Saffy.
I made my way back down the stairs as fast as I could and ran out to where she sat. She’d drawn a fresh Celtic squiggle on the back of her neck in biro—a preparatory tattoo, she liked to say. In her hand was an old book that I guessed she’d taken from the bothy. Clutched in her other hand was an old skeleton key. The bothy was full of clutter—books, ornaments, dried sea urchins, shark jaws pinned to the wall, for God’s sake—and Saffy was a scavenger, always had been. Even when she was a toddler I’d discover odd things sequestered beneath her bed—bottle tops, cutlery, weeds she’d plucked from the front garden. I’d learn that she gathered such things with no plan to play with them, no purpose at all, other than the act of taking and hiding, of holding a secret.
She had her headphones on, a heavy beat bleeding out the sides. Even when I managed to get her to make eye contact she didn’t take them off. Frustrated, I reached down and yanked them off her head.
“What are you doing?” she screamed. “Give those back!”
Immediately I regretted it. She snatched them back.
“Did you see a little girl?” I said. “In the lighthouse?”
She screwed her face up. “What?”
“I saw a girl in the lantern room. Did you see her?”
“I have literally no idea what you’re talking about . . .”
“Fine. Look, I need your help with something.”
“I’m busy,” she said, putting her headphones back on and opening up her book. “Isn’t that what you always say?” she added. “？‘Sorry, kids. Mum’s busy.’？”
I ignored the dig. “It’s about a symbol. I could do with your help. Saffy.”
For about a minute, she did nothing, and I waited. Eventually she said, “What symbol?”
I told her it was back in the bothy as I started to walk away. She slowly rose to her feet, tucked the book under her arm, and followed behind, the hems of her jeans trailing in the rock pools.
V
By the time she arrived in the kitchen I’d put on a kettle and poured us both a cup of tea. She was still holding the small book and sat at the table, absorbed by its pages.
“What are you reading?”
“It’s a grimoire.”
“A what?”
I handed her a cup, careful to avoid the book she’d placed on the table in front of her. It looked old, the paper yellowed and delicate.
“Where’d you get that?” I asked.
“On the bookshelf in the living room. It’s a book of spells. Some of the writing looks like it’s Icelandic. And there’s some stuff about witches.”
“Witches?”
“Yeah. There were witch hunts in Scotland as well as England. Worst witch hunts in Europe, apparently. Did you know that?”
I shook my head. Right then I was more concerned about how she was handling Mr. Roberts’ book. “Be careful with that, Saff,” I said. “It might be valuable.”
“Hardly,” she scoffed. “Why would anyone leave it lying around in this place if it was valuable?”
“Look, it’s not yours, OK?”
I handed her a cup and spread the drawing of the mural in front of her.
“That is a swastika, isn’t it?” I said, pointing at one of the symbols.
She stared at it and sat down. I relished the closeness of her. It had been weeks since she’d sat with me like this, and although she was sullen and reluctant, she was still here.