the backs of their chairs, but there were several dependable-looking fiftyish guys in suits and I thought Mr. Quigg could be any of these. We went up to the counter.
“What can I get you?” said the woman. She had a faint Polish accent—something you hear a lot around Bridgwater.
“Nothing,” said Mirela. “We are speak to Mr. Quigg.” But her eyes had grown huge, like a child at a sweet counter, as she looked at the display of cakes.
“Hang on, we could have something. My shout. D’you fancy a doughnut, Mirela?”
“ Paczki ,” said the woman. “Polish doughnuts with strawberry filling, sprinkled with orange peel as well as sugar. Very nice.”
“Yum,” I agreed. “We’ll have two, and one tea and a—”
“Coffee,” said Mirela. She wandered off, weaving between tables, while I paid for our order.
“In Poland,” the woman behind the counter continued, “we say that if you don’t eat a single paczki , you will have bad luck all year long. So we all eat them at the carnival on tlusty czwartek— Fat Thursday.”
“That’s so interesting,” I said, wondering if every new customer was offered a little Polish food story when they came in. “When is Fat Thursday?”
“The week before Lent begins.”
“Great day for stocking up on your consumption of doughnuts,” I joked, recalling the way Gloria and Philip always gave up chocolate for Lent (and had expected the three of us kids to lay off it, as well).
Mirela had settled at a table in a far corner of the café, where a man was drinking coffee. He stood to offer me his hand as I made my way over.
“It’s Fergus, Fergus Quigg.”
“Er … Sabbie Dare.” For a second, I’d forgotten my own name, mostly because Fergus had a gaze that captured you and refused to let you go. His eyes were small but as blue as wild speedwell.
He was not dowdy or middle-aged at all. Hair the colour and texture of wild grasses was caught in a black elastic band, and his face was shadowed by a day-old beard. He wasn’t a tall man, but his thigh muscles were defined against his jeans. If he’d been English, his build would have been described as “of yeoman stock,” but soon as he spoke I knew he was Irish. He had a gentle, soft-rain accent that managed to hint he could keep his own counsel, under all sorts of duress. I grasped his hand. Warm, it felt, and it applied just enough pressure to make someone feel … mmm … cared for. I tried contrasting it with the touch of Rey’s hand, which was rougher, as if he didn’t sit at a desk all day long—or care for you much, either, despite the handshake.
“Thank you for seeing us at short notice.”
“No problem,” said Fergus, directing me to an empty chair, his hand lightly across my back. “I’m always delighted to meet anyone with the same interest in the dispossessed as I have.”
“Right.” I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “I guess you remember Kizzy Brouviche, Mirela’s sister?”
“Indeed.” He lowered his voice a little. “I recall that the older Miss Brouviche had a strong influence over her sister.”
I glanced at Mirela. Her mouth was in a pout and she was staring down at her hands, tight around her bag.
Fergus turned towards her. “When you came last time, I recommended you both leave your employment at Papa Bulgaria. Have you been thinking about that?”
“Huh?” Mirela flashed a panicked look at me.
“That isn’t really why we’re here,” I began, but at that point, our order arrived.
“Thanks, Maria,” Fergus said for us.
“You are welcome,” said the woman, and topped up his cup with coffee from a jug.
“Mirela spent the night before last at my house,” I said. “She hasn’t seen or heard from Kizzy since the Bridgwater Carnival.”
Fergus nodded for a while. Pale lashes fluttered almost shut over his eyes, as if he liked to think before replying. “You know, that’s a constant problem. When you’re from another country, you can disappear like
“What can I get you?” said the woman. She had a faint Polish accent—something you hear a lot around Bridgwater.
“Nothing,” said Mirela. “We are speak to Mr. Quigg.” But her eyes had grown huge, like a child at a sweet counter, as she looked at the display of cakes.
“Hang on, we could have something. My shout. D’you fancy a doughnut, Mirela?”
“ Paczki ,” said the woman. “Polish doughnuts with strawberry filling, sprinkled with orange peel as well as sugar. Very nice.”
“Yum,” I agreed. “We’ll have two, and one tea and a—”
“Coffee,” said Mirela. She wandered off, weaving between tables, while I paid for our order.
“In Poland,” the woman behind the counter continued, “we say that if you don’t eat a single paczki , you will have bad luck all year long. So we all eat them at the carnival on tlusty czwartek— Fat Thursday.”
“That’s so interesting,” I said, wondering if every new customer was offered a little Polish food story when they came in. “When is Fat Thursday?”
“The week before Lent begins.”
“Great day for stocking up on your consumption of doughnuts,” I joked, recalling the way Gloria and Philip always gave up chocolate for Lent (and had expected the three of us kids to lay off it, as well).
Mirela had settled at a table in a far corner of the café, where a man was drinking coffee. He stood to offer me his hand as I made my way over.
“It’s Fergus, Fergus Quigg.”
“Er … Sabbie Dare.” For a second, I’d forgotten my own name, mostly because Fergus had a gaze that captured you and refused to let you go. His eyes were small but as blue as wild speedwell.
He was not dowdy or middle-aged at all. Hair the colour and texture of wild grasses was caught in a black elastic band, and his face was shadowed by a day-old beard. He wasn’t a tall man, but his thigh muscles were defined against his jeans. If he’d been English, his build would have been described as “of yeoman stock,” but soon as he spoke I knew he was Irish. He had a gentle, soft-rain accent that managed to hint he could keep his own counsel, under all sorts of duress. I grasped his hand. Warm, it felt, and it applied just enough pressure to make someone feel … mmm … cared for. I tried contrasting it with the touch of Rey’s hand, which was rougher, as if he didn’t sit at a desk all day long—or care for you much, either, despite the handshake.
“Thank you for seeing us at short notice.”
“No problem,” said Fergus, directing me to an empty chair, his hand lightly across my back. “I’m always delighted to meet anyone with the same interest in the dispossessed as I have.”
“Right.” I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. “I guess you remember Kizzy Brouviche, Mirela’s sister?”
“Indeed.” He lowered his voice a little. “I recall that the older Miss Brouviche had a strong influence over her sister.”
I glanced at Mirela. Her mouth was in a pout and she was staring down at her hands, tight around her bag.
Fergus turned towards her. “When you came last time, I recommended you both leave your employment at Papa Bulgaria. Have you been thinking about that?”
“Huh?” Mirela flashed a panicked look at me.
“That isn’t really why we’re here,” I began, but at that point, our order arrived.
“Thanks, Maria,” Fergus said for us.
“You are welcome,” said the woman, and topped up his cup with coffee from a jug.
“Mirela spent the night before last at my house,” I said. “She hasn’t seen or heard from Kizzy since the Bridgwater Carnival.”
Fergus nodded for a while. Pale lashes fluttered almost shut over his eyes, as if he liked to think before replying. “You know, that’s a constant problem. When you’re from another country, you can disappear like
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