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Raven’s Landing, a coastal hamlet, had steep cobbled streets lined with old fisherman’s cottages clustered together around the harbor. Many had been converted to tiny bow-front windowed shops that tempted the tourists with their bespoke goods.
Sunny’s cottage stood at the northern edge of the small market town, forty feet back from the main road. She rarely u
sed her battered Fiat to drive down though. Instead she took the path her grandmother had taken. The public rights of way allowed her to go through woodland and across the lush green meadows.
When she set off, the scent of the meadow grass and wild flowers was high in the hazy atmosphere. At the end of the garden path she turned back and looked at the cottage while she closed the rickety wooden gate. The thatch and rustic stone made it picture postcard perfect. Her grandmother hadn’t given the house a name, but it seemed to beg for one, to Sunny’s mind. The Nomad’s Rest, she called it, in her thoughts. She was the nomad, of course. Was it a suitable name? She hadn’t yet decided, but would, once the renovations were done.
Her parents wanted her to sell the house or rent it out, so she could go back to Morocco, to join them. Her father, a British doctor, had met her mother, a Moroccan nurse, in Marrakech. Whilst she cherished her Moroccan heritage, Sunny had grown up in England, and Cornwall was in her blood too. It was where her father was from and they’d spent her childhood holidays exploring the rugged coastline. ??She felt at home here, close to nature. The ramshackle cottage held happy memories and Cornwall appealed in so many ways. She’d wanted to work from home for a long time. Besides, ?her taste for vibrant world music was suited better to a place with few neighbors. The town had welcomed her and that was a big draw. With parents from two vastly different cultures it felt like a luxury to fit in somewhere so well.
As she closed on the town, the scent of the sea reached her. It sometimes reached the house when the wind was in the right direction, but down here in the town the smell of ozone was high in the air and the seagulls swooped overhead.
Glancing at her watch, she hurried along the pavement, dodging tourists until she got to two linked shops. The Witch’s Brew, a cafe run by a woman called Willow, and the gift shop next door, The Cauldron, which Celeste owned. Carefully crafted candles, chimes, herbal potions, and arcane gifts filled the window display.
Sunny waved and peered through the pretty bull’s-eye glass panels in the door. Many of the shops had them, keeping the old-world flavor of the small market town.
Celeste hurried over and turned the sign to “closed” as she exited the shop. Her white-streaked blonde hair hung in a heavy plait against the plum-colored crushed velvet dress she wore. Silver jewelry adorned her ears, neck and fingers, and a heavy metal belt with tiny bells hung low on her hips. Celeste made music wherever she went.
Moments later they were ensconced in the window seat of The Witch’s Brew café, next door.
“I’m expecting a delivery at four o” clock,” Sunny said as they took their seats, “I must keep an eye on the time.”
“Anything exciting?”
“A wallpaper steamer.” Sunny chuckled. “The paper practically jumped off the walls in the kitchen. Upstairs, no such luck. I’ve tried shifting it with elbow grease and stripping fluid. Steam power should help. It’s a shame to take it all off though, at least without learning more about the time it came from. There are layers of history right there.”
Celeste smiled knowingly. “You’re just what that old house needed, someone who cares as much as your grandma did.”
“It bugs me Gran never told me much about the history. I used to ask her and she’d smile and say, ‘the house will tell you its story when the time is right,’ like time would make all the difference.”
Celeste’s eyes twinkled.
“Gran was a true eccentric.”
“You remind me of her.”
Sunny was pleased. People didn’t often say that because she looked more like the Moroccan side of the family. “I was always happy here, just as she was.”
“We need to find you a good Cornish husband to hold you here.”
“I don’t need a man for that.”
“I’m sure I could locate some good candidates.”
Sunny shook her head. “I’m sure you could, but I’ll manage on dreams for now, thank you.”
“Good dreams, are they?”
Why not share? Celeste might make sense of it. “Yes, ever since I moved into the house, but they’re getting more frequent and more vivid.”
“What sort of dreams?” Celeste leaned forward in her seat.
“Quite saucy, actually.” Sunny chuckled. “At first they were wistful.” As she spoke, she wondered if Celeste would analyze her or laugh it off. “Last night it was as if a person materialized. Like a haunting, or as if it was becoming real.”
“Describe him to me.” Celeste’s expression turned serious.
“Tall, dark and handsome.” Sunny laughed. “It’s just a dream.”
“Maybe not. There’s a lot of folklore around these parts. Perhaps your nocturnal visitor can be found there.”
