The Magic Cottage by James Herbert Page A

rock-’n’-roller) – she looked positively entranced. As I was too, with my own music. No part was hesitated over, nowhere did my fingers stumble. I was overjoyed with my own dexterity, my hands confident and strong, the intricacy and the length of the composition never daunting (it always had been in the past). I made mistakes, of course, but they were lost in the flow of bright music, and when I’d finished, I think even old Segovia himself might have given me the nod. As it was, the wonder on Midge’s face was enough.
    She crawled over and rested an arm across my knees. ‘That was . . .’ she gave a quick shake of her head ‘. . . brilliant .’
    I held up my hands, palms facing me, and looked at them as though they belonged to someone else. ‘Yeah,’ I agreed breathlessly. ‘I was good, wasn’t I? Jesus, I was incredible.’
    ‘More,’ she urged. ‘Play some more.’
    But I laid the guitar down. ‘I don’t think so, Midge. It’s odd, but I don’t think I’ve got any more left in me tonight. Or maybe I don’t want to spoil anything – quit while I’m ahead, right?’ That was partly the truth – I didn’t want to fail with something else – yet there was another reason: I was exhausted. Whatever it had taken to play like that had also drained me of energy, physically and mentally. I slumped back into the sofa, eyes closed and smiling. Oh, that had felt good ! Midge snuck up beside me and rested her head against my chest.
    ‘There’s magic in Gramarye, Mike, and it’s working on us both.’
    She’d said the words very quietly and I wasn’t sure I’d heard them correctly. I reached for the glass of wine and sipped, content to just sit there, with Midge close and the world – if there really was a world out there – peaceful and still.
    By this time, of course, I’d dismissed the lurking figure in the woods as imaginary, my own rationality dulling the memory: why should anyone hide once I’d spotted them, and how could they have disappeared so quickly anyway?
    Besides, another event had distracted my mind shortly after, when we reached the cottage itself: the kitchen window had been left open and we discovered Gramarye had a visitor.
    The red squirrel was perched on the table finishing off pastie crumbs left on our plates from lunchtime. I’d swung the door open so that Midge could enter carrying the injured thrush, and the squirrel’s head had snapped up, then looked in our direction. It saw her first and if animals can smile, this one certainly did. There was no fear in this little beggar at all and it didn’t appear to be in any hurry to leave. Our intruder resumed nibbling the crumbs.
    Only when I approached the table did the squirrel become skittish. It took one look at me and jumped onto the nearby dresser, causing the hanging cups and mugs to rattle against each other. I held up a hand in a gesture of peace, but the universal sign meant nothing to the departing animal. It skipped onto the windowsill and with a last cheeky look here, there and everywhere, leapt out into the garden and was gone.
    Midge and I laughed delightedly and she said, ‘D’you suppose all the red squirrels in this part of the world are that bold?’
    I remembered the one we’d come across in the road on our first visit to the cottage. ‘Could be,’ I replied, ‘unless that’s the same guy as before.’
    Her mouth dropped open as if she were really considering the possibility, then she said, ‘We’re lucky to see any at all. They were almost wiped out by an epidemic some years ago and I know not many survived in this area. The greys rather took over their territories.’
    ‘We’d better make sure the windows are closed next time we go out, otherwise we might come back one day and find we’ve been invaded.’
    ‘Now that would be nice.’
    ‘Not if it were by rats or mice.’
    ‘Trust you to look on the dark side.’
    For a moment I was serious, although I meant no jibe. ‘One of us has to keep