One Silver Summer Page 12

  Sass thought of all the pictures in the universe that must exist of Alex and his family. Thousands, maybe? And yet none had registered with her like this one, except in passing. When did a face in a photo mean something? Did you have to know the person? Or could a face be what you wanted it to be in your head? She gazed at GI Joe again. He looked so like her that Sass felt she ought to know him. A relative? She had precious few of those. Or was he just some other dead family mystery she knew nothing about? Like her dad. She had no idea who he was, or why he’d never come forward after Mom died.

  Sass leaned on the sill and tipped her head back to look up at a diamond-bright circlet of stars that had come out in the sky, the moon marking the way “to infinity and beyond.” Buzz Lightyear, she smiled, her all-time superhero. What would he think was happening? Was she flying, or falling with style? It was just her and Alex, and the world could wait.

  A long way from civilization, Cressida Slater sat in the dingy bar of the Stragglers. She looked around at the leather-faced locals downing their Saturday night pints; all she wanted was a little worm for her line. Who the pretty fish was that the prince had gone swimming with today? Since the little wriggler on camera wasn’t Princess Plum, despite the girl’s best tip-off. Her photographer, Silvio, had done well, but now she needed a name.

  She began with a text to the heiress, pretending she was still waiting for her news. Miss Benoist messaged straight back.

  I changed my mind.

  Cressida covered up her irritation. Little fool. Her reply, all sugar.

  Why? We had an agreement, Plum.

  Cressida weighted the line. The hook sharp.

  Not about that. The relationship. It’s over.

  What?

  Yes. I finished it.

  So soon? What happened? Someone else?

  Can’t say.

  A bite.

  Poor u! Who is she? Make it worth your while?

  Teasing now.

  I saw a name on his hand.

  Cressida’s heart beat faster.

  On his hand?

  Yes but never heard of her. Must be a nobody.

  Any girl with him was somebody.

  Tell me.

  Cressida wound the fishing line tighter and gave it a sharp tweak.

  Saskia Chapel.

  Cressida switched to email and glanced down at the photos uploading on her screen. Oh, these were good! Prince Alex, it seemed, was a two-timer like his father, and leading them all on a merry dance. So not a wasted journey. “You’re going global, baby,” she whispered to “Sass,” the world’s sassiest new mystery. All she needed now was some undeniable small proof and a headline. The devil was in the detail. She stuck her tongue out in concentration: “Castles of Sand”? Too romantic. “The Prince and His Mystery Mermaid”? Too Disney. “The Girl Who Stole a Prince.” Just right.

  Zooming in, Cressida studied the slim, chestnut-haired girl until she pixelated into a hundred pieces.

  It was Sunday. Amy sat on her morning break with a mug of sweet tea, thinking about yesterday and meeting Plum Benoist. Alex’s girlfriend wasn’t as ooh-la-la French as her name. Amy blew on her tea. She’d looked amazing arriving in that Porsche, but that’s where it ended. She’d had to watch them disappear into the house and take herself off for a bit of a cry. How could she compete with that? It wasn’t fair. Course she’d cheered up and gone to the pub, which was where she’d bumped into Dan. The farrier was shoeing the horses behind her now. Came every five weeks without fail, even worked on Sundays. “You and me both,” she whispered. Amy could hear the hiss of his furnace. The young blacksmith was good. He handled the youngsters gently and kept the older ones sound. Had every stable girl fancying him for miles around. She watched him wrestle a hind shoe off, blond and strong-armed in his vest and leather apron.

  Putting her mug down, Amy sank back against the buckets she’d scrubbed out. One last daydream before she got back to work, no naughtier than chocolate. She closed her eyes, but instead of Dan and a comfy haystack, she was at a polo match smelling gorgeous, her hair all clean and blow-dried; not a single split end in sight. She was presenting the trophies and Alex was laughing with his hand on her waist. He’d just leaned over to whisper …

  Clang!

  The hammer of Dan’s anvil and Amy spilled her tea. What was she doing dreaming? It was all pants anyway! She hated what those polo ponies put up with. She’d even seen that polo player, the famous one, Eduardo, in the flesh last night. Not naked; she pulled a face at the thought, though he was ever so tanned with shaggy black hair. Real too, not fake: his tan, not his hair. He’d flown in to Trist with Alex’s mother in a helicopter; smiled at her like he was a rock star with very white teeth. What was he was doing with the princess? She had to be over forty. Amy knew all about Alex’s parents. Didn’t everyone?

  Some nosy reporter had been at the pub last night, offering cash for anything on Alex and someone called Saskia. Who? She’d got that all wrong! There was only a Plum and she’d so wanted to rat on her. It was more money than Amy earned in a week. Not that that made it right. Nobody local would spill about Alex. Not on purpose. The countess was like legend around here. Tempting, though.

  Plum had gone by the time Amy got back. Dan had given her a lift home in his truck. Told her that life was too short to hang about waiting for a prince. Said it with a rough thumb on her chin like he might want to kiss her. If she wasn’t so crazy about Alex, she might have let him.

  David was rehanging some new works in the gallery when the doorbell rang. A woman he didn’t recognize came in. A thin-faced townie in smart shoes that looked out of place. She’d been standing outside for the last few minutes staring at the sign as if for divine inspiration. The gallery, he supposed, had once been a church.

  She approached the desk, hardly bothering to glance around.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “Is that your name?”

  “Is what my name?”

  “Chapel.” She looked irritably at him, as if they both knew it was a stupid question.

  “Er … no. I’m David Emerson. The gallery is called the Chapel because …” He waved at the last remaining stained window. “It was a chapel. Methodist, I think.”

  “Ha. The landlord at the Strugglers said as much. And do you own this business, Mr. Emerson? I mean, is it in your family?”

  “My family?”

  “Yes. Are you art dealers or connoisseurs or something? Collect old masters, perhaps?”

  “Maybe you’re mistaking me for someone else? I mean, if it’s a modern seascape you want, I’m your guy. Feel free to look around?”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  The woman had an inscrutable face. Not the sort he wanted to draw. She obviously read his mind because she glanced down at his sketchbook lying open on the desk. Her sharp eyes widened slightly and he found himself want to lean over the drawing of Sass, and was relieved when the woman took herself off to browse.

  She didn’t stay away for long.

  “Can I see that drawing?” she said pointedly.

  “Which drawing?”

  “That one under your arm?” She consciously softened her face with a thin smile as if she might forgive him for keeping it from her.

  “It’s just a sketch; it’s not for sale.”

  “What, a lovely drawing like that? Who is she? She looks so natural. Did you do it?”

  “I did. Yes.”

  “She must be your daughter. What is she, sixteen or seventeen?”

  “Sixteen at the end of the month.”

  “Sweet sixteen. I remember that age.”

  David couldn’t imagine she was ever sixteen. Or sweet. Her voice had the gravel of a chain smoker. Not that he could talk, but he’d stop when everything was sorted.

  “That’s Saskia, my sister’s daughter.” He remembered the look on Sass’s face last evening and added, “She was happier than I’ve ever seen her. It was a moment to capture.”

  “Had something wonderful happ
ened?”

  “Can’t think what.” It hadn’t occurred to him that something had. It certainly wasn’t the wedding. “She did have a new dress that brought out the blue in her eyes!” He laughed. Sass’s recent transformation was hard to pinpoint.

  “Ah …”

  “But I’m sure you didn’t come in here looking for a half-drawn pencil sketch of a smiling teenager?”

  “Quite right.” Her tone hardened. “What I want is much bigger. Have you any seriously huge … seascapes? These are all quite small.” She wafted her hand around the walls.

  “How big’s that?”

  “The sort you might want to show the world?”

  “Err … I have a few. They’re mostly bought by collectors, or for corporate use.”

  “Yes. That’s the sort of thing I’m after. Perhaps you’ve one or two out the back? I don’t like to ask, but I’m only passing through, you see?”

  “Sure. Won’t be a minute. There is one you might like. It’s in the storeroom. I’ll go get it.“

  “Don’t hurry,” she purred. “I’ll mind the desk.”

  Sass closed the door behind her and slipped out into the silvery Monday morning, a small canvas backpack slung over her shoulder. In her hand she squeezed the iron key like a talisman. Would the weather hold today? Even this early, the air was as warm as soup. As she crept across the headland, the sun yawned and stretched, then rolled back again behind a dark bank of cloud.

  By the time she arrived at the side gate, butterflies were dancing in her stomach. Pulling back the ivy, she took out the key and tried it in the old lock. She expected it to be stiff, but it turned with a surprising click. Shoulder to the door, she heaved it open and stumbled through to a view that made her heart stop; she’d been too engrossed all the times before with scrambling sideways.

  The rolling mist led her eye down a line of shadowy oaks, bordered by paddocks and the promise of more horses, and at the end rose a great house like a ghost galleon at sea, the faintest ray of sunshine crossing her prow. Sass stood spellbound, Alex’s name on her lips as she brushed a damp cobweb from her face. He lived there?

  Bo’s hoofbeats brought her back to the present. The gray mare had cantered up and was shaking her head over a gateway to the meadow. Sass dragged herself away and let herself through, and ran down to the water to wait.

  It wasn’t long before Alex arrived. When Bo heard Dancer, she flung up her head and whinnied. Sass looked up too and was rewarded by Alex smiling down at her, sitting tall and straight in the saddle.

  “Am I really going to do this again?” she asked, shading her eyes.

  “I thought you trusted me after last time? I hope you’re ready.” His eyes ran over her.

  She ignored the flutter in her stomach and tapped her heels together Dorothy-style. “I’m ready!”

  “You look …” He dismounted, his shirt riding up. A glimpse of taut skin as he turned to her and murmured, “Nice.”

  And with his hands on her waist, it sounded a lot like beautiful.

  It felt strange sitting on Bo in a saddle, though much easier than bareback or last time on Dancer. Better than ten times around on a flying pink elephant ride at age six. She had fallen over that time and skinned her knees, giddy with the fun of it. Mom had kissed them. If only she could see her now: Sass had changed; she’d had to, didn’t she? Not just from being a little kid. She was different now in every possible way, the knot in her heart loosening at last, like she could retie it any way she wanted.

  Alex was saying something to her about not holding the reins “properly.” Sass looked down at him. Stretched her fingers, inches away, and fought an urge to mess with his hair.

  “Sass, are you listening?”

  “Sorry, no. Tell me again?”

  “Like this. Come on, two hands. Thumbs on top. Try to remember.”

  He frowned slightly and showed her again.

  “And when you want to turn, don’t forget your legs are more important than your hands.” His eyes traveled up to her face and almost imperceptibly lightened. “But don’t worry, you’ll be fine.”

  They followed a quiet bridle path that rose inland along a wooded creek away from the meadow and the house. Under the trees, everything was muffled by the soft sound of hooves, occasionally brightened by a flash of sunlight through the foliage. Beside them, the water was flowing fast in the opposite direction, and it often seemed as if they weren’t moving at all. Time slowed to the breathing of the horses, the swish of their tails, Alex riding ahead with Bo tucked in behind.

  After maybe half an hour, they reached a clearing where the track sloped upward. Shoulder to shoulder, the horses sidled in expectation and Sass felt the same tremor run through her body.

  Alex spoke up.

  “Look, in a minute, the track opens out. The horses know it, but just sit quietly and try not to tense up. We’re only walking, but if they’re good and you’re feeling ready, we’ll have a trot and a gentle canter.” He said the word under his breath: Dancer needed no encouragement. Sass could hardly breathe.

  He was right. As they turned the bend, a grass track stretched ahead, bordered by a field of wavering silver-white poppies. Dancer was jogging now. His neck had sweated up, foamy where the reins were rubbing. Bo carried on, a mother unimpressed by her child playing up.

  “I think he’ll settle if we trot. Try to find your rhythm: rising up and down like you practiced. Hang on to her mane if you need to.”

  “You just focus on staying in the saddle yourself.” Sass laughed, because he was the one with his hands full. Dancer was as high-charged as a loaded gun.

  They started off well. Sass found the natural rhythm easily and Bo felt calm and even, puffing slightly up the gentle slope. Then just as she was feeling more confident, four deer sprang across their path. So close in front of them that Sass could see their bright, frightened eyes. And that was it. Dancer dropped his shoulder, snorted, and shot off, with Bo hightailing it after him, her horse’s heart pumping and her hooves sparking on flints.

  Sass crouched low over the mare’s neck, whispering “Whoa, girl” over and over, more to soothe herself because it made no difference, the horses’ blood was up and the two thoroughbreds were flying. Sass’s arms shook with the effort of holding on. She had to let go, she had to, but then in the moment that she did, she sat back and Bo stopped fighting her and somehow she found her balance.

  Sass dared to look ahead, only to see a sight that made her quake: a fallen tree lay across the track. Its bark-brown trunk huge and solid, its waving branches a terrifying warning. Even the wind in her ears shrieked, “Hold up!”

  In front, Sass could see Alex sit back and haul with all his strength, but Dancer was a rocket heading for the moon. A fallen tree was nothing to him. Caught off-balance in his wrestle with his rider, he jumped catlike, his head in the air, but he cleared it with ease.

  Too soon, it was Bo’s turn, for the mare was taking her there. The horse had steadied to a pulse-pounding canter, her eyes locked on the jump to come, and Sass waited, forever, for the inevitable leap. At last, she felt Bo gather herself up, her hind legs strong beneath her, and then … And then, they were soaring into the sky in a moment of heart-stopping suspension, an arc of perfect madness.

  As Bo’s front feet touched down, Sass sat back, her feet braced against the stirrups. Oh my god, they’d made it, and she’d never felt so alive.

  Alex couldn’t believe what had just happened. Sass hadn’t fallen. He’d managed to pull Dancer up at the summit of the hill and wasn’t sure who was breathing harder, him or the horse. He watched Sass canter up behind him sitting remarkably straight; only her hands clutched in Bo’s mane gave her away.

  “God, I’m so sorry.” He reached out and caught her wrist. “Dancer just took off.”

  “Don’t think you’ll do that again …” she said, still breathing heavily, “… gallop off and leave me standing.”

  She was grinning from ear to ear and relief flooded through
him.

  “You’re amazing, you know?”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Really?”

  “Really, truly, incredibly. I can’t seem to ditch you!”

  “Better stick with me, then …”

  “Don’t worry. I intend to.”

  He straightened up, sure in his own mind.

  “Where are we heading?”

  “Somewhere I think you’ll like.” He looked up at the sky. “I’m just hoping the weather will hold.” The clouds were hunkering down.

  “Really? Where?”

  “You’ll see; it’s not far from here.”

  There was only one other place where Alex knew they could be alone, from a time in the past when secrets were guarded by knights and paid for with lives.

  They rode farther inland, climbing a steep-sided ridge that seemed to cradle the estate in the curve of its arm. Turning in the saddle, Sass could see for miles around, and not just the way that they’d come. She could see the ocean and even the coast path stretching past the beach and on to the village. Sass patted Bo’s neck, the mare’s long mane lifting in the shifting wind; they weren’t far now from the top of the rise.

  When they came to a cluster of wind-blown trees, Alex reined in and dismounted. Sass slid off too, grabbing on to the saddle as her knees buckled.

  “I’m going to ache tomorrow.”

  “Stop whining and come here.”

  She went over to him. Alex left Dancer to graze, tucking his reins behind his stirrups, and did the same with Bo. Then he stepped behind Sass and put his hands over her eyes.

  “Keep walking until I say you can open them.”

  “Seriously?” she said with a huff, but still did as she was told.

  She must have taken about twenty stumbling steps.

  “Okay, now you can.”

  She was standing in front of a tower, a ruin really, fallen to pieces and overgrown with flowering brambles and ivy.

  “It’s twelfth century … what’s left of a castle keep. Not that there’s much left. Too many storms.”