The Shadowy Horses

"Oh," I nodded sagely. "Sort of a traveling fish-salesman, you mean."

We'd come to the end of the middle pier. A sharp right turn would have taken us over the Eye Water by a small metal drawbridge, then on around the lifeboat station to the looming bulk of Gunsgreen House. But David chose instead to lean his elbows on the bright red railing at the pier's end, and study my innocent face.

"Been sleeping with that dictionary, have you?" he asked, in a tone laced thick with amusement. "How d'ye ken what a cadger is?"

"Well, I had to look up 'ca' canny' the other day, and 'cadger' is right on the same page, so I thought I might as well memorize it, too."

He quirked an eyebrow. " 'Ca' canny'?"

"Yes. It means to take care, or be cautious."

"Aye, I ken fine what it means. Why'd you need to look it up?"

I shrugged, and leaned in my turn on the railing. “Wally said it, last week. When Jeannie went out in the car. I don't know where she was going, but Wally told her to 'ca' canny along that road.' And I just wondered what it meant."

"You could have asked."

"I don't like asking all the time. Besides," I pointed out, "my dictionary works just fine. I did know what a cadger was."

"Aye, so you did." He smiled a little and turned his face forward again, looking across to the harbor's shielded entrance. Every now and then a stiff gust of wind caught the swirl of the sea and tossed a mist of white spray over the barrier wall. I could faintly taste the salt from where I stood, and smell the cleanly biting scent of the cold North Sea. The smell of fish was fainter still, but for David, at least, it stirred memories. “He had a small business, my grandad did, selling fish up north, around Edinburgh. Mostly miners up there, in those days, with large families. Two pieces of fish to the pound was no use to them—they wanted ten pieces, to feed all those mouths. And that meant whiting. Ever clean a whiting?" he asked me.

"No."

"Bloody awful things." He grinned. "My grandad used to come to auction every day, to get his boxes of whiting, and every day when I got home from school I'd have to help to fillet them. Got a bit of a break at the weekend. There were no fish taken over the weekend, ken, so we didn't have to face the whiting till Monday teatime. But then the shed would be full of boxes again."

"Even in winter?"

"Oh, aye. Only in winter it got so cold we'd be standing on an old filleting board to keep off the floor, with rags soaked in boiling water laid across our wellies to keep our toes from freezing, and bowls of boiling water to dip our fingers in to keep them working. Christ," he shuddered at the recollection. "I hated working at the fish. We'd all get so cheesed off that we'd stop talking, after the first hour or so. Nothing to do but count the fish. Used to be two hundred and thirty-seven whiting," he informed me, "in a six-stone box. They've changed the weights now, but that's what it used to be."

I propped one foot on the red-painted railing and followed his gaze out to sea. "Is that what put you off being a fisherman?"

"Not really. You're either born to the sea or you're not, and I'm not. My mother kent that, early on. She always tells the story of how Peter caught me digging up the garden, and said that I was born to be an archaeologist."

"And he was right."

"He usually is."

It was a simple statement of fact, and I stayed silent a moment, thinking about the excavation at Rosehill. About the disappearance of the Ninth Legion, all those years ago, and about a ghostly presence that last night might have said nona . ..

A white shape glided silently beneath us, and I looked down, startled. No ghost, I reassured myself, but something just as strange. "David, look!"

"Oh, aye, the swan. I wondered where he'd got to."

"Do you mean he actually lives here? Here, in the harbor?"

The bird cocked its head at the sound of my voice, and having surveyed me with one round uncertain eye, turned smoothly and floated back underneath the little red drawbridge, seeking the relative security of the channel.

"He's magnificent," I said.

"Aye." David watched the bird's sleek figure disappearing underneath the bridge.

"Does he have a mate?"

"Not yet. There was a female here, a few years back, but she only stayed a fortnight. She couldn't seem to settle down to life inside the harbor." He turned his head and met my gaze unhurriedly. "And he's well stuck here now, that lad. Too old to change his ways."

He'd only moved his head, I thought, and yet I felt as though the space between us had grown smaller. I felt suddenly aware of just how near he was, of how little effort it would take to move toward him, feel his warmth ... to raise my hand and touch the hard unshaven contours of his face . ..

His eyes flicked down toward my lips, and back again, a smile in their depths. "Ca' canny along that road," he told me gently.

But he wasn't warning me off. No, I decided with growing amazement, watching the smile spread slowly from his blue eyes to his mouth; he wasn't giving me a warning. He was issuing a challenge.

And I was already beginning to respond to it, leaning forward, my pulse increasing crazily. when an unexpected shadow fell between us.

"Hello," said Adrian. "I thought I'd find you here."

XXII