Between Heaven and Rock (The Swallow Barn Cottage Series, Book 3)

The Drink of Gods

Part 2 out of 2 :)

K. xx

***

"So, Oliver," Ulla started cautiously, "Have you read a lot of fantasy fiction?"

He was putting the kettle on again and looked at her over his shoulder.

"Not really. Why?" he asked.

The fact he's asking 'why?' is telling, innit?

"Well, you see, it's sort of where you'd start, right? When you write fantasy." She tapped her index finger on the stack of his pages.

"But I'm not," he said, with an expression on his face probably mirroring hers.

Oh.

"Yes, you are," she said. "This is what speculative fiction is. Well, your kind of speculative fiction. If you had spaceships, that would sci-fi."

"I'm not writing a fantasy novel," he said. "I'm writing a speculative fictional hagiography."

'Hagio' as in ancient Greek 'holy.' And 'graphia' as in 'writing.' Oh bugger.

"Wait– what?" So, no heaving bodices then. "As in describing a life of a saint or a martyr?" she decided to confirm it to herself. Just in case she's just having an aneurysm or a stroke, and that's all one nightmarish hallucination.

"Well, I wouldn't go that far. That would be a blasphemy." He gave her a soft smile. "I was hoping there would be adventures, and the plot would still be engaging and exciting, but at the end, it's more about the character's spiritual journey than swords and tavern punch-ups."

Which were the worst part of chapter three, by the way. Even worse than his awkward description of the foliage of the trees surrounding the road that his Sir I-Think-About-My-Life-Purpose-A-Lot was travelling.

Things were definitely times worse that she'd assumed.

"Right," she drew out. "That explains a lot." Oh god. It's like she's in charge of telling him Father Christmas doesn't exist. "I need to continue reading it. You know, with this new... angle in mind."

He nodded and put the kettle on the hob.

"Oh, I forgot," he said, turning to her. "Frank Harris was asking if he could come to pick up the keys for your car. His father is still ill, but they're hoping he could have a look at it tomorrow."

And you immediately thought it could mean another night in his bed, didn't you, Ulla?

"That's very kind of them," she answered absent-mindedly, trying to exorcise the thoughts of snuggling into his side under a duvet. "When's coffee coming?" she asked.

"Any time now, I suppose," he said. "Do you mind if I leave you in charge of our tea?" he asked with a chuckle. "I'll take a quick shower."

And we're exorcising this thought as well, right?

"Sure," she squeaked. "I'm make myself my triple 'teaspresso' and a cuppa for you."

He chuckled - he's obviously just being polite, that was an awful joke - and left. Ulla carefully pushed his masterpiece away from her on the table, since it could cushion her thumping, and she needed her forehead to make a noise. A couple of headdesks later, she sat up and sighed.

She made two cups of tea when the doorbell rang again.

This time it was indeed Mr. Tate the Grocer she was flushing with her bare legs. He was definitely a grocer, because he looked like a children's book illustration of a grocer: with his van, an apron, and her fruit - and her coffee! - in paper bags. Is her look too scandalous for this place? Why is he staring at her like that?