appearance had not fooled Dominic. Calypso would be dreaming now. The apparition in the van behind him had been a projection from her sleeping mind, no more. Probably the girl was just protecting Sophie.
All the same, these were warnings. He was being told to stay away.
He passed one of the small farms. They were all the same: the makeshift repairs, a yard in which a dog barked incessantly, the tractor’s harvest of rust. A last half-generation was sticking to the old ways here. Their children were off to the mainland: they couldn’t get out quick enough. Dominic followed this dispiriting road to its end, to the Tor’s foot, and his destination.
The Manor was different. The blessing of money was obvious in its weed-free walls and wrought-iron gate. Here the roadside ditch became nothing less than a dry moat, suggesting a past still more grandiose. On top of the barn (in which he spotted a brand-new four-by-four) a weathercock shone like burnished gold. A radio mast reared yet higher. This was the home of Gerard Winstanley, philanthropist and sometime tycoon. Dominic, who took little interest in such things, had nevertheless heard of him – even before events brought him to Sweetholm.
Ten years earlier, Winstanley had quit his very public life in disgust and withdrawn to the island, where he had declared himself reborn. By now the Manor had evolved into a retreat for social misfits, a commune, even a kind of cult – depending on one’s choice of newspaper. Two summers ago, Sal Renshaw had arrived with her son Harper. A year later Sal’s friend Sophie – Dominic’s only sister – had brought her infant daughter there.
Dominic, with a quarantine authority from the Commander of his Order in his pocket, was wondering whether he would have to take them all away again.
Sal sat cross-legged on the bed, with the crocheted blanket pulled over her shoulders. The blanket hung down and gathered on the floor in a dark blue pool, in the middle of which Calypso lay half-submerged. Calypso was asleep, or seemed to be. Her eyes were closed, so far as those eyes could ever be said to close. Her chest moved a little with her breathing, but her fingers worked the blanket ceaselessly. Sal watched them sift the wool, stab and pluck and skein it. Sal too was drifting toward slumber.
Sophie and Calypso. Last summer had made them in love with Sweetholm. How fearless Calypso had been of the bees as they gathered honey! Winstanley had been intrigued by her even then. They lived in a golden cage of memories: the harvest of wild flowers; the mead they brewed in huge glass jars, wafting with heather and thyme; Harper’s wood and weed drift from the beach. Calypso’s fingers, usually clumsy, had yet proved so clever at tweaking out a thread to just the right thickness, then letting the spindle weight twist down. Although she could not hold the needles properly, she loved the Jacobs’ wool, losing her hand in the thickness of the new fleece.
At that time she and Sophie were only meant to be visiting, but the visit lengthened and the days grew shorter, and when the summer ferry stopped its run they were still there, and going back to England had become somehow unthinkable.
It was summer again, but a fire still smoked in the great hearth. The slate tiles were warm as skin. More warmth fell from the lozenge of window light, into which Sal’s feet just crept. A string of red glass beads threw a loop of light down, enchained the child’s neck and waist. Harper would be back soon and Sophie was still talking outside. Her visitor said little, but his voice implored her, and Sal could hear his words over the scarlet embers’ hiss.
“I haven’t come to spy on you!”
“No one accused you, Dominic.”
“Then why are you so suspicious?”
He was pacing about on the slabs, moving round Sophie, who would be sitting so still by now. Sal knew her well, how she would shrink back from a raised voice and make herself small and hard as a pebble. Sophie had a bit of that tough magic. And she wasn’t frightened, even if he seemed to be laying some kind of doom on her.
“Come into the house, Dominic. Let’s talk there.”
He said in a new, hesitant voice, “But Calypso, she’s asleep.”
“It’s all right. Come in.”
And the door opened, and in came Sophie with her brother’s hand in hers, and he seemed to have given up the idea of freaking Sophie out, at least for now. Sal nodded to him and got up to poke the fire. Calypso’s grey eyes flickered. Sal could see that Dominic felt awkward with her in the room. Let him. She wasn’t going anywhere.
“Hi, Sal,” he said. “It’s been a while.”
“Hello, pet. Are you staying?”
He put his backpack on the big pine table. The weight of it was a kind of answer.
“You’ve got a good place here,” he said. Sal saw him looking it over. Paternoster over the lintel, joss sticks, the glittering witch ball. “You’ve been weaving spells to keep the bad guys out.”
“The sea is our moat,” said Sophie, smiling. “The cliffs are our castle walls. And Sweetholm is just what it says.”
“Calypso looks content.”
“She is. She’s very content. Sweetholm suits her.”
“She’s got a kind of … sheen to her. I never noticed from the photos. Oh, Sophie—”
“—Dominic!” said Sophie simultaneously. They both giggled, like children. There was something going on between them that Sal could only guess at.
Dominic looked at her. “And you’ve given her this shelter, Sal. You’re a good friend.”
“I try to be. But we’re not alone here. Didn’t Sophie explain?”
“Oh, I realise it’s a colony. Where is everyone? Where’s Harper?”
“Getting supplies from the Haven. You probably passed him.”
Dominic hesitated. “I don’t think I—”
“He’s twice the height he was. You wouldn’t recognise him.”
“She’s right, Dominic,” exclaimed Sophie, “it’s been far too long.”
At once they were talking. Sal watched them for a while, protective of Sophie, careful of herself. Dominic was the only one who could shut Sal out. Sophie did not even realise she was doing it. They had too much past to be able to go beyond it, a complicated family situation that Sal had more or less given up trying to understand. But sooner or later they would have to reach Sweetholm, and today. Sal pulled the blanket round her shoulders, lay back on the narrow bed, and slept.
Calypso likes the sea air. It fills her eyes with light. It splays her webbed fingers and sends her clambering up the sandy grass, the last dune before the ocean. There she goes, the little selkie child.
The first time she dived into the water, she cut it like a blade. It fell back and she danced on it. Sal felt Sophie beside her, taut with the fear and the excitement, terrified that Calypso would turn her face out to the horizon. She might swim to that horizon and the air would flit with birds, and the porpoises would nuzzle her belly. She would glide on and forget herself, and her legs, with their duck-footed clumsiness, would melt
