Third Solstice CALIBRE with cover (5 page)

She burst into tears. Gideon jolted back—would have fallen if Lee hadn’t caught him. Shock rattled through him. Not his own: the grief of the small entity beginning to separate itself from the world, to individuate and think of itself as Tamsyn, most treasured focus of the giant loving god whose power could be summoned with the smallest smile or cry. “She feels as if I hit her with a thunderbolt,” Gideon choked out. “She doesn’t understand, any more than if I’d asked her to stop singing, or playing, or—or breathing.” A huge sob racked him, but he pushed away from Lee’s horrified embrace. “I’m all right. See to her.”

Lee scooped her out of the pen. He dropped to his knees beside Gideon, cradling her, handing her into his arms. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry!”

“Not your fault.” Gideon swiped a hand over his eyes—reached much more tenderly to brush the tears off Lee’s face. Awkwardly he took his husband and his wailing daughter into his arms. “But I tell you what—I’m done with this psychic-parenting lark. If I’ve got any kind of gift, I don’t want it, any more than we want her to have this.”

“God forgive me for asking you to do it.”

“You just wanted to keep her safe. Oh, don’t
you
cry, you daft sod!”

“Why not? Look what I did!”

“What
we
did. Please. I can’t cope with all three of us in floods.”

***

Calm restored, Lee made all of them a long-delayed breakfast. A post-earthquake hush reigned, pale sunlight finding its way over the flank of the hill and daubing the tiled kitchen walls. Gideon kept Tamsyn on his knee while they ate, gently correcting her aim as she dipped her toast soldiers into her egg. Every so often she would stop, lay down the bread and run her sticky fingers over his face, as if reassuring herself of a well-known landscape. Lee sat opposite, quiet but watchful, the newspaper in front of him no more than a prop. “You two all right over there?”

“Fine. Is that the property section?”

“Um... I’m not sure. Yeah.”

“That looks like the old Lowen place on Morgan’s Hill. Never thought I’d see that on the market.”

“It’s part of old man Bowe’s estate. Now that John and Bligh are gone, and Dev’s not capable of managing the land, they’re selling off some of the farm workers’ cottages.”

Gideon whistled softly. “Some cottage. That’s proper old Cornish Georgian, three hundred years old if it’s a day. Mellor-quarry granite, the one that goes rose pink in the sun because of the lichen that grows on it.”

“Sounds lovely.” Lee turned the page, paying attention this time. “Arched windows, two acres of land and an orchard. Standing derelict, looks like.”

“Yeah. It’s a shame.” Gideon squinted at the price tag. “Derelict or not, we’d have to sell a kidney. Zeke and I used to walk up there when we were kids, or he’d walk and give me a piggyback. We’d wander around and pretend we were lords of the manor. That was before he got too godly to scrump apples.”

“Oh, Gid. Did he text you yet?”

“Nope.”

“Do you think you ought to text him?”

“No. Let him steep for a while.” Absently Gideon wiped his daughter’s face clear of toast crumbs and egg yolk. “Tell you what—maybe we could all use an outing today after all. Still fancy a jaunt to Penzance?”

“I’d love it. She can wear that horrendous set of reindeer horns your ma bought her.. She might as well look like the spawn of Satan she is.”

“Can the pair of you stay out of trouble?”

“Yeah, we promise. I’ll keep her away from the main parades.”

“Hoorah! You hear that, Tamsie? You’re going to Montol after all.”

She threw her hands into the air and beamed. She had no clue what Montol was, but if her dad said it was good, she wanted it. Catching her mood and the outside edge of her power, the butter dish lifted gently into the air—then, just as carefully, went down. She twisted round on Gideon’s lap so she could see him, anxiety shadowing her silver-moss gaze.

“It’s all right.” He kissed the top of her head. “I don’t know what we’re going to do with you, but it really is all right, sweetheart.” He looked up wryly at Lee. “Don’t know why I bothered chucking poor Zeke out of the house. If he’d really been bothering her, she could’ve picked him up and thrown him out herself.”

Chapter Five

The dark had come down, and Penzance was glowing like a casket of jewels. Caught between sea and windswept stone pines on the hillcrests, and beyond them the mystical hillfort of Lesingey Round, all the ancient town’s lights were held and reflected—dancing off the water in Mount’s Bay, carved into sculptures of wild orange cloud overhead. Gideon helped Lee out of the back of the police truck with Tamsyn. Already a pulsating beat was rising from the streets below the police station, though it was barely past six o’clock. The fire dancers had swung their blazing torches and leapt through burning hoops along Chapel Street. Gideon shook his head, listening to a distant band strike up their hypnotic drums. One, two, one-two-three—a song anybody could dance to or play, the same heartbeat you could hear at Padstow or Helstone or Kelyndar, so deep it had soaked right into the stones, the town’s bones. “Are you going to be all right on the streets with these nutters?”

“We’ll be fine.” Lee settled Tamsyn into her sling. “Text me when you’re done patrolling, and we’ll meet up for the fireworks. I’ll bring her majesty back up here if she gets tired before then.”

“Good. Go inside and get someone to make you a cuppa if you do.” Gideon stole a kiss, one from Lee and one from the enthralled baby, who was already wriggling in time to the music. “Sorry I can’t come with you. But let’s face it—how else would you get parked in Penzance town tonight?”

“Mm. It’s lovely being married to a cop.”

“I’d better go in and get briefed. Please take care.”

“Don’t worry. I somehow feel as if we
should
be here tonight—all three of us.”

Gideon winced. “That makes me worry more than anything else. Can’t you just go and be insignificant for a change?”

“I’ll certainly do my best.” Lee backed away, turning Tamsyn so that she could wave goodbye. With the sea behind him and smoke-misted streetlight turning him into a fine-framed silhouette, his chances of insignificance were small. Watching him go was always hard for Gideon, whose imagination—fuelled by the cradle-snatching Lilith/Elowen dreams—now provided him with a dozen fates that could befall his small family each time they were out of his sight. Lee stopped in the gateway to the car park. “Hoi,” he called back. “Text your brother. It didn’t hurt when he exorcised me, and he only
thinks
he’s a god-fearing Methodist minister.”

“Oh? What is he really?”

“I don’t know. But something much bigger than that.”

They were gone, the sea-fret and the veils of light dissolving them. Gideon made his way inside, dismissing his fears with an effort. Good coppers weren’t necessarily over-burdened with imagination. Nor was he, except when it came to Lee and his kid.

In the squad room, he found a gathering of the unimaginative best. To his amusement—after all, it served her right—DI Lawrence had been called in too, and was over by the whiteboard, wearily counting heads and giving orders. Jenny Spargo, his saviour from the Bodmin streets, came up smiling to show off her new sergeant’s stripes. Jim Ryde was there too. Gideon had doubted the lad’s future in the force after the killing of Jake Mandel, and he was still a constable, but there was a serenity about him now, and he returned Gideon’s wave with a small salute. All in all there was a festive air in the room, with so many familiar faces from the Truro and Bodmin squads. Gideon let himself be absorbed into the crowd, exchanging greetings, answering questions about Tamsyn with a quick flash of a photo on his mobile.
Yes, she’s fine. Yes, she’s grown. Yes, she’s a year old today. We’re having her party tomorrow—come over and see her if you like.

DI Lawrence cleared her throat. The chatter in the room died down. “Montol,” she said tiredly, as if announcing a funeral. “Lovely festival. Lovely expression of community spirit, and I’m sure there’s a crying need for it, or we wouldn’t have ten thousand people out on the streets of Penzance on a bitter cold night, dressed in long flowing costumes which must on no account be exposed to a naked flame. Which brings me to my next point.” She put her hands on her hips. “Fire. Although I must say the new organisers have taken every step to ensure public safety, whenever anyone from our department or the town council raised an objection, that’s all we got.
Oh, it’s a fire festival, ma’am.
Well, isn’t it always? Montol, Golowan, Guldize—nobody’s happy around these parts until someone’s set something alight. In narrow, crowded streets. So there’s your basic remit, ladies and gentlemen. Don’t let anyone go up in flames, in their... What are the damn costumes called?”

“Mock posh and tatters, ma’am.”

Gideon smiled at the prompt response. He hadn’t noticed Sergeant Pendower in the crowd. A few months ago he’d have run a mile to avoid him, but Pendower was a different man these days, and a firm favourite of Tamsyn’s. “Thank you, Sergeant,” Lawrence said. “Now, if we can—”

“Interesting derivation, ma’am, and socially intriguing, too—a deliberate subversion of elegant dress, perhaps with the intent of sending up a ruling class no Cornishman has ever bent his head to, a feeling that’s perhaps more intense than ever today. That, in combination with the choice of a Lord of Misrule, and the intriguing fact that the Yule log selected for the festivities is called a Mock—”

“
Thank
you, Sergeant.”

Pendower, unabashed, winked at Gideon over his shoulder. Lawrence waited till the wave of laughter had died down. “Folklore aside,” she continued, “tonight’s a wild night in Penzance. I doubt we’ll be getting the busloads of thugs that were threatened, but keep your eyes peeled for anyone who wants to spoil the fun for everyone else. These aren’t our streets, so pay attention to the local officers, my Bodmin and Truro lot. Right! Uniforms, you know your beat. Plainclothes volunteers...” She paused and gave Gideon an apologetic glance for the choice of words. “Especially those who’ve come in on their kid’s first birthday, thank you very much, and just go out and do what you do best.”

“What exactly is that, ma’am?” Gideon asked innocently, unable to resist.

Lawrence grinned. “Be yourself. Well, look at him!” she added, when the room broke into laughter again. “Who ever would dare get up to mischief within fifty yards of that?”

***

The Montol was a reconstruction, a rebirth of rites so ancient that their origins were anyone’s guess. Their modern expression was just as wild and varied. Gideon entered the tide of people now moving up the herringbone pavement of Causewayhead. The street was lined with shops, some cautiously shuttered, others staying open late to catch the festive trade. A rich tang of woodsmoke and barbecue filled the air, and through this miasma danced, jogged and waltzed a menagerie undreamed of under a summer sun. Mock posh and tatters—the contents of every child’s dressing-up box, the vintage rails of the charity shops, long velvet gowns, trousers made of patchwork and lace. Everything beribboned, floating, swaying on the breeze. Faces concealed by elaborate Venetian masks, some in the shape of great beaked birds, some gilded, some polished black. And everywhere that music—one, two, one-two-three, pipes and crowdy-crawn drums...

Gideon should have felt invisible, in his thick winter jacket and jeans. Maybe Lawrence was right, though: when he moved, even slowly and calmly through the edge of the crowd, people looked his way. Just a glance, the tilt of a raven’s beak—reassured or nervous, each according to his nature. He was noticed. Before a minute was up, a four-foot monster detached itself from the parade and threw itself in his direction. On reflex he reached to catch. “Lorna,” he said, laughing and pushing back her mask. “What are you supposed to be?”

“The Beast, of course, Constable.”

“Bloody hell. So you are.” What fears had she conquered, to dress up as her own deepest nightmare? She was nine years old now, blooming with untrammelled life. “You look terrifying. Where’s your mum?”

“Right here!” Sarah Kemp came running up, barely recognisable under face-paint and pirate’s tricorn hat. “Lorna, stop it. Gideon’s a sergeant now, and you might be... I dunno, blowing his cover or something. And you nearly made me drop my Sun Resplendent.”

She was holding a giant paper lantern in the shape of a solar disk. That was one aspect of Montol everyone could agree on—the return of the light after the shortest day of the year. Someone had gone to a great deal of trouble with the lantern. The sun god’s smiling face was hooked up on a wooden frame too wide for one person to handle, and Sarah wasn’t bearing it alone. “Ah,” she said, noticing Gideon’s attention. “You haven’t met Wilfred yet, have you? Wilfred, this is Sergeant Frayne, who looks after all of us at Dark. Wilf and I are... going out, I suppose you could say.” She blushed beneath her paint. “I hope it doesn’t seem odd.”

The world spun on. The sun returned from darkness every day. Wilfred stuck out his free hand and Gideon took it, shaking it cordially. “Why on earth would it seem odd?”

“Well, you’d think I’d have had enough of men, what with one thing and another. But I met him online, and he’s got two kids of his own, and he’s lovely with my brats. So we’re giving it a try.”

“All right.” Now it was Gideon’s turn to blush: she’d hardly been asking him for his permission. Then, he’d been a fixed point in her life since her husband had bailed and her brother-in-law had morphed into a child-abducting nutcase. Wilfred could meet a police sergeant’s gaze with serene cheerfulness, and something inside Gideon’s head—the new thing, the tug and the reach—told him that this was a good man. “I’d better give you your kid back, hadn’t I?”

Lorna let go of him reluctantly. “Where’s Tamsyn and Mr Tiger?”

“Somewhere up ahead of you, I should think. Are you going to the playing fields for the Midwinter Fire?”