The Crone's Stone

by S E Holmes

Jenkins’ skull. He hadn’t allowed me to pack more than my iPod, two books and a change of summer clothes. The rest of my possessions would be sent on. The weird haste dampened the aura of excitement. I was leaving the school, never to return. No one bothered to share the reason.

  “Is that hunk the Billie you holler about in your dreams? Mmm, I can see why.” I’d picked up Chablis like a tick on the way out of our shared dorm room.

  “Haven’t you got a class?” I’d asked hopefully.

  “Nope. I’m on a free. So, what is he doing with you?”

  “We’re eloping to Mauritius. He’s not a big talker, but he’s great with his tongue.” I winked suggestively and flounced down the Academy’s grand staircase leading to the lobby, where Hugo tapped his boot impatiently. Along with the black-ops camos, he wore a now all-too-familiar grimace.

  “Wait!” Jaime barrelled the stairs to join us at the bottom, camera in hand. He offered it to Chablis, who inspected Hugo brazenly. “Please, take a photo of us?”

  My ex-roomy hesitated, until I glared at her. “Do something for me, and those files will disappear.” I leaned close so Jaime couldn’t hear. “You ought to report the dirty old perve.”

  “Fine!” She snatched the camera and prepared for the shot. “It’s broken. The screen’s black.”

  “Nah!” Jaime said. “It worked this morning.”

  I’d taken a couple of excellent shots of Mallory and Chad for him to upload on the Net. Hugo cleared his throat, his annoyance growing. Shabby frowned and directed the camera about.

  “That’s bizarre! I’ll try my phone.”

  Jaime peeked up at me. “You’re really, really pretty in the daylight.”

  “Well, thank you.”

  He beamed and took my hand. My Judas face flamed. Mention the slightest embarrassing thing, and my cheeks could guide Santa’s reindeer through the bleakest North Pole winter.

  “I’ll send you and your friends some training stuff. Sign up for mixed martial arts and practice hard, Jaime. Kick their sorry bums any time they so much as breathe in your direction.”

  He nodded enthusiastically. “Are you coming back, Winsome?”

  Hugo prompted me with a growl. “I don’t think so,” I said. Did he actually growl?

  “Winsome?”

  “Yes, Jaime?”

  He looked at me with little boy puzzlement in his big blue eyes. “How did you find your way back from the kitchen so easily last night? It was dark and we didn’t even need a flashlight.”

  Fortunately, Chablis interrupted, giving the phone a frustrated shake. “Er, not taking any photos today, people.”

  She saved me from offering the same lame reasons Bea gave when I asked why my hearing was so advanced and I could avoid objects in the pitchest of black. I’d never come close to detection across my many night-time excursions. Everyone possesses some special talent or other, blahdy, blah, blah. The weirdness of it twisted my mind in knots, so I opted for denial.

  “The screens go blank whenever I point it at you. You’re totally unphotogenic, Winsome. Bad Light!” Chablis had broken up at her own joke.

  The ink-tinted glass separating us in the back of the limousine from Hugo in front rolled down. “Yes, ma’am?”

  Replacing the ‘o’ from his name with an ‘e’ approximated Hugo’s measurements. The same number of vowels captured the extent of our conversation across nonstop travel. We’d forged a bond based on irritation. He appeared to despise questions as much as I hated not getting answers. And he was the only stranger I’d ever seen in Bea’s inner circle.

  “I made it explicit Winsome was to snack on miso and dried fruit. As her personal bodyguard, under no circumstances were you to leave her. My grand-niece has consumed contraband in your presence against my instruction. Alternatively, Winsome snuck them in your absence. Please enlighten the circumstances precipitating this appalling dereliction of duty, in either case.”

  Confusing the object of her ire with large words was Aunt Bea’s standard attack. Ordinarily, I’d enjoy witnessing a million-kilo guy with a dagger tattoo on his neck and fists as registered weapons crumple under the cool dismemberment of my aunt. Once he’d used a dictionary to translate the threat. Over nuts, of all things. Hilarious! However, something she’d mentioned took my complete attention.

  “Bodyguard?”

  “Turbulence, ma’am. We encountered windshear conditions and the pilot called for my aid in flying the jet.”

  “Personal bodyguard?”

  “Hmm.” She settled back into buttery leather and steepled her fingers, tapping them in a mini Mexican wave. I was fluent in this sign language. Time to intervene.

  “I brought the nuts onto the flight and ate them while Hugo was occupied keeping the plane aloft, Aunt Bea. If he hadn’t assisted the pilot, we’d still be swimming home. He doesn’t deserve to be punished.”

  Hugo’s eyes flickered to me in the rear-view mirror. It topped our list of meaningful exchanges. The engagement would probably be a while away yet.

  “I see,” she relaxed and smiled. Her small teeth were blindingly white in the murk of the backseat. She squeezed my hand. “We shall overlook it, just this once. I’m sure a repeat lecture on the hazards of excess salt is uncalled for.”

  There were other pressing concerns. “Um, did you say personal bodyguard? As in my personal bodyguard?”

  “We are expecting an extremely important guest in the coming days, Winnie. A bodyguard for you is simply a precaution. Our visitor attracts unwanted attention, and we intend to leave nothing to chance.”

  The whole thing made no sense. First, this transcontinental yank, and now a guest who somehow challenged my safety? And imagine the spectacle of tracking about Sydney with a gorilla in dark glasses reporting my position via a wrist communicator and roughing up anyone caught glancing at me sideways. Every boy within a fifty-metre radius would sprint in the opposite direction.

  “Ohhh, but Aunt Bea! Where will I put him when I’m in public?”

  “Really, Winsome! That tone befits a two-year-old. Now, enlighten me about the past six months at school. Leave out no detail.” And so I did. “I apologise unreservedly for enrolling you at that den of iniquity,” she harrumphed, her slim shoulders squared in indignation. “Imbeciles!” Heads would soon roll at the Academy. Compared with my subtle yet infinitely more powerful great-aunt, Chablis’ family’s reach was short.

  Still at a distance from the city, we pulled over to the curb beneath a gloomy concrete archway. Parked in a row before us were two other limousines, identical to ours, and Bea’s silver Bentley Continental GT.

  “Winsome, you will continue the journey in the Bentley with Hugo.”

  What in the CIA-witness-protection-programme-conspiracy-theory was going on? “I’m not budging until you tell me what this is about!”

  Almost the instant the car stopped moving, Bea had the door open and prepared to hop out. She turned back to me with a strange sympathetic expression. “It is time for your education to match your ability.”

  “What?” My lacklustre grades tended to deny the need for a more challenging curriculum. “Who’s coming to stay? The Queen?”

  Bea was already out of the car as the words left my mouth. She reached our tiny, ancient housekeeper Mrs Paget and my butler, Fortescue, dapper in his bow tie and vest, who loitered by the side of the road. The trio dipped their heads for a brief conference. I attempted pursuit, simultaneously thrilled to see them, and mortified when Hugo blocked my progress by stepping in front. Where had he come from so speedily? The man was a ballerina in Goliath’s body. He planted his hands on his hips and raised his eyebrows in challenge. I remained trapped in the car. No doubt, manhandling would occur if I caused a ruckus.

  “You wouldn’t!”

  His jaw set, highlighting the manly dimple in his chin. “Don’t make me,” he threatened in his finest deep Mufasa.

  “You’ve got to be kidding!” I was stuck in a Coen Brothers’ farce.

  In
the triangular gap between Hugo’s elbow and his body, Mrs Paget grinned and waved, her puff of white hair and plain shift masking a wiry, eighty-year-old ball of energy. She took the limousine at the head of the posse and drove off into the night. Hugo whisked me so rapidly to the Bentley if I were egg whites I’d have been stiff and fluffy. After a sober nod at me as he strode by, Fortescue replaced Hugo at the vacated steering wheel and followed the others.

  To add to the humiliation, my bodyguard made me sit in front next to him as he drove. Apparently, he’d taken Bea seriously and decided to dial up the scrutiny. We were the last to leave after half an hour. Then came another half an hour of tooling around town in stony silence, checking for mystery tails. Surely this was overkill? I was too grumpy to lap up the scenery, hunching in for a mope on the deficient explanations.

  There was absolutely no point asking Bea for anything more. A crowbar couldn’t prise her lips apart until she deigned to open them. My head drooped. Vibrating glass massaged my forehead, wheels thrumming the verge.

  “Where are you?”

  The woman laughed, running downstairs from the back porch of a large, elegant mansion. Simple cream pants and a singlet adorned her lithe body, long mahogany hair pulled up in a messy bun. Her amber eyes sparkled with mischief. She seemed in her early twenties and was very beautiful. A solid wall of tall, moss-draped trees circled the house in lined soldiers, a wide expanse of lawn sloping down to wetlands and a wooden jetty.

  A vegetable garden,