“You’re not grooming my stoop, interloper. You’re the guest. You’re meant to relax.” She gives me a smile plus side-eye. It’s so fucking cute, it helps me get my bearings.
“Is that right?”
“Of course. Listen to the ocean and endeavor nature walks. Get lots of rest and use up all the bath salts.”
I nod at the trail ahead, which disappears around the cliffs that lead up to the plateau. “I guess I’m doing this all wrong, then.”
She looks up at me, and there’s this sweetness on her face; it reminds me of the looks she gave me in the burrow. Like she’s happy she’s here with me.
“Tell me more of your impressions, city boy. I’ve heard a bit about your comings and goings. What are you drinking at the bar? What Tristanian dishes have you tried, at whose home? Have you seen things you consider odd here? I’d like to hear it all.”
I squeeze her hand. “Hmm, well, I saw Mrs. White’s orchids.”
“All nine hundred ninety-seven of them?”
I laugh. “They were nice.”
“Oh, sure.”
“I like flowers.”
“Sure you do.”
“Mrs. White is a nice lady.”
“Sure she is.”
I can’t stop laughing. “Spitting fire today, Siren.”
“What does that mean?”
“I had an Alabama nanny when I was a little kid who would have said, ‘She’s in a mood.’” The memory makes me chuckle.
“My mood is perfectly fine.”
“Sure it is.”
She sticks her tongue out at me.
“I’ll tell you what I’ve seen—I’ve seen some homemade tinctures. Not something you see every day.” She smiles shyly. “I found out the other day there’s only two more bottles of Macallan 18 on the damn whole island. Kinda stopped that nightly routine.”
She laughs. “For the best, perhaps.”
Our dirt path takes us past the plateau that overlooks the village—and her cottage. I point toward it. “I’ve been up there some. Does that count as relaxing?”
“Vloeiende Trane,” she murmurs.
“What?”
“Cascading tears,” she says dramatically.
“What language is that?”
“Afrikaans.” She wiggles her brows. “Is it one you don’t know, Sailor?”
Sailor again now. I shake my head. “How dare you name your cliffs in a language I don’t know?”
She laughs, her eyes on her feet again, as if she’s too shy to look me in the face. When she looks at me again, she flashes me a pretty smile. “How many do you speak? How many languages?”