by S E Holmes
An indeterminate while later, Jace woke to a hazy afternoon glare. Cicadas shrieked and parrots chattered, the scents of lemon myrtle and eucalypt invigorating. He inspected the damage, surprised to discover himself in better condition than he’d feared. He rotated his shoulders and hauled upright. Less sinister light showed the wounds on his palms were superficial, just a couple of splinters. A dry streambed spanned either side, its banks scarcely the rocky cliffs he’d pictured. It seemed as though he’d tumbled forever.
Jace collected his gear, happy now it was simply a matter of choosing a bearing and trekking out. A peal of laughter echoed the trees. He strained to listen, voices raised in celebration and stringed instruments growing clearer. It didn’t make sense. The Grey property stood derelict for seven years. Could it be squatters?
Finally, Jace broke through foliage onto an immaculate expanse of spongy lawn. A huge stone manor with sharply peaked gables dominated, elegantly attired guests scattered about magnificent gardens. Food-laden tables draped in crisp white, tuxedo’d serving-staff and a chamber orchestra completed the Gatsby-esque scene. He wondered if he should phone the Police, before recalling an absence of signal out here. Besides, the whole lot averaged the age of sixty, unlikely for a bunch of prowlers. What to do? Stalling on the fringes, he spotted her.
It had to be her. She glided through the crowd like a white-pointer, regally extending her hand and air-kissing with a practised smile. Lady Grey dressed in lemon, tall, refined, with a pale-blonde coif. Her jewels glittered discreetly in the sunlight. Jace frowned at the wrongness of what he was seeing, but couldn’t remember why.
And wherever she ventured, went a stunning broad, dark-haired youth -- her newly minted husband. Scrupulously attired in a beige suit and vest, he’d certainly managed to throw-off the bum-artist image. His artifice matched hers perfectly. Jace realised the hosts were in the act of bidding farewell. He fought to recall why the scene twisted his gut.
Patrons began to leave, Rolls Royces and Bentleys forming a dignified queue trundling the drive. An antique VW beetle abruptly hurtled towards the house, veering onto the lawn when prompted by horns, punk anthem blaring. It screamed to a dust-spewed halt in the turning circle. A girl leaped out with a swish of waist-length pitch hair, dark allure an exotic contrast to frothy pastels and genteel speech.
In a tight black-lace corset that highlighted teasing curves, leggings and boots, she looked familiar. Try as he might, Jace couldn’t place her. But he didn’t dare move closer, unsure of what he witnessed. Or of the outcome if he made his presence known.
All turned to stare, mouths tight with disapproval. She cut a dazzling trail to where the musicians dismantled equipment, an oblivious effervescent spirit to outshine any in her path. But she wasn’t what lasered Jace’s focus. In the orchestra’s adult midst, a dainty young girl in flowing white and shined Mary-Janes packed away her cello. She was no more than ten years old, but he identified her instantly. Laini. Whole and healthy. And her brilliance eclipsed the intruder, who was obviously her elder sister come to collect her after the recital. The pair traded a secret grin, which poked fun at stuffy band-mates, the intimacy of their bond tangible despite the age difference.
Across the divide, there was no mistaking the captivated gaze of the latest Mr Grey. Laini’s sister fidgeted in wait, eyes ceaselessly roving, until they settled at him. A smile danced on her full lips, attraction igniting a fire between them. Beside him, Lady Grey subtly tracked the exchange with a cool expression. She disengaged her arm from his to melt inside without another glance.
Mesmerised, Mr Grey barely noticed his wife’s departure. He stood alone in the grassy courtyard, rum punch in hand, while people drifted away. Laini’s sister shouldered the cello, available hand outstretched to lead her young sibling to their car. Mr Grey followed.
“I’m Blake Grey,” his mellow baritone wafted the void. “And you are?”
He hovered closer than polite, ogling lithe lines as she bent to pack the cello in the boot. She turned, startled by his proximity at her rear.
“Sienna.”
She pressed between him and the VW bonnet with nowhere to go. They flirted and giggled, a flush crawling her cheeks, unmindful of prying eyes. A curtain flickered in a high window to reveal a shadowy flash of Lady Grey’s arctic disappointment.
But Jace couldn’t tear attention from Laini. Across the expanse, her wide brown eyes pierced his hiding spot. She raised an arm and pointed at him in silent warning.
***
Chapter Four
