The Splendour Falls (18 page)

‘It's late,' I said, even though it wasn't really. Unable to look at Rhys, I slid out of the chair and went to pick up Gigi, who made a drowsy protest.

‘Sylvie.' His voice, pitched low, caught me as I turned towards the door. I paused as he straightened from the desk, crossing the small distance. After the slightest hesitation, he touched my arm, and I forced my gaze up to his, just so I wouldn't have to call myself a coward.

The moment
slipped
somehow, with the sensation of a train that starts too abruptly, before you've braced yourself. Rhys's grip tightened, and I realized I'd actually swayed on my feet.

‘I'm sorry,' he said.

‘For what?' The question was breathless with the sudden sprinting of my pulse. It was the déjà vu again, the feeling that we could be talking about any incident,
at any point in history, and not just the short time since we'd met.

‘That this happened to you.' The vagueness of his answer stretched the moment longer. ‘Having to rethink your whole life isn't easy.'

His guarded compassion made me wonder what he knew about needing to change plans. My brow furrowed, a tacit encouragement to explain. Instead, he withdrew, taking a step backwards and shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

The surrealness vanished, with the gentle bump of returning to my feet after a long, inverted lift. I took a breath and let it out, collecting myself, searching for something to fill the silence. ‘Well, thanks for the book. Sorry I accused you of being a creepy spy.'

Crap. I was pretty sure I winced visibly as soon as the words were out. I'd traded insane for inane. But Rhys seemed distracted too, maybe even a little relieved at the shift back to where we'd started this bizarre interlude.

‘No problem.' He opened the door, but instead of stepping aside to allow me to pass, he went out first, looking up and down the hall. ‘What was it you saw, exactly?'

So much for the hope he'd let the reminder pass. ‘I saw a shadow on the glass of the French door to the balcony.'

He ventured to the landing, where he could see straight down the hall to the door. ‘Nothing there now.'

‘No.' There was indirect light from his room and
from mine at the other end. The temperature was cool, but not any more than the air-conditioned comfort of the rest of the house.

‘You'll be all right?' He turned to me, then answered his own question with a hint of a smile. ‘Of course you will. You've got your vicious little dog to protect you.'

Since my vicious little dog was snoring softly in the crook of my arm, the observation was not terribly comforting. I watched Rhys for signs he was humouring me, but he seemed to take me seriously – that I'd seen something, even if it wasn't him or his father.

‘We'll be fine,' I said, though I wasn't sure of it at all.

He studied me a moment longer – but with no hint whether he bought my assurance. Whatever he was thinking, he merely said, ‘Sleep tight, Sylvie,' and moved towards his door.

‘You too,' I whispered, and went to my own room.

Once inside, with the door safely shut, I put the garden book on the desk and the dog on the bed and changed into my pyjamas, moving automatically through my nighttime routine, distracted by my thoughts.

When I'd washed my face and brushed my teeth, I stood in front of the desk, contemplating the secret drawer, and the paper inside. Where would I put any of this on the list? My conviction that the shadow had been someone watching me, and the out-of-proportion anxiety about it. The cold on the landing, and the inexplicable moment with Rhys—

Who was I fooling? Rhys would fill a page by himself.

Back to the watcher at the window. Maybe, like the creak of the chair in the study, there had been a tangible thing – a reflection, the drift of the curtain inside – that Gigi and I both saw. But that didn't explain my emotional reaction, and why I was so full of dread at the thought of discovery, when I hadn't been doing anything wrong.

I left the list where it was and grabbed the garden book, then climbed into bed with my vicious guard dog. Flipping the pages to the chapter on Bluestone Hill, I again traced the faded pencil of Dad's notes. I didn't try to decipher them in the soft lamplight. It was enough to let this evidence of his being here, of our occupying the same space in different times, connect me to his memory. Our travels together, his passion for growing things, for making art out of nature.

What would my father have thought of Rhys? I'd never had the chance to introduce Dad to a guy I was interested in. Though ‘interested in' was an inaccurately mild way of describing what I felt. What happened tonight wasn't just attraction, or romantic tingles, or even déjà vu. When we connected like that, I was convinced – the way I was convinced I'd seen an aproned woman in the kitchen, the way I was sure someone had been watching me from the window – that Rhys and I were more to each other than we were. It would explain why –
sometimes
– I was so comfortable with him, why his smile seemed familiar, why his scent tripped my switch. And also why he could get under my skin with such ease.

If this were not a completely insane idea, I would have wondered if that was why Rhys seemed confused by me, too, as if he kept expecting me to react differently to things.

But that
was
crazy, and by now I was pretty sure that column would exceed the Not Crazy one by a mile. And that meant it was time to curl up with Gigi and try to get to sleep.

I set Dad's book down, but only as far away as the bedside table, and only after running my hand over it once again. Then Gigi, jealous I was petting the book more than her, wiggled under my arm and curled up under my chin.

I
'd meant to set the alarm – there was a vintage windup clock on the nightstand – but fell asleep so quickly that I forgot. I woke early anyway, thanks to the dog licking my face, telling me she was ready for a walk.

I got up on autopilot, splashed some water on my face, wondered sleepily why I had rose soap when it should be lilac.

The thought snapped me awake. I expected lilac as I moved through my routine at the washbasin. Which couldn't be
my
routine, because I'd only been here two mornings.

Gigi whined and danced on the corner of the bed, and I was grateful for the distraction. I threw on my jeans from the night before, a clean T-shirt and my hoodie against the morning chill, then picked up the dog. With the briefest peek out the door, I slipped down the hall. At the juncture I slowed, and then turned deliberately towards the French doors. The sun glowed on the sheer curtains and the air was warm.

I sighed, unsure what I was expecting, and went down the stairs, through the den and out the side doors. From there it was easier to go through the knot garden and avoid being seen from the kitchen windows on the way to the back yard.

I yawned while Gigi finished her business, then I cleaned up after her.
This
was my morning routine. Nothing rose-scented about it.

The worn wooden steps squeaked as I climbed to the screened porch. Through the kitchen door I saw Rhys at the table, and I felt that aggravating spark again – excitement, recognition, expectation. I collected myself, focused my energy on not letting anyone see anything odd in my demeanour. The Sylvie-is-notcrazy show must go on.

While I was distracted, Gigi pranced past me as if she owned the place. ‘Lord, girl!' Clara called from the sink, where she was running water into a pot. ‘Keep that dog out of here while I'm cooking.'

Annoyance flared and I tried to temper it with a reasonable argument. ‘Can I just keep her away from the food? She's little and low to the ground.'

‘The health inspector would love that.'

With a chagrinned start, I realized there was
another man at the table with Rhys, an older man who gave me a friendly smile as he stirred sugar into a mug of tea and said, ‘You're not open yet, Clara, and I don't mind. My wife had so many dogs, I was forever picking hair out of my soup.'

‘That's not the best argument for a dog in the kitchen, Dad.' Rhys spoke dryly into his own mug before taking a sip. He'd glanced rather inscrutably at me when I came in, as if he, like me, was trying to figure out what ground we were on today.

The older man was obviously Rhys's father. Besides the identical accent – and the fact that he'd called him ‘Dad' – he also had the same facial structure – the cheekbones, the jaw, the arched brow – and the same wavy hair, though the professor's was white at the temples and scattered with silver.

He bent in his chair, clapping his hands to call Gigi. ‘Come here, little one. Aren't you a darling thing.'

She bounded over and wasted no time charming the man with all her coy puppy tricks. I followed more slowly, and since Rhys didn't make the introduction, ventured, ‘You must be Professor Griffith.'

‘Indeed I am.' He smiled, and I pictured classrooms packed with infatuated coeds. ‘And you must be Sylvie Davis. We finally meet.'

‘You see,' said Rhys, with a tinge of humour. ‘He does exist.'

My eyes snapped to him, my insides knotting in panic. His brows climbed at my reaction, and I realized he'd been teasing me. And he looked like he regretted
it, so maybe he wouldn't say anything else about our late-night chat or my imagining stalkers at the window.

I escaped his gaze and busied myself washing my hands, glancing at the kettle on the stove. ‘Is there still hot water?'

Clara set down another mug and pointed to a tin of assorted tea bags on the table. ‘I guess Paula is the only coffee drinker. What will you have, Sylvie? Scrambled, poached or boiled?' I noticed ‘none' was not an option. ‘White or wheat toast?'

‘Scrambled. And, um, wheat.' It was easier to agree than to argue about carbs. I picked a black tea, poured hot water over it, and sat in my usual spot.

As the professor played with Gigi, Rhys not-quite ignored me by straightening his spoon and napkin. I wondered if he also felt awkward and uncertain, as if we'd been up to more than talking last night. To distract myself, I tried to picture him in his family home, and wondered why his dad had talked about his mom in the past tense.

‘What was your dog's name?' I asked.

‘How's that?' Rhys's brows twisted in confusion. I supposed it was a non sequitur. I was way out of practice with small talk.

‘One of those many dogs must have been yours. What was its name?'

He finished futzing with his cutlery and said sheepishly, ‘Bendy Gaid Fran.'

‘What?' I knew kids named dogs stupid things – I mean, Gigi, for heaven's sake – but Bendy Gaid Fran?

‘Bendigeidfran,' said Professor Griffith. ‘He was a hero of Welsh myth.'

I slid an ‘I see' glance Rhys's way. ‘A heroic hero, or one of those ambiguous types who kills people indiscriminately and then has to make up for it for twelve lifetimes?'

The professor laughed. ‘I see you're familiar with Celtic archetypes.'

Shrugging, I pulled the tea bag from my mug. ‘People draw on some weird legends for ballet. It's not all sugarplums and dancing candy canes.'

‘They're really only strange to our modern sensibilities,' he said. ‘The original tales of
The Arabian Nights,
for example—'

‘Dad!' Rhys cut him off. ‘That's not really breakfast conversation. And if you get started now, we'll be here all day, and unlike the princess here, we have things to do.'

So, we were back to that. I made a face at him, but didn't let it sidetrack me.

His father grimaced in chagrin. ‘Sorry,' he said to me. ‘I'm used to lecturing.'

‘That's fine.' I looked at Gigi, who lolled on her back in the professor's lap, letting him rub her belly. ‘Rhys said you teach anthropology?'

‘Indeed I do, during the normal course of the year. I'm on sabbatical at the moment, doing some research.' He sipped his tea while absently petting the dog with his free hand, barely breaking his speech. ‘Tomorrow, for instance, I am going to a state park where there are archaeological artifacts I am excited
to see, in case they support a hypothesis I'm devel?oping.'

Clara set two plates on the table, one for me, and one for Rhys. He had Canadian-style bacon with his eggs. The toast was on an actual toast rack, and there was butter and orange marmalade. The Griffiths might not be official guests, since the inn wasn't officially open, but Clara was making them feel at home.

‘Archaeological?' I asked, picking up my fork. ‘Like the Native American mounds we saw on our way here? Is that what you're writing your book about?'

‘No. Though they are fascinating, aren't they? Up near Tuscaloosa there is a whole city of them. The similarities to the flat-topped pyramids of Mesoamerica seems to be coincidental, but—'

‘Dad …' Rhys warned.

‘I know, Rhys. But she did ask. And we can't go anywhere until you eat.'

I glanced at Rhys. ‘You're going too? More rock hunting?'

‘Not exactly,' he said, cutting into his bacon with a frustrating lack of concern for my curiosity.

Professor Griffith reached for a piece of toast, and Gigi pricked her ears hopefully. ‘I do hope Rhys's knowledge will be useful, though. We'll be examining ruins of a prehistoric fortification that uses construction techniques that were unknown to the Native Americans of the period to which the structure dates. They were, however, common techniques in Wales in the corresponding century.'

I stared at him blankly. ‘You think there's some link
between the prehistoric culture here and the one in Wales?'

Clara came to the table, delivering more toast. ‘Don't keep her from eating with your stories, Professor.'

He pointed to my plate with his corner of toast, indicating I should eat while he talked. Obediently I dug in. ‘I'm on the trail of a – well, it's almost more of a folktale. There's a story that a Welsh prince came to the New World in the tenth century to establish a colony. Some people think he landed, as the Vikings did, in the northeast. But others believe he landed in Mobile Bay and sailed up the Alabama River.'