But Tristan recalled 1794 to be the year they’d skated the lake in December, snowflakes tumbling, and theCastell y Ddraigtower had been blanketed in white.
He shivered. “I fear our Mr Pugh might be right.”
The stablemaster nodded.
On occasion, a man of no words at all.
As they trottedthe cliff path, Tristan kept one wary eye upon the clouds; dirty-white pervaded, evermore lowering as though boots trampled them from above.
It was a day for staying by the fire with a fine whisky and a good book, not roving the cliffs in search of answers.
He’d recognised the dragon of his pendant in that drawing and just as some innate sense had always told him that a part was lost, there, in black ink, had beentwodragons entwined to form a whole. A perfect circle.
And for some reason that he understood not, it all drew him back to Darowen Bay.
Felt sure the answers lay there.
No wild ponies braved the cliff tops this morn, nor careless winds to cast salt-spray upon his skin, and he was thankful when they commenced the steep descent to the bay, halting their steeds as their hooves hit soft sand.
The two of them dismounted and stared to a silvered sea that although appeared motionless with hardly a frill of white, seemed to pulse with its own tethered might.
“‘A languorous beast we await’,” Rhys began. “‘Seeking, lapping, ebbing. Hark, how swiftly it twists to bait. Churning, growling, slaying…’”
Tristan eyed his brother. “That Byrne certainly has a way with words.”
Rhys tilted his head. “Not always.”
The boat shed door wedged in its frame again, so he left it to his brother to shoulder the swollen wood.
They wandered a little, rubbing clean circles on the grimy windows, and as on his last visit, it felt so strange here, a place of ghosts and reveries.
“You mentioned some wreckage washed ashore? Did you keep it? Maybe if I saw something of the boat, it might help.”
“Bits and bobs. I stacked them in that cupboard, but I think I still have a key on me.” He fumbled within the layers of clothing, drew out a gold fob chain and sifted through its numerous attachments. “Ah, here it is.” They crossed and Rhys unlocked the cupboard to peer in. “Not sure why I kept all this. Only that it was all we had of you. A part of you. What you’d built, the last things you’d touched.”
Not for the first time, Tristan felt rather humbled.
His brother delved in and handed him a two-foot-long board. “Mean anything?”
Probably from the half-deck but… “No.”
“This?” A decorative knob which looked to be from a boat’s tiller.
“No.”
“This, then?” More bits of splintered wood.
“No.”
“Ah ha, this was special.” A slip of Llanedwyn-red sail cloth.
“No. Nothing.”
“This.” Another board. Broken.
“No.”
Rhys turned it over.
