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Calm in the Storm
Asher took Charlie at her word and had a grand rummage through the pantry, lips pursed as he tried to figure out a hearty meal for dinner. Heaven knew they both needed something to ground them after the last couple of days.
He began to assemble ingredients: eggs, salt cod, flour, butter. It wouldn’t exactly be gourmet, but it would be warm and filling. He put the cod on to boil to leach out the salt while he turned his attention to scones, flavored with a little cheese.
As he mixed his ingredients his mind turned inevitably to what they’d witnessed by the loch: the creature. He had no doubt that that was what it was; the cry, the splash, the print in the sand... Asher shook his head. He’d seen more fantastical things, but somehow confirmation of this kind of ancient lore still astonished him. Something lived in the Loch Ness–something not easily explained by what was known to science.
Was it Fae, he wondered? Truthfully he wasn’t sure it mattered—or how to find out, either—but as a point of academic curiosity, he wanted to know. It was difficult to imagine a mundane creature—or a group of creatures, it would have to be—simply existing in the loch like so many fish and escaping detection for centuries. That argued a level of intelligence, and that—he plopped the dough onto the kneading board—argued toward Fae, rather than against, at least in his opinion.
Which, he mentally allowed as he cut the dough into circles, was worth exactly nil, so there was that to be considered, and tabled the problem for the time being.
Fine. To the problem of Elias Whitfield’s disappearance: did this get them any further along?
Asher prodded the softening cod and added more water. It seemed, from Elias’ journal, that he’d had a similar revelation—perhaps an encounter even more persuasive. He’d recorded it, his jubilation communicating itself on the page through that single word: Eureka! And then... he’d vanished. His boat was still there, Asher had found no signs of a struggle. No—Elias Whitfield had left that campsite under his own steam. On foot, presumably, but to where?
Asher put some eggs on to boil beside the cod, trying to think like Elias. I have proof of the existence of the Loch Ness monster, and now I’m going to take it to... where?
He let out a breath. If they could figure that out, Asher had a feeling they’d know everything.
Soft footsteps heralded the return of Elias’ niece. Charlie stepped into the kitchen, hair no longer dripping, and pinned up off her neck in a simple bun. She checked on the kettle and then moved to the small window near the table, expression troubled.
Asher watched her, concerned. “How can I help?”
A small, cheerless smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “Can you convince the clouds to part and the sun to shine again?” She glanced at him, then her gaze returned to the storm outside. “My uncle left his coat here. It’s so cold out there and...”
He pressed his lips together and wiped off his hands before crossing to join her at the window. “Don’t do this, Miss Whitfield. It won’t help him, and it’ll drive you crazy.” Asher rubbed her upper arms gently, looking over her shoulder. “Trust me on this, hm?”
There was a pause and Charlie’s eyes met his in their hazy reflection in the window. “I do trust you, Mr. Burton.” She smiled again, though it still failed to convey any signs of true happiness. “Forgive me. You came to find my uncle and you’ve spent just as much time keeping me from worrying myself to the point of illness.”
“Nothing to forgive. When you love someone, it’s nearly impossible not to worry, I know. But imagining each small trouble, letting them add up...” He shook his head. “It only makes the nightmare worse.”
Charlie turned and contemplated him, her intelligent green-eyed gaze seeming to see straight through him. “It sounds as though you’ve experienced something similar.”
Asher wasn’t at all surprised she’d worked it out. “I have—and recently. One of my best friends was kidnapped. I was terrified.” Funny thing—he’d never said it quite so baldly before, not even to his closest friends, but somehow it was easy to admit it to Charlie.
“Were you able to get your friend back safely?” There was hope in her voice and her expression.
He smiled. “Yes—he’s fine.” There had been a lot more to it, but it was unlikely that she needed to hear anything else right now. “Home, safe and sound.” Asher leveled a look at her, meeting her gaze earnestly. “I made you a promise, Miss Whitfield. I intend to keep it.”
He was rewarded with a genuine smile, brief though it was. “You did not fail your friend. I shall trust that you will not fail me either.” She ran a hand over her hair, the action striking Asher as a physical echo of an attempt to mentally reset herself. “In that case, I will focus on helping find the solution, rather than wallowing in worry.” A loud whistle joined the patter of the rain and howling wind. “But first, a spot of tea. Hopefully, that and a warm meal will get rid of the chill.”
Asher grinned in approval and went back to the stove. Some little while later, abetted by a cup of strong tea, he served up some creamed cod over toasted cheese scones, joining Charlie at the table.
True to her word, she did not fret over dinner. Charlie tucked into the meal with enthusiasm, complimenting Asher’s cooking and even helping herself to a second plateful. Conversation with her came easily, he found, even under such strained circumstances as these.
“I’m afraid my uncle had quite a time of things when he first brought me here,” Charlie recalled, reaching to freshen her tea cup. “I was eight, and quite certain a monster took up residence in my closet.” She laughed, shaking her head. “No amount of logical discourse would convince me otherwise, bless my uncle’s efforts. In the end the only way he could get me to sleep in my own room was to build a monster trap in my closet. Of course, I insisted on helping with the design.”
Asher chuckled. “Of course. How did it work?”
“Well,” Charlie began, eyes dancing with merriment, “the rat that had been raiding my closet was quite displeased when it found itself trapped in a wooden crate.” She took a sip of tea and glanced at Asher over the brim of the cup. “I, to the contrary, felt quite satisfied to have proof of my nightly visitor. Though I was quick to inform my uncle that it likely turned into a rat after being trapped—it had absolutely been a monster prior to that. I suspect he only conceded to the idea because he grew tired of arguing with me and wanted to return to his bed.”
Asher’s chuckle changed to a laugh. “If you can’t beat them with logic, wear them out. A sound strategy.”
“And what of you? Did you have a monster in the closet, or under the bed, perhaps?” Charlie asked.
He was still laughing. “Not I. Older brothers, and that was enough for me, I promise you.” The monsters had come later, in Her Majesty’s service, he thought, sobering a bit, and shook himself. He’d chosen this life, he was good at it, it was his duty, and that was the end of it.
Charlie finished cleaning her plate for a second time and sighed. “Well, I can assure you, there are no further closet monsters in this house. But should one rear its ugly head, I believe I remember how to construct that trap.”
Asher pretended to clutch at his heart. “‘For this relief, much thanks,’” he quoted the Bard. “‘Tis bitter cold, and I am...’” he thought about it and shrugged. “Not especially sick at heart,” he amended. “Concerned, more like.”
Another smile—Shakespeare seemed to have that effect on Charlie. “Hamlet. Well done, Mr. Burton.” She placed her napkin on the table and stood up. “At least I no longer feel the bitter cold. I thought that chill would stay in my bones for weeks. Shall we clean up, or would you like more to eat? I’ve a project in mind when we’re finished here.”
He opted to clean up, and between the two of them it took little time. Asher snapped the dish towel as though cracking a whip and then hung it up in its accustomed place. “So,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “What project?”
Charlie merely shook her head and cast a twinkling sideways glance in his direction. “That is a question you’ll have to wait to find the answer to.” So saying, she left the kitchen, and a short time later Asher heard her rummaging through something in the sitting room.
He liked puzzles, so he was more than willing to wait. Besides, whatever this was seemed to be keeping her sadder thoughts at bay, and that was all to the good. Asher clasped his hands behind his back. “Shall I come in there?” he called.
The rustling stopped before she answered him. “If you like.”
“Eyes open or closed?”
He heard a laugh. “Is walking without sight one of the skills your training covered?” Another laugh. “Eyes open is acceptable.”
It was, actually. Asher grinned to himself and followed her into the sitting room.
Charlie was situated on a rather worn settee near the fireplace, with a crochet hook in her hands and a skein of grey-blue yarn in her lap. She looked up from hooking the woolen thread through a loop and welcomed him into the room with a smile. “You may sit in my uncle’s chair if you like.”
He took his seat as instructed. “What are you making?”
“I am weaving a mystery,” she said, eyes never leaving her work. “As I said before, you shall have to wait to find out.”
Well, if she wouldn’t tell him, she wouldn’t. Asher considered going to Elias’ study to search for any other possible clues, but the truth was that Charlie was distracted from her uncle’s plight and it seemed kindest to let her remain so for a while. He looked about for something to read; his gaze lit on a small pile of blank foolscap, and so he acquired a few sheets along with a lead pencil, and began to sketch.
“I’d ask what you’re drawing, but as I have denied you the details of my work, it would only be fair if you followed suit.” Charlie was looking at him when Asher glanced in her direction. She shrugged and turned her attention back to her ‘project’ though her focus seemed somewhat false, as she almost immediately peeked in his direction again.
He hid a smile. “Don’t let me disturb you.”
“Nor I, you,” Charlie chuckled, and turned back to her work in earnest.
After an hour, her project was beginning to take shape. A long strip, nearly six inches in width, and row by row growing in length. It was another half hour before she stopped and considered Asher thoughtfully. “I require your assistance, if you’d be so kind.”
He laid down his sketch, slipping another piece of paper over it, and rose from his chair. “How can I help?”
Charlie carefully gathered her work and the rest of the skein and moved to stand in front of him. She lifted the crocheted strip and then carefully looped it around his neck, adjusting where the end fell across his chest. After another minute of fussing over it, she gave a thoughtful nod. “Yes, I believe another hour or two and the length will be just right.” Asher raised his brows as he looked down at her, realizing that she was working on a scarf. She unwrapped it from his neck and returned to the settee. “It gets cold when the wind comes up off the loch. I saw you adjusting your coat to keep your neck warm.”
His mouth dropped open. “That’s for me?”
Color rose in her cheeks, but her eyes remained fixed on the stitches she was weaving. “It is the least I can do.” A pause. “Of course you needn’t wear it when you return to London, if such things are out of fashion for gentlemen.”
Touched, Asher shook his head. “I shall wear it gratefully, Miss Whitfield. I’ll never find any so well-made, I’m sure.”
The look that she turned to him was so sweet and filled with genuine pleasure that it seemed to make the light in the room shine brighter. Dimples still on full display, the pace of her work intensified. “I’ll have it finished before bed, I promise you.”
He chuckled. “I don’t know that I’ll need it then, but I thank you for your diligence.” Seeing her attention once again fully absorbed by her work, Asher bethought himself of his own small project and excused himself to the kitchen, where he examined the sketch with as objective an eye as he could muster.
Not terrible, was his conclusion, but would be the better for a little color. He glanced around the kitchen and assembled a pot of some dry onion skins and a bay leaf or two, covered them with water, and set them to boil on the stove. While waiting he lit a couple of broomstraws and let them burn to ash in a small dish, and then applied himself to the final details of his portrait. The ash served to give a grey-brown tint to Charlie’s dress, and the onion-bay mixture produced a yellowish dye that served to brighten her hair a bit. He painted it on carefully with the corner of a rag so as not to smudge the lines he’d drawn, and then left it to dry on the table while he rejoined Charlie in the sitting room.
She looked up when he returned. “Are you still hungry? I heard you moving about in the kitchen.” She put aside her work and moved to get up. “I could make you something if you like.”
“I expect it’s nearing teatime,” Asher agreed, and followed her diffidently into the kitchen, hands behind his back.
The sketch was not immediately noticed, for Charlie hurried to the cupboard and began pulling various foodstuffs out. It wasn’t until she moved to set a loaf of bread on the table that her gaze landed on the drying page. She stared down at it, slowly putting the bread aside. “It’s me...” she looked up at Asher, but her thoughts were inscrutable.
“Just a way to pass the time,” he demurred. “I hope you like it?”
“I do.” She brushed her fingers along the edge of the page. “No one has ever drawn me before.”
“Clearly a failing on the part of the artists’ community as a whole. You make an excellent subject.” Clearing his throat, Asher thought he’d better help get tea ready. “I’ll–er–I’ll put on the water, shall I?”
But he found that between the sound of the rain on the roof, the long ride back from the loch, and his interrupted sleep the night before, even strong tea wasn’t helping him to keep his eyes open. After trying unsuccessfully to hide his third or fourth yawn, he admitted defeat. “Forgive me.”
“Oh no, not at all,” Charlie replied quickly. She reached out and laid a hand on Asher’s wrist. It was nothing more than a tender kindness, but her fingers were warm, and the contact gentle. “You have done more than enough on less than enough sleep. Go to bed. I’ll see to the clean-up, and finish your scarf. Then off to bed for me as well.” She offered him a sweet half-smile. “We shall both need our rest if we are to tackle my uncle’s study tomorrow.”
He offered her his thanks and a tired smile as he made his way toward bed.