The Siren. Tiffany Reisz

a hot-air balloon (in the dream it all made sense).

      The balloon floated over the tops of the trees and Amanda was wondering how high it would go and whether or not she should be nervous when a handsome hot-air balloon pilot appeared at her side. “Don’t worry,” he said reassuringly, “I’ve done this before.”

      She did not know him, but of course felt at once that she did. He stared at her with piercing, dark eyes. He looked rather how she imagined Heathcliff would look, but a great deal less mopey and tragic, and also more heavily muscled, though Heathcliff worked out of doors, so perhaps this was a facet of his personna that Bronte had simply failed to mention.

      “My name is—” the pilot said. The steady streaming of the wind stole the words from his lips, but it did not matter. He put his hand on her arm, warmly suggestive.

      Because Amanda was a person who spent much of her free time with Gaskell, Austen and the Brontes (minus Branwell), the words that sprang to mind were, “Sir, you mistake me!” A phrase quite unlike one any a modern woman (which she undeniably was, despite her choice of reading material) would employ. But his hand was large and warm, and the weight of it created a little frisson of excitement in the pit of her stomach and she thought she mightn’t say either of those things. After all, it was only his hand, and it was only resting, quite inoffensively, on her arm.

      The balloon rose higher, seeming to require little attention from its pilot, who continued to study her intently. The treetops receded, becoming like the miniature trees she had seen at the train museum in the Vale of the White Horse, but she was no longer nervous. “May I kiss you?” the pilot asked. Amanda had never been asked for her permission. It seemed to be something men no longer did. They simply assumed you would, without bothering to actually find out, which perversely made her want to refuse. Being asked had the opposite effect.

      “Yes,” she said. The wind carried the word away, but he had been watching her lips and lowered his head to cover them with his own. It was like being kissed for the first time, with the proviso that all the participants knew exactly what they were about. Amanda felt (and was slightly ashamed for feeling so) that kissing was oftentimes an arduous business, as if men were St. Bernards and she was a new squeaky toy. But the pilot was patient, waiting for her to open her mouth to him. He stepped closer, sealing their bodies together so the baffled wind must go around them. He kissed her slowly, open-mouthed, and it was so lovely she did not want it to end. He lifted her to sit on the edge of the basket, all well and good, except there was nothing but air below her.

      “It’s all right,” he said in her ear. “We’re coming down.” She twisted her head and saw that this was true, but now it was water below them, not land. Amanda only had an instant to be alarmed by this prospect when the balloon turned into a boat, cleaving smoothly through a white-capped ocean. The pink-and-fuchsia balloon dissolved into streamers that flung themselves out behind the boat, a joyous capitulation to freedom. Quite naturally, they were on a bed and the pilot went on kissing her, as if that was all he intended ever to do. He held her face in his hands, angling her head back to kiss beneath her jaw, nipping at the delicate skin until she moved restlessly between his hands.

      Usually by this point she was panicky, not because she wanted to stop, but because she disliked being rushed and men were over-eager to put their appendages in whatever location they most favored. Amanda had no objections to any of these places, but it was nice to be included in the scheme. Sex, for the most part, left her with the feeling that the gentlemen in question (she used the term euphemistically, being of the opinion that there were few males in the United Kingdom deserving of the honorific) had behaved immodestly and would not be entertained again.

      Amanda was beset by an unfamiliar, strident urgency. She wrapped her legs around his hips, pushing herself against him. She was, to her dismay, beginning to pant. Just when she was thinking that their clothing was a nuisance, it disappeared, leaving her skin-to-marvelous-skin with the pilot. He seemed to know what she wanted and entered her slowly, before she could ask, pausing every so often to see that she was in agreement. She had a brief and hilarious thought of Oliver Twist saying, “Please, sir, could I have some more?” as she took all of him (anatomically speaking, a considerable amount) into her body. He moved with her; everything he did to please her pleasing him equally well, a delightful result of their combined efforts.

      There was a sweaty, desperate minute when the striving threatened to overwhelm her—that despite his perfect attentions, she would not be able to achieve orgasm—and he stilled both of them and said, “No, look. Like this,” in the same way that a sighted person would direct a blind one. And he did something that later she could never remember, but which at once tipped her over the edge into a convulsive, shuddering climax that seemed to go on and on for a very long time.

      Amanda woke, alert to the world. She lay in bed for a time, reflecting on the dream. She did not sleep with strangers, either in real life or in dreams, and certainly had never had an orgasm during one. She had read that some women did, but had dismissed it out of hand as the kind of clap-trap people thought up in order to sell magazines. She was reluctant to rise, lest moving dispelled the feelings, but it was Sunday and her garden beckoned.

      * * *

      Rory Callan strolled along the lane, unbuttoning his coat as sun and exercise warmed him. After a week spent unpacking and arranging in the temporary trailer, it was time to meet his neighbors. The Winthorpes, to the east, were nearest, but they were elderly and the missus was deaf. His neighbor to the west was the town librarian. He imagined her with buttoned-up blouses and low-heeled shoes. But books were his livelihood, so they would have that to discuss, at least.

      He came to a low fence of rose brambles, and a white gate with a latch made from a rusted horseshoe and a length of twine. He let himself in and went up the path. Nearer to the house he found a woman pulling weeds with abandon from a round bed edged with small stones. He cleared his throat and said, “Excuse me.” She looked around, shielding her eyes from the sun. (His first thought was: They didn’t tell me the librarian had a daughter.)

      “I’m Rory Callan,” he said. “Your new neighbor.” She rose, placing her hand in his. There was a thud. The sound of the other shoe dropping, he thought wryly. She was quite fetching. He had an immediate desire to use his grip on her hand to draw her closer. Instead, he let go.

      A line appeared between her finely arched brows. “At Hartwell?” she asked. “But the house burned down a year ago, and all that’s left of the old place is the Round Tower.”

      Rory Callan was enamored of the way the locals spoke. True, there had been a house (of decidedly modern origins) that had burned down in the last year. But “the old place” she referred to was in actuality the ruins of a fifteenth-century fortified manor house. He had been born in a small town, but had lived most of his life in London, and he was beginning to think his return to the country had been long overdue.

      “Do forgive me,” she said, before he could answer. “I’m being unpardonably rude.” She brushed the dirt from her hands. “Please come in for a cup of tea. Would you prefer Lapsang souchong or Darjeeling?” And she motioned for him to follow her into the cottage.

      She was attempting politely not to, but she was definitely staring. He was born and bred in England, held a British passport and both of his parents were British nationals, but nonetheless, people being what they were, he was now and then asked where he was from. “My great-grandmother was Malaysian,” he offered. “You’re seeing the bit of her that’s left in me.”

      She paled. “It isn’t that at all. You must think me terribly rude. It’s only that…I know we haven’t met, but I feel as if I know you.” She looked down. “That’s a ridiculous thing to say. I’m afraid you’ve caught me at sixes and sevens. Did you say you were living at Hartwell?”

      He nodded, mid-sip. “I’m planning to restore the Round Tower first, then continue on from there.”

      She laughed, a light, trilling sound. “You must have a lorry load of money and a lot of free time on your hands.”

      “That’s about the size of it,” he agreed.

      She