Page 43 of The Shadow Key

Linette presses her lips. Henry gives her a pointed look but, thankfully, falls silent, turns away.

Their argument, it seems, is at an end, though neither of them has won it. She considers the young doctor’s broad back. Never has she met anyone who could hedge around a subject as well as she, never has she met anyone whose temper blows similarly hot and cold, and Linette cannot decide if she likes the fact.

At present Henry is looking at her wall of bookshelves. One is set aside for Plas Helyg’s ledgers, the other for her books on farming and agriculture. Linette watches him take in the treatises and annuals, subscriptions and journals. He stops at a middle shelf, reads the spine of Anderson’s Essays Relating to Agriculture and Rural Affairs, his mouth moving noiselessly over the title.

‘Impressive,’ he murmurs.

Linette feels a twinge of pride.

‘I order them in from London. Nowhere here stocks texts on modern methods of land management.’

‘You read them all?’

‘I do.’

‘All of them?’

‘Of course.’

‘And these ledgers …’ He counts them. ‘One for each season?’

‘Ie. I keep meticulous records.’

Henry turns around. His look of admiration is unmistakable.

‘When you told me you managed Plas Helyg’s estate I never fully appreciated the enormity of the task. Seeing your library –’ and here he gestures at the shelf housing the ledgers – ‘the administration such a task requires … well, it puts things into a different light.’

She touches her tongue to the roof of her mouth, dares to test him.

‘You must agree that a madwoman could hardly be so well-read.’

He stares a moment. Then he barks a short laugh, turns back to the shelves, continues perusing them. At length he reaches out to stroke the spine of a green book lower down.

‘You have some Welsh texts here too.’

Linette rises from the chair, goes to stand next to him, plucks the volume of Welsh folklore from the shelf.

‘A book from my childhood,’ she murmurs. ‘It tells of the namesakes of Gwydion and Pryderi. Of Merlin.’

She flicks through the pages, the old myths and legends she could recite off by heart. Linette remembers how Enaid would read them to her as a little girl tucked up tightly in bed, and even then – at so young an age – she would wish it were her mother telling the tales of Branwen and Blodeuwedd and Bedwyr instead.

The memory pains her. Linette places the book back on the shelf.

‘How went your visits today?’ she asks. ‘Aside from your encounter with Cai.’

Henry grimaces. ‘I looked in on Tomas – he does a little better, by the way – then the coastal cottages, then tried my luck with the ones in the square. All refused to see me.’

‘I am sorry for it. Truly, I am.’

Henry says nothing. Linette licks her lips.

‘You asked what “sais” meant.’

‘Yes.’

She hesitates. ‘There is no literal translation for the Welsh language does not always work that way, but …’

‘But?’

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