The Burning Glass by Lillian Stewart Carl Page A

of her face. “You know what I mean. Cold stones,
old wooden floors, splinters, whatever.”
    “I’m not thinking romance had anything to do
with it.”
    “Please tell me it wasn’t those kids. They’re
so young. Sixteen, do you think? I was a lot younger than that when
I was sixteen.”
    “As was I.”
    She could imagine all sorts of
creepy-crawlies, but not Alasdair as a child. “Were they
eavesdropping on us? I’m not even sure what I said.”
    “Nothing incriminating,” he returned. He
didn’t go so far as to stretch, but his carapace had obviously
cracked a bit. A good thing he didn’t realize what the thickness of
that shell revealed about the vulnerable creature inside.
    Jean said, “I guess the kids could have let
themselves down from a window.”
    “After they replaced the inscribed stone.
Assuming Zoe was not lying about bringing it back. I should have
had Derek turn his pockets out as well.”
    “What does he have in his pocketses,
precious?” Jean murmured, evoking Tolkien to drive back the
dark.
    Alasdair emitted a dusty chuckle. From the
heights of the castle came not the harsh calls of crows but the
cooing of pigeons, liquid warbles blending with the sough of the
wind.
    Jean decided to take the switch in
ornithological commentary as a good omen. “You can show me the
chapel tomorrow. Now it’s time to get, er, cooking.”
    He rose to the bait with a thin smile. “The
gate needs closing. Then I’ll cook our dinner.”
    “No need, I’ve actually worked out some
recipes.”
    Headlights raked the side of the keep like
flares bursting over a battlefield. A car turned in through the
gateway, a tall boxy car that was probably a Range Rover. Where,
Jean asked herself, had she just seen a Range Rover? And as its
lights silhouetted her and Alasdair like soon-to-be highway
hamburger, she remembered. In the driveway at Glebe House.
     
     

Chapter Nine
     
     
    In the moment before the car stopped, Jean
envisioned their faces screwed into grimaces at the sudden light,
caught in the act. Then the headlights went out and she
blinked.
    When she could see again, she saw Minty
Rutherford stepping out onto the gravel, graceful as a mink in the
dim illumination of the car’s dome lamp. Now her tweed jacket was
draped over her shoulders, revealing a string of pearls looped down
the front of her sweater. She pushed the door to, extinguishing the
light, and turned toward Jean and Alasdair with her hand extended.
“Good evening, Mr. Cameron, Miss Fairbairn. Araminta Rutherford.
Minty, to be as casual as most folk feel they have a right to be
these days. Welcome to Stanelaw.”
    “Thank you,” said Alasdair, and shook her
hand.
    Jean always found Miranda’s designer clothes
to be entertaining. Minty’s impeccable tailoring, though, made her
feel like a peasant clinging to the back of the turnip truck. Even
the woman’s neutral shades—clothing, skin, hair, all in tints of
brown and cream—held their own in the unflattering fluorescent glow
of the yard light, while Jean knew her own complexion was glowing
like fungus.
    Fashion inadequacy was her problem, not
Minty’s. “Good to be here,” Jean said, baring her teeth in what she
hoped was a pleasant smile. Changing the stone flake to her left
hand, she grasped the paragon’s smooth, dry fingers, which only
perfunctorily returned her grasp and then wafted away.
    “What have you got there?” Minty asked.
    “A bit of inscribed rock,” answered Jean.
    “We found it in the castle just a few moments
ago,” Alasdair added, his words signaling Jean not to spill the
entire story.
    Minty reached for the stone. “Could it be
part of the inscription on Isabel Sinclair’s grave? That’s been
vandalized repeatedly over the years.”
    Having no rational excuse not to, Jean handed
over the stone.
    “The style of the letters is sixteenth
century,” said Minty, holding the artifact at pearl level.
    “You’re well informed,” Alasdair told
her.
    “Thank