Salby (Book 2): Salby Evolution by Ian D. Moore Page A

her beauty, she wasn’t Charley.
    The morning sun shone through the small, wood-framed window to reveal not only the length of time since the last glass clean, but also a bright, cloudless day. It was chilly now, the fire, long since out of food, had left only charred, fragmented cinders in the hearth. Only when I realised where I was, and with whom, did I sit up with a start.
    Much-needed sleep had recharged and energised me, as much as it had Barbie, by the looks of it, because she wasn’t next to me. I dressed, still fighting off the clutches of sleep, intent on locating Barbie and saying our goodbyes to the friendly lumberjack. As I opened the bedroom door to the short hallway, two things heightened my senses: The absence of any kind of birdsong, and the absence of any form of chat, music, or laughter.
    In a place so out of the way, unlikely to get much in the way of visitors let alone two foreigners in the middle of the night, what were the chances of a host having nothing to say, of not wanting to know anything? My mind raced over the possibilities. Had I underestimated Yaromir? Was Barbie in danger even now, right at this minute? I rammed through the door to the quaint living area with such intent that it rattled as it rebounded from the wall. Fortunately, my display fell upon no one. Instead, the rhythmic sound of axe-head upon wood penetrated the silence. Barbie stood, dwarfed by the sheer bulk of Yaromir, as he swung the axe down hard on the latest block of wood to be chopped for the fire. He must have been there for some time, given the size of the pile already cut.
    “Hey, sir. You woke up. You looked so peaceful I didn’t have the heart to wake you. It was, um, is, a beautiful morning. Yaromir was up with the birds so I joined him. I figured it was the least I could do to try and help repay his kindness.” She smiled.
    “Don’t start with the sir thing again, Barbie. I thought I’d made that clear,” I barked.
    She came towards me, her hand extended palm up. I took it.
    “My name is Simon. From now on, please call me Simon, okay?”
    Her hand slid from my grip as she raised her eyes to meet mine. “Understood, Simon,” she began. “How about some coffee? Do you like coffee, Simon?”
    “I, uh, yes. I do,” I babbled, somewhat perplexed by what just happened between us.
    “Yaromir! Coffee? You like coffee?” Barbie called to the big Russian.
    “Da, kofe!” Yaromir boomed. He swung the axe one more time, splitting a metre-long section of log straight down the middle in one strike. The pieces fell on either side of the thick tree trunk as Yaromir buried the axe head into it. He turned then, leaving the axe handle at forty-five degrees skyward, long strides catapulting his bulk towards the cottage. It would appear that it was now time for coffee.
    I followed the pair of them inside, my head still trying to make sense of the whole sir thing. At the wood-burning stove, Barbie had become quite the hostess, the kitchen table set with mugs, bowls, and a fresh pot of steaming coffee. She proceeded to pour for us, the liquid dark brown vitality casting swirls of aromatic steam.
    “Sit, Simon. I’ve made scrambled eggs. Would you like some?” she asked.
    “Um, yes, please. How long have you been up and about? Do you feel okay?” I queried, a little concerned at the change in her personality.
    “Oh, I feel fantastic. Not felt this good in ages. Must be the country air, I guess. We’ve been up a good few hours now, the sunrise here is amazing; you really should see it sometime,” she said, cheerily.
    Yaromir sat, heartily shovelling stacked spoons of scrambled eggs, followed by bites of toasted bread, swilled down with the hot coffee. He smiled an acknowledgement at the food, scrambled eggs English style being a treat, it would seem.
    I had just begun to relax and enjoy the breakfast, the company, and the setting when the door flew inwards. Yaromir rose fast, way too fast for a man of his size. He