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"And that's the mill, which you call the Old Mill, though it is new to me. The mill that stood on that spot in my time was made of wood, not whitewashed stone." Harlow pointed slowly at each of the outbuildings. "None of these were here. The only permanent structure was the mill itself. The miller and his sister slept in a tent, over there." He pointed across the bridge, to the boat ramp. "That's where the boats loaded and unloaded wheat and flour, but William Steel tied his own boat up in the mill pond, which was open to the river then." He swallowed. "That's where we brought our boat in, too, but we dragged it ashore and hid it in the bushes. It was supposed to be easy, a quick raid. In and out and gone, with no one the wiser. Stan's idea, but Grant and Wystan agreed to it. I only went along to keep them from getting into trouble, and you can see how well I managed that." He let out a bitter laugh. "Some protector I was."
Octavia's blood ran cold. "What are you saying?"
He pointed at a patch of bushes. "There were bushes there, then, too. That's where we hid while we waited for William Steel to leave. Three of us to raid the mill, while Stan went to get Carline. Only there was an armed man in the mill, and we didn't see him until it was too late, and he'd already shot Grant. I ran out to drag him to safety, and he shot me, too. I didn't see what happened to Stan or Wystan, but as they rose as gargoyles with me, I can only guess that they died, too. Someone buried us in that cemetery, where you woke us."
Horror stole her voice. "You mean this is where you died?" Her words came out as a whisper.
Harlow bowed his head. "Where all four of us died because of a stupid scheme we'd thought up in a tavern. We should have been headed home to start building on our land grants, which we'd finally received that very day, but we were fools. All of us. And now...we have nothing. Not our lives or our land, and the world has changed so much, there is no place for four early colonial farmers, except to satisfy the curiosity of historians, like yourself."
"Oh, Harlow..." She couldn't help it. She hugged him.
Only to have him push her away. "I don't deserve your pity. Did you not hear me? We were thieves, or would-be thieves, who were shot to protect the miller's property. If we hadn't been killed, we would have been sent to Van Diemen's Land as prisoners."
"But there's no record of any of it. There was one raid on the mill, and the Governor used it as justification for the Pinjarra Massacre, where Peel and his buddies went down to the Murray River and slaughtered Aboriginal men, women and children. I've seen it on the signs inside the mill..." Signs that were all inside the fenced-off complex that protected the mill from night time visitors. Octavia sighed.
"Show me."
"The signs are inside the security fence. It's only open a few hours a week, on particular days. I'll go back during the week, when it's open, and take photos of all the signs for you."
"Or we could go now."
His arms encircled her, before his wings spread on either side of them and they soared into the air...over the fences, to stand before the closed doors of the mill itself.
"We can't be in here!" Octavia hissed. If anyone caught them, they'd get arrested.
"Show me these signs, and then I shall fly us out of here," Harlow said.
She marched past two signs, before she found the one she wanted. "There." While Harlow read it, she snapped a picture with her phone, then went back and photographed the others, too. "This one mentions the first mill was destroyed in a fire."
"That wasn't me. The last thing I saw before I closed my eyes for the last time was the mill, still standing."
But it was important, she was sure of it. She didn't know why or how or even where it fit into the overall scheme of things, but something about the fire pinged at her intuition, or whatever you called it when an idea wouldn't let go.
"Hey, you're not allowed to be in there!"
Fuck. Security.
Two rent-a-cops in a hatchback smaller than Octavia's, carrying bright torches that probably doubled as batons, when they weren't shining the light right into her eyes, blinding her.
Harlow's arms wrapped around her again, and he leaped into the air.
EIGHTEEN
Harlow knew he didn't deserve the pleasure he felt at holding Octavia in his arms, but right now, he didn't care. He was going to hold her and fly with her and protect her, all at once.
The men's torches followed him into the air, so he darted behind the mill, where they couldn't see him, then banked right to slip between the branches of the dark pine tree. He landed where a particularly thick branch met the trunk, wide enough for Octavia to stand with both feet, as he spread his wings wide to hide her from sight. No shooter would hit Octavia tonight – and the bullets would not hurt him now, either.
An eternity passed, or so it seemed, while the men argued about what they'd seen and whether they should enter the compound to search for trespassers. Neither of them had the keys to the gate, as it turned out, and neither pulled out a weapon, either, so once they were finished arguing, they climbed back into their tiny car and drove off, albeit very slowly.
"I think they're gone. I can't even see the glow of their headlights around the corner any more," Octavia said.
"You wish for me to fly you down?" Harlow asked.
"Yes, that would be nice. I'm not much good at climbing trees, and this one's really high." She swallowed.
"A few more minutes, to see if they return. If I were responsible for patrolling a place like this, I would double back, to catch the criminals just when they thought they were safe."
Actually, he never would have thought of such a thing, if he hadn't seen it on one of the TV shows Octavia and her niece watched.
