She may have ignored the unfamiliar voice if its owner hadn’t stopped directly at her side, casting a shadow over her page. Libby looked up, the crick in her neck telling her as surely as the angle of the sun that she’d been here for hours already. Her prepared smile went genuine when she beheld the little sprite of a woman grinning down at her, as ancient as the stones all over the islands, from the look of her.

She didn’t know why the woman spoke as if she’d been searching for her, but it was hard not to enjoy being found by such a face. “Good morning, ma’am.” Had Mr. Menna sent the lady to find her? Perhaps it was his mother, and she’d offered to check on the odd girl who was sitting on the pathway, drawing. That must be it.

The lady held out a hand. “Come, dearover. I’ve been wanting to walk with you.”

“Oh.” Odd, but . . . “All right.” She scampered to her feet, tucking the pencil into her notebook and the notebook into its usual place under her arm. She then put her hand into the old lady’s, marveling at how soft her skin was, like the most precious paper. “Where shall we walk, ma’am?”

The lady’s laugh was how Libby imagined a fairy’s, if she ever bothered to think about how a fairy might laugh. Which she hadn’t until now. “How many times must I tell you? You needn’t call me ma’am. Just call me Mamm-wynn, dearest, like the others do. Heaven knows I’ve earned the badge, at my age.”

She knew from Mabena that it was simply the Cornish word for grandmother. And she had no real reason not to call the woman by such a title, if it was what she preferred. Perhaps she considered herself the grandmother to everyone on the islands. But that “how many times” gave her pause for a moment. Had she confused Libby with someone else? If so, mightn’t that someone else be upset if they found their grandmother hand in hand with a complete stranger?

Well, she’d try to catch Mr. Menna’s attention as they walked. If the woman had wandered away from a group of tourists or her family home, he would surely know it and help her return the delightful figure to her rightful place. She gave the delicate hand an equally delicate squeeze. “Of course, Mamm-wynn.”

“That’s a good girl.” Mamm-wynn patted her arm, her smile still as bright as the sun. And her eyes looked perfectly clear, not clouded with confusion. But then, what did Libby know of such things? Papa’s parents had died when she was too young to remember them, and Mama’s she never saw more than once a year, living on the other side of the country as they did.