Raisins and almonds - Poisoned Pen Press (UK)

40 Kerry Greenwood
Ember walked into the kitchen and sat down at Phryne’s
feet, tail curled around black paws, looking inscrutable as was
his wont. The clock ticked. The electric light banished the darkness
but made the garden outside Phryne’s house as black as a
pit, and she felt suddenly uncomfortable, as though someone
was watching her. She pulled the creamy silk close at the front,
swore and stood up, taking the poker. Action, she reflected, was
always better than unease.
She unlocked the back door with its huge key and stood in
the doorway, scanning her own domain. One tree, tall. One
shed, whitewashed. Three garden beds, grey in the darkness. One
small patch of lawn. Nothing else, no sound but the wind and
no movement but the trees bowing under the wind. She stared
out into the night, poker raised, for some time before she closed
and locked the door again and returned to the puppy.
It had clambered back into the grocer’s box, and was washing
itself inefficiently with a small pink tongue like a scrap of
ham. Ember, watching it with close attention, cleared the box
lid with one complicated leap which took him into a reclining
position with the puppy snuggled up to his side. He dipped his
gaze and licked the top of its ragged black and white head, then
began to wash its milky face.
‘Ember, it’s a dog, canis, you know, not felis,’ Phryne informed
him. Ember appeared unenlightened by this news. The kitchen
began to warm. Phryne, fascinated, made herself some Dutch cocoa
from the tin with the lady in a white cap on the front and sat sipping
it, her bare feet on the hearth stone, the uncurtained windows as
black as black glass, and listened to Ember’s rising purr.
She put herself back to bed half an hour later, and the night
seemed to have quieted so that she fell easily asleep.
All of which went close to explaining why, when Phryne woke
suddenly to voices at her own front door, she was annoyed.
‘Eight of the clock on a Sunday morning, what an hour!’ she
exclaimed, as Dot tentatively enquired if Miss Fisher wanted to
see the apologetic young man now downstairs with a bunch of
hyacinths (white) in his hand?