Excerpt of The Prodigal Wife by Marcia Willett

The wind was rising; it plucked restlessly at the storm-
weathered stone walls and breathed in the chimney. It
stroked the sea’s glittering moonlit surface to little
peaks and rustled drily amongst the stiff broken bracken
on the cliff. The row of coastguard cottages turned blank
eyes to the long rollers that creamed over the sand,
sinking away to a delicate salty froth at the tide’s
reach. A cloud slid across the moon’s round bright face.
On the steep, slippery, gorse-plucking cliff path, a
yellow light flickered and danced and disappeared.

Drifting between uneasy sleep and wakefulness, Cordelia
startled wide awake, eyes straining in the darkness. As
she slipped out of bed and crossed to the window the moon
rose free of the cloud, laying silver and black patterns
across the floor. Out at sea, the brilliance of its
shining path, fractured with light like splintered glass,
cast the water on each side of it into an oily blackness.
Once she would have pulled on some clothes and climbed
down the steep granite staircase to the tiny cove below
the cottage; now, common sense prevailed: she had a long
journey to make in the morning. Yet she lingered,
bewitched as she always was by the unearthly magic;
watching the black swirl of the tide round the shining
rocks.

Was that a figure on the path below or clouds crossing on
the moon? Alert, she stared downwards into the shifting,
shadowy darkness where shapes thickened and dislimned as
vaporous mist drifted and clung along the cliff edge.
Behind her the bedroom door swung silently open and a
large pale shape loomed. Sensing a presence, glancing
backwards, she muffled a tiny scream.

‘McGregor, you wretch. I wish you wouldn’t do that.’

The tall, gaunt deerhound padded gently to her side and
she laid her hand on his rough head. They stared together
into the night. To the west, beyond Stoke Point, the
squat, bright-lit ferry from Plymouth edged into sight,
chugging its way to Roscoff. No other light showed.

‘You would have barked, wouldn’t you? If anyone were out
there, you would have barked. Well, you can stay here now.
No more wandering round the house in the dark. On your
bed. Go on.’

The great hound obeyed; collapsing quietly onto a blanket
of tartan fleece, his eyes watchful, glinting. Cordelia
climbed back into bed and pulled the quilt up high,
smiling a secret smile; thinking about the morning. Even
after thirty years as a journalist she was still excited
by the prospect of journeys and new assignments, and this
one promised to be fun: a drive into Gloucestershire to
find an ancient soke and to interview its almost equally
ancient owner – and a meeting on a narrowboat with her
lover.