the floor, trembling, trying to calm herself and take in her surroundings.
The floor, like the rest of thefolly, was brick. Wooden shelves and cupboards, some split and rotten, lined the walls. There were four small windows, spaced at equal distances around the room—one for each compass point, she thought—and a ladder in the middle that went up to what appeared to be a small trapdoor. Once perhaps, the windows had been glazed, but now they were open to the elements. Rays of sunlight poured in throughone, and from the forest all around came an ecstasy of birdsong. Under the sunny window were a table and chair, both modern folding ones. Someone had been working there, for they’d left several sheets of paper and a reporter’s notebook. She got to her feet and idled over to discover newspaper articles printed from the Internet, and read about an expected meteor shower. The notebook was filled withscrawled notes and diagrams. And suddenly she felt that she wasn’t just trespassing on someone else’s land, but intruding on something more personal: their work. Two hundred-odd years ago, this was where Anthony Wickham had worked. Now someone else came up here to think about stars. There was a strong sense of these people’s presence. She felt uncomfortable, as though she should apologize and leave.
Crossing the floor back to the stairs, she passed objects on the shelves. There were a couple of paperback books, curled up with damp, a pen pot with a spray of dusty pencils. There were odder things, too. A great slice of knapped flint—the head of an axe or another tool, she supposed, picking it up and examining it. A pair of men’s spectacles glared at her, the tortoiseshell frames scuffed anddull. The elderly binoculars hanging on a nail nearby proved irresistible. She walked around to the windows with them, one by one, looking for a view. Only through one could she see anything but trees. Amazingly, this window gave onto a vista of Starbrough Hall, like a doll’s house in the distance. She scrubbed at the grimy lenses with spit and the hem of her shirt, and, looking again, could makeout the library and the tiny figure of Robert walking away from his car and under the arch. It surprised her that she could see the house from the tower, but not the tower from the house. She wondered if this had always been the case or if the growth of the trees had lately made it so.
As she hung the binoculars back on the nail she glanced up curiously at the trapdoor. She knew her limits: itwould be stupid to climb up alone and open it—what would happen if she fell? But she did long to know what was on the other side—open sky, perhaps, or another room like this? Regretfully, she lowered herself backward onto the staircase, like a sailor descending a ship’s ladder. She would have to come back another time with Euan. The thought was a pleasant one.
Emerging, trembling and dusty, fromthe bottom of the folly, she hauled the door closed, shot the bolt and hung the padlock exactly as she had found it, not locked but looking as though it were. It would be responsible to lock it, but then whoever had left it like that might be annoyed. A sudden picture of a child pulling it open and mounting the steps decided her, but when she squeezed the thing shut, it refused to stay locked.She left it. There was nothing else to be done.
She turned to walk back to the path, aware that time was moving on, but her eye was caught by something, a mound of fresh earth on the edge of the clearing. It was too big to be a molehill. She walked over, for a moment uncomprehending, then realized it must be where Euan had buried the muntjac. The earth was dark brown, rich in loam. Somethingyellowish stuck up from the soil. She pulled it out. It was a broken bone, the thickness of a hose, evidence of something much longer dead than the deer. She dropped it, thinking nothing of it.
She stood up, looking around, troubled by a curious feeling she was being watched, but
The floor, like the rest of thefolly, was brick. Wooden shelves and cupboards, some split and rotten, lined the walls. There were four small windows, spaced at equal distances around the room—one for each compass point, she thought—and a ladder in the middle that went up to what appeared to be a small trapdoor. Once perhaps, the windows had been glazed, but now they were open to the elements. Rays of sunlight poured in throughone, and from the forest all around came an ecstasy of birdsong. Under the sunny window were a table and chair, both modern folding ones. Someone had been working there, for they’d left several sheets of paper and a reporter’s notebook. She got to her feet and idled over to discover newspaper articles printed from the Internet, and read about an expected meteor shower. The notebook was filled withscrawled notes and diagrams. And suddenly she felt that she wasn’t just trespassing on someone else’s land, but intruding on something more personal: their work. Two hundred-odd years ago, this was where Anthony Wickham had worked. Now someone else came up here to think about stars. There was a strong sense of these people’s presence. She felt uncomfortable, as though she should apologize and leave.
Crossing the floor back to the stairs, she passed objects on the shelves. There were a couple of paperback books, curled up with damp, a pen pot with a spray of dusty pencils. There were odder things, too. A great slice of knapped flint—the head of an axe or another tool, she supposed, picking it up and examining it. A pair of men’s spectacles glared at her, the tortoiseshell frames scuffed anddull. The elderly binoculars hanging on a nail nearby proved irresistible. She walked around to the windows with them, one by one, looking for a view. Only through one could she see anything but trees. Amazingly, this window gave onto a vista of Starbrough Hall, like a doll’s house in the distance. She scrubbed at the grimy lenses with spit and the hem of her shirt, and, looking again, could makeout the library and the tiny figure of Robert walking away from his car and under the arch. It surprised her that she could see the house from the tower, but not the tower from the house. She wondered if this had always been the case or if the growth of the trees had lately made it so.
As she hung the binoculars back on the nail she glanced up curiously at the trapdoor. She knew her limits: itwould be stupid to climb up alone and open it—what would happen if she fell? But she did long to know what was on the other side—open sky, perhaps, or another room like this? Regretfully, she lowered herself backward onto the staircase, like a sailor descending a ship’s ladder. She would have to come back another time with Euan. The thought was a pleasant one.
Emerging, trembling and dusty, fromthe bottom of the folly, she hauled the door closed, shot the bolt and hung the padlock exactly as she had found it, not locked but looking as though it were. It would be responsible to lock it, but then whoever had left it like that might be annoyed. A sudden picture of a child pulling it open and mounting the steps decided her, but when she squeezed the thing shut, it refused to stay locked.She left it. There was nothing else to be done.
She turned to walk back to the path, aware that time was moving on, but her eye was caught by something, a mound of fresh earth on the edge of the clearing. It was too big to be a molehill. She walked over, for a moment uncomprehending, then realized it must be where Euan had buried the muntjac. The earth was dark brown, rich in loam. Somethingyellowish stuck up from the soil. She pulled it out. It was a broken bone, the thickness of a hose, evidence of something much longer dead than the deer. She dropped it, thinking nothing of it.
She stood up, looking around, troubled by a curious feeling she was being watched, but
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