Water, Stone, Heart - By Will North Page 0,3

long discussion, one he wasn't really prepared to enter, especially with an inquisitive little girl. The plain fact was, at least part of his brain worried that he was simply running away from his grief. That, and what he was sure were the unvoiced theories of friends and colleagues about why Kat had left him—was he a wife beater, a lush, a failure in bed? Why, he realized, was a very complex question. So he dodged it.

“Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Had some already.”

“Like some more?”

“Nope. Gotta get going. Busy day.” And with that, her curiosity apparently satisfied at least for the moment, the girl hopped down and dashed off across the meadow beyond the wall.

And ever since Wednesday, that's how their days had begun. He'd throw open the top half of the door and shout, “Good morning, madam!” (She liked that.)

“Guess what, Drew?!” she'd begin, hopping off the wall and skipping to the door. Lee seemed to think every new thought needed to be introduced this way: “Guess what?! The cat's had kittens.” “Guess what?! Gonna rain later.” “Guess what?! Dad's movin' the calves today.”

Andrew had taken to answering. “I don't know, what?” just to tease her, but she just ignored him and launched right into the latest bit of local news. It was better than any morning newspaper. The news was always varied, interesting, and unexpected. It was a delightful way to start the day: a cup of hot, sweet, milky tea, and Miss “Guess What?!”

That's how today, Saturday, had started.

“Guess what, Drew?!”

“I don't know, what?”

“It's a good day for you to have my famous and ex-clu- sive guided walking tour of the river valley. Complete with sacred wells and witches!”

“Famous is it?”

“It is. Far and wide.”

“How often have you conducted this tour?”

“Loads of times.”

“Hmmm. Doesn't sound very exclusive.”

She hesitated.

“A few times, then?” he ventured.

“Nearly once!” she said, giggling behind her hand.

“Ah, now that's what I call exclusive. When do we leave?”

“Soon's you finish that tea, because—Guess what?!—Mum's taking me to Wadebridge this afternoon to get new wellies; my feet've got too big for these ones.” She hopped around on one foot and shook the other by way of emphasis.

“Well, then, I guess I'd better get a move on. I'll just get my boots.”

When he emerged again, a day pack slung over one shoulder, she was waiting by the gate.

“Where shall we begin?” he asked.

“At the bottom, of course. In the village.”

Given that he knew there was a back route from the farm directly into the valley, this seemed odd to Andrew, but he didn't argue; he liked the girl's company too much. “Right, then. Down to the village it is!”

It was a luminous morning; a bit of ground fog drifted up in wisps from the cooler fingers of the valley, evaporating quickly in the warming air. They followed a narrow lane that dipped into the side valley cut by the little River Jordan, passed a whitewashed old mill perched above the stream, briefly joined the main road from Camelford, then turned into steep, one-way Fore Street and followed it as it twisted downhill. Over the centuries, Boscastle had evolved two centers: “Top Town,” high above the valley, where they were now, and “Quay Town,” down around the harbor, though hardly anyone called them that anymore. Fore Street—which, somewhat confusingly changed its name to Dunn Street halfway down the hill—linked the two. Andrew loved the almost medieval character of the narrow street, lined as it was on both sides with squat stone cottages leaning one against the other, as if exhausted by time. They passed the village hall, the old Methodist chapel, the primary school Lee attended, and the post office. Lee rapped on the window with her knuckles and waved to Sam Bonney, who was behind the service window at the back. Beyond the post office, the street turned sharply right and plunged downhill even more steeply, paralleling the course of the Jordan, which clattered through the valley far below. Although it was barely ten o'clock when they reached the bottom, tourists already packed Quay Town as tightly as salted sardines in a barrel.

It was here that Andrew was informed matter-of-factly by his guide that there was a small fee for the tour. Ice cream seemed to Andrew a fine breakfast, so he bought Chunky Choc Ices for them both. Soon they'd left behind the crowded car park and were heading upstream through the trees bordering the Valency. The tourists all seemed to have been drawn