pound note. While Cath counted out her change, a thought struck her, and she glanced back towards the corkboard with its “for sale” and “wanted” ads. If this Armitage business were to go on for any length of time . . .

“If I wanted to rent a room in Bourn’s Edge for a few months, Cath—somewhere cheaper than the B & B—is there anywhere?”

The postmistress pursed her lips. “Not that I know of. But someone might be prepared to rent out a room for a short while if you asked them nicely. Tarian Brangwen, for example. She’s got that house up by the forest. It’s more space than she needs. ’Course, she’s a bit of a loner, and there are those two lolloping, smelly dogs of hers. But you never know until you ask, do you?”

“Tarian.” Cassie frowned. “Isn’t that the signature on those paintings in the art shop window?”

Cath beamed. “Fancy you spotting that. Yes. Same person. She’s an artist. Pretty good too, they tell me, though her stuff’s not to my taste. Can’t do people,” she confided. “Paints them all a bit on the tall side. But what can you expect? She’s a bit on the tall side herself.” She laughed.

“And she lives where? By the forest, you said?”

“Strictly speaking we all do. They cleared Bourn Forest to make way for the village. But there’s still some of the original left, and Tarian’s place is right next to it.” Cath pointed back the way Cassie had just come. “Keep going uphill, past Mike’s garage—you know where that is, don’t you?—for a quarter of a mile. It’s on its own. If you come to the stile and the public footpath, that means you’ve gone past it.”

AFTER A LUNCH of bread and cheese, Tarian strode down the hill towards the village, Anwar and Drysi bounding at her heels. The landscape she had finished last week and framed yesterday was wrapped in brown paper and string and tucked under one arm. She hoped Bryan in the art shop would be able to sell it for her.

There was no point in worrying about Einion’s unexpected visit or the news he had brought. What would happen would happen, and she would deal with it when it did. For now, she enjoyed the stretch of muscles cramped from standing at her easel too long and the feel of the Spring sunshine on her face.

“Afternoon, Ms. Brangwen,” came a man’s voice out of nowhere.

Puzzled, she slowed. A spiky-haired head popped up from behind a small, blue car with a battered boot. Mike waved at her. His cheeks were, as always, streaked with oil.

“Afternoon.” She waved back and picked up the pace once more.

A scarecrow had appeared in the Green Man’s car park—a witch, by the look of her. That made thirty-two entries by Tarian’s reckoning. The Rev. Simon Wright would have his work cut out choosing a winner this year.

The man himself was crossing the road towards the church hall, that cursed cross of his banging against his chest. Low growls made her glance at Anwar and Drysi—they looked ready to launch themselves across the road at him. She called them to heel, and the vicar threw her a nervous smile of thanks before fleeing indoors.

Tarian gave a mirthless grin. From their first meeting it had been clear the vicar felt uneasy about her, and also that such a lack of charity without an obvious cause mortified him. But she bore the man no ill will. Did he but know it, his reaction was instinctive. The Church’s followers had been at odds with Tarian’s kind for millennia. What she did resent was that cross. Though the legends had got it wrong about cold iron’s lethality to the Fae, it set her teeth on edge.

Anwar nudged her thigh, and Drysi made a sound in the back of her throat. From the prick of their ears and furious tail wagging, something had caught the dogs’ interest. She looked up and saw a short woman in a suede jacket, blue jeans, and boots walking towards the church hall, where more cars than usual were parked.

Of course. Today’s the Bring and Buy
.

Something about the woman snagged Tarian’s attention the way it had her dogs’, and she didn’t think it was just that she was attractive and blonde, and there was a sensuous sway to her walk. “Stay,” she ordered, as Anwar and Drysi started forward. With a grumble of protest, they obeyed.

Tarian extended her senses. Though the woman appeared calm and collected, and her thoughts were focussed on, of all things, homemade cakes, she was as tense as a bowstring. Tarian probed a little deeper. Beneath the surface roiled agitation, fear, and, not loneliness exactly, but a feeling of being helpless and alone.

The woman must have sensed her interest, for she turned and for a moment locked gazes with Tarian. Curiosity sparked in those green eyes before the woman ducked her head and broke the contact between them. She walked on towards the church hall.

While it was second nature for the Fae to live in the moment, Tarian had discovered that mortals rarely did. Everyday fears and anxieties dogged their waking hours. If they weren’t worrying about a nagging pain, they were fretting about thinning hair or a crack in the ceiling. But the anxiety this woman was trying to suppress was more than that. It was the panic prey feels when it knows a predator is on its trail.

What could be hunting her?

On impulse, Tarian traced a glyph with her fingers and muttered a phrase. With a casual flick of her fingers, disguised as brushing dirt from her sweatshirt, she activated the ward she had created and sent it flying towards its target, ignoring the momentary headache that triggering the spell had caused. The sparkling mote attached itself to the sleeve of the woman’s suede jacket. It was invisible to mortal eyes, but if danger should threaten her, Tarian would know.

After the woman had disappeared inside the church hall, Tarian made for the post office. Bryan and the art shop could wait. She would kill two birds with one stone—while she purchased postage stamps and a loaf of bread, the gossipy postmistress would tell her all she knew about Bourn’s Edge’s attractive visitor.

“EVERYTHING ALL RIGHT, dear?”

Cassie pushed her empty plate to one side and patted her stomach. “That was delicious.”

Liz smiled. “There’s apple crumble for dessert. Or you can have fresh fruit salad, or cheese and biscuits, or—”

“Fruit salad please.” Though she adored crumble, the lasagne had left her no room for it.

While Liz took the dirty plates back through to the kitchen, Cassie took the opportunity to survey the dining room. There were framed photos on the shelf above the radiator. Several featured a younger version of the landlady. Many were obviously holiday snaps, and she was always arm in arm with a handsome man with a bushy moustache. There were also a few photos of a young boy in school uniform. He seemed to be trying out different hairstyles—in the last one, his fringe flopped into his eyes.

A rustle announced Liz’s return. “My son, Robert.” She had caught the direction of Cassie’s gaze. “He’s thirty-one now. Works as a civil servant in Ludlow.” She placed a bowl of sliced apples, bananas, and strawberries on the table, and next to it a jug of double cream. “The man’s my husband, Bill. He died ten years ago. Help yourself, dear.”

“Thanks.” Cassie helped herself to fruit salad. “You must miss him.” She reached for the jug.

“I do.” Liz shrugged. “I don’t mind telling you, things were a struggle after he died. That’s why I took to doing bed and breakfasts.”

Cassie picked up her spoon and began to eat. “Do you get many customers?”

“To be honest, no.” Liz took the seat opposite her, as though settling herself for a nice long chat. “We’re not exactly on the beaten track. Mostly people are just passing through, like yourself. Those that come on purpose come for the forest: ramblers, bird watchers, artists like Tarian Brangwen. It’s one of the few areas of ancient woodland left round here, you see.”

“How ancient is ‘ancient’?”

Liz laughed. “I’ve no idea. You want to ask Tarian. She spends a lot of time in the forest. Probably knows more about it than us locals.”

Cassie remembered her encounter with the artist in the High Street—who else could it be with those dogs? They hadn’t exchanged a word, yet Tarian had left a deep impression on her, and she found she kept thinking about her, that long black hair, those striking blue eyes. “She’s very tall, isn’t she? Rather exotic-looking too.”

“I suppose she is. Would have made a good supermodel.” Liz drew a pattern on the tablecloth with her forefinger. “Most men like their women shorter than they are, don’t they? Maybe that’s why she’s not married yet.”

Cassie could think of other reasons. “Aren’t any of the eligible bachelors in Bourn’s Edge tall?”

The landlady pulled a face. “Our only bachelors are Mike up at the garage and the vicar. And to be blunt, a woman would have to be pretty desperate to take on either of them.”

Cassie laughed. “Well, at least Tarian has her dogs for company.”

“Those dirty great brutes!”

“I know what you mean.” Cassie too had been struck by their size. She remembered the rough brindled coats, deep chests, sleek muzzles, and alert, intelligent eyes. “What breed are they?”

“Supposed to be wolfhounds,” said Liz, “but I’ve never seen one like that on Crufts. Tarian seldom goes anywhere without them. Had them with her when she stayed here, as a matter of fact.” She grimaced. “House stank of wet dog for months. It was after that I brought in the ‘no pets’ rule.”

“She stayed here?”

“It was a couple of years ago. Must’ve been about this time of year, too. She just turned up one morning, looking like something the cat had dragged in. Never
did
say what had happened to her, but my guess is she was involved in an accident. With hindsight, I reckon she was in shock. She had no car and no luggage, no money either. Just the clothes she stood up in and those dogs. To tell you the truth, I was in two minds whether to let her stay, but I couldn’t turn her away, now, could I?”

Cassie smiled at her. “How long did she stay?”

“A week, I think it was,” said Liz. “By the end of it, though, she’d pulled herself together, got a huge roll of banknotes from somewhere, and started looking for somewhere to live. I was the one who put her on to the forester’s house. It had been empty for years. Looked a wreck from the outside but I knew that was superficial and it was sound as a bell. Didn’t take her long to knock the place into shape. By way of thanks she gave me one of her paintings—my son has it on his wall in Ludlow—and that bench in the front garden.”

“The one with the scarecrow sitting on it?”

Liz chuckled. “That’s
meant
to be Prince Charles but he didn’t come out quite right. Don’t suppose he’ll win. Competition is the steepest I can remember. Janet Edwards has done a witch on a broomstick that makes your flesh creep, and Gary Jones has made a brilliant pirate. He’s got an eye patch, a parrot, and a wooden leg. Well, both legs are wooden, but you know what I mean.”

Cassie finished the last of her fruit. “I enjoyed that,” she said, putting down the spoon. “Thank you.”