Drop by Drop by Morgan Llywelyn

Author:Morgan Llywelyn
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

16

Edgar Tilbury did not visit his rural mailbox every day. He was superstitious about it. If he went to the mailbox too often he believed it would encourage more mail. Earlier in life when he was running a successful business he had endured unrelenting communication; constant bombardment from people who wanted something from him and wanted it now.

In retirement he preferred quiet.

His tin mailbox with its red metal flag stood on a dangerously leaning wooden post at the end of the laneway. On a cold morning Tilbury ambled down to the mailbox to see if anything worth reading had arrived. A single envelope awaited him. Not brown like a government envelope, or windowed like missives from the bank. This one was plain white with no return address.

“Personal letter,” Tilbury informed a mockingbird sitting on the rail fence beside the laneway. Creosote had been liberally applied to the fence at one time to protect the wood, but now was nothing more than a stain on the earth.

The mockingbird cocked its head. Man and bird were old acquaintances. Sometimes it would imitate his out-of-tune whistle, but today it had nothing to say.

Recognizing the handwriting—an unusual combination of printed and cursive—Tilbury glanced at the postmark. The official stamp was smudged but still legible.

The mockingbird turned its head and precisely rearranged a single wing feather.

Tilbury examined the postmark more closely. When he rubbed it with his forefinger the red ink smeared.

“‘Neither rain nor snow nor dark of night…’” he remarked. “Something will keep the postal authorities from their appointed rounds, and damned soon too, if ink is going to dissolve on paper. Better read this while I still can; find out when she wants to come. Fly on off, bird. There’ll be seeds in the feeder later.”

Half an hour later Edgar Tilbury emerged from his house and went to the barn some distance behind it, perched on the rim of a hill near the rear of the property. He had more work to do on the coach he was building for Shay Mulligan, a custom design that was presenting him with several challenges. If Shay and his son, Evan, were not such engaging people he would have refused the commission, but Tilbury could not say no to people he liked—which was why he thought it best to avoid people.

Shay had been confident he could find a team to pull the carriage. “Several of my customers have retired hunters and event horses whose teenage riders grew up. They might be happy to sell their animals to a good home. But what about a harness for them?”

“Ordered a set for you from a fellow over in Coldbrook, the man who made a set for your son. Grumbled a bit; don’t think he really wanted to get back into leatherwork.”

“Is he retired in the same way you are?”

Tilbury gave him a lopsided smile. “Trying to be, but these days anyone with a practical skill’s in high demand. Notice how the definition of practical has changed? Time was, people liked to live next door to a cyber nerd in case the home PC crashed.

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