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He dragged the sack of logs inside, their bark sparkling with frost and smelling deeply of English forests. He let himself inhale it as he set to work on his knees before the fire. The bark was soft and speckled with green moss, damp and sweet, an olfactory reminder that Christmas was within touching distance.
As if to test his resolve about leaving Alex in peace and to stop fantasising about himself as some kind of romantic hero and she some mythical being come to upend his world, the sound of soft singing came to him from the café.
Alex, rustling shopping bags and placing down jars and packages on the countertop, was making herself at home.
‘Soft, hear the merfolk, sing I.
I call to thee, boy of the shore,
My pretty one, my pretty one,
Hear me sing my water song.’
Her voice, Magnús thought, was beautiful. ‘She’s happy,’ he told himself, drawing a line under any inconveniently soft feelings she might be provoking in him. Instead, he worked at the hearth and listened to her sing.
It was a song Alex had been sung many times as a child, most often by her dad. A song about a family of merfolk, one of whom falls in love with a human and lures him to her in the waves where the siren keeps her lover with her forever, far away from land where the boy had been so lonely.
Alex hadn’t thought of the song for years but now it played in her head and she was glad it accompanied her while she worked.
Alex started on the sweet stuff first. It was only nine o’clock and if anyone came into the café in the next hour or two they’d want coffee and cake, most likely. She could think about lunch orders later.
The kettle boiled and hissed water from the spout while she tipped the crisp cereal into a big bowl. As she reached for the chocolate bars, she remembered her mum always wore a pinny when working and grabbed the long white chef’s apron from the hook on the door that led into the bookshop. She kept the door open so she could hear Magnús’s boots clomp back and forth as he set the fire and tidied the (already very tidy) shelves.
Pulling the apron over her head felt somehow like anointing herself, a serious part of the baking ritual she’d watched her mum undertake many times, even if it was just crispy chocolate squares she was making. The thought made her smile as she drew the strings around her middle and tied a bow.
The bain-marie was soon set up, just a glass bowl over hot water in a pan. She took her time snapping the milk chocolate squares and dropping them in to melt. The aroma was too sweet to resist and she let herself taste a piece, just like her mum would.
After stirring the melting chocolate until it was slick and glossy she added her mum’s secret ingredient, a great big dollop of her favourite hazelnut spread which melted in to the liquid chocolate. When it was ready, she poured it into the cereal, mixed it thoroughly, then pressed the whole mixture into a high-sided tray and ferried it to the fridge, still singing to herself.
As the base layer cooled, she prepared the thick, sweet caramel middle layer by heating condensed milk, brown sugar, and yellow Devonshire butter in a pan until the whole café smelled of hot molasses.
Even with her back to the door she was aware that Magnús had popped his head into the café, his nostrils flared and sniffing, and his eyes fixed hard upon her, but when she turned with the spoon in her hand for him to lick he’d ducked back under the low door and was gone again.
What a shame. She’d wanted to show him what she was up to and to say out loud to somebody how her mum always told her, ‘Life’s too short not to lick the spoon!’
Instead, she poured the thick caramel mixture over the chocolate cereal base, now nicely chilled and put the whole thing back in the fridge.
In a minute or two she’d add another layer of smooth milk chocolate on top before drizzling over thin zigzags of white chocolate for decoration and her Port Kernou Quayside Diner luxury crispy squares would be done. Perfect.
She smoothed her hands over her apron and surveyed the little café. Actually, it wasn’t quite perfect. It was the twenty-second of December; the place should be festive and sparkling, but from the look of the café it could be any old winter’s day. If they were going to have a good day’s bookselling and baking, it ought to at least look like Christmas.
Alex didn’t know it, but Jowan and Minty had already taken this into consideration in their plans for Magnús and his surprise guest.
