The Hundred and Ninety-Nine Steps Read Free Page A

would’ve thought archaeology was a hands-on kind of thing,’ he said.
    â€˜So it is. I’m a qualified conservator, actually, specialising in the preservation of paper and parchment. I just fancied a change, thought I should get out more. There’s a nice mixture of people at this dig. Some have been archaeologists for a million years. Some are just kids, getting their first pay-packet.’
    â€˜And then there’s you.’
    â€˜Yes, then there’s me.’
    He was staring at her; in fact, both he and his dog were staring at her, and in much the same way, too: eyes wide and sincere, waiting for her to give them the next piece of her.
    â€˜I’m Siân,’ she said, at last.
    â€˜Lovely name. Meaning?’
    â€˜Sorry?’
    â€˜Siân. In Welsh, it means … ?’
    She racked her brains for the derivation of her name. ‘I don’t think it means anything much. Jane, I suppose. Just plain Jane.’
    â€˜You’re not plain,’ he spoke up immediately, grateful for the chance to make amends.
    To hide her embarrassment, she heaved herself to her feet. ‘Well, it’s nearly time I started work.’ And she steeled herself for the remaining hundred steps.
    â€˜Can I walk with you as far as the church? There’s a run I can do with Hadrian near there, back down to the town …’
    â€˜Sure,’ she said lightly. He mustn’t see her limping. She would do what she could to prevent his attention straying below her waist.
    â€˜So…’ she said, as they set off together, the dog scampering ahead, then scooting back to circle them. ‘Now that your father’s funeral’s over, do you have much more sorting out to do?’
    â€˜It’s finished, really. But I’ve got a research paper to write, for my final year of Medicine. So, I’m using Dad’s house as a kind of … solitary confinement. To get on with it, you know. There’s a lot of distractions in London. Even worse distractions than this fellow …’ And he aimed a slow, playful kick at Hadrian.
    â€˜You’re partaking of a fine Whitby tradition, then,’ said Siân. ‘Think of those monks and nuns sitting in their bare cells, reading and scribing all day.’
    He laughed. ‘Oh, I’m sure they got up to a hell of a lot more than that.’
    Was this bawdy crack, and the wink that accompanied it, supposed to have any relevance to the two of them, or was it just the usual cynicism that most people had about monastic life? Probably just the usual cynicism, because when they ascended to the point where the turrets of Whitby Abbey were visible, he said: ‘Ah! The lucrative ruins!’ He flung his right arm forward, unfurling his massive hand in a grandiose gesture. ‘See Whitby Abbey and die!’
    Siân felt her hackles rise, yet at the same time she was tickled by his theatricality. She’d always detested shy, cringing men.
    â€˜If the Abbey’d had a bit more money over the centuries,’ she retorted, ‘it wouldn’t be ruins.’
    â€˜Oh come on,’ he teased. ‘Ruins are where the real money is, surely? People love it.’ He mimicked an American sightseer posing for his camera-toting wife: ‘“Take a pitcha now, Wilma, of me wid dese here ruins of antiquiddy behind me!”’
    Squinting myopically, acting the buffoon, he ought to have looked foolish, but his clowning only served to accentuate how handsome he was. His irreverent grin, and the way he inhabited his body with more grace than his gangly frame ought to allow, were an attractive combination for Siân – a combination she’d been attracted to before, almost fatally. She’d have to be careful with this young man, that’s for sure, if she didn’t want a re-run of … of the Patrick fiasco.
    â€˜Antiquity is exciting,’ she said. ‘It’s good that people are willing