Circle of Stones by Catherine Fisher

He walked away down the marble hall, but she took a step after him at once.
    â€œJosh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”
    He turned. Then he came back. He was taller than her and very thin, all wrist bones and cheekbones, as if he didn’t eat enough. She realized she knew very little about him, and yet in the week that she’d worked in the museum, he’d been the only one who’d really talked to her.
    And yes. She was scared.
    He said, “Tell you what. I’ll get my stuff and we’ll go and get some coffee. Then I’ll walk you home.”
    That was the last thing she wanted. But she had already said “Okay.”
    While he was gone she stood by the window and looked out. It was a wild evening, already autumnal. All around her the buildings were masses of shadow, their Georgian doorways and casements lit by dripping glimmers of light from the lampposts. A few late workers hurried by under umbrellas. She watched them carefully.
    The job was proving harder than she’d thought. Constantly having to talk to strangers, give them change, chat to them, had been fun at first, but after only a few days the fear of being watched had come back and stayed. If a woman glanced at her a little too closely or a man caught her eye and smiled, it turned her cold. Because he was out there. Somewhere.
    Josh came back. “Okay?”
    â€œFine.”
    They went out by the front door. Tom, the night guard, muttered, “Aye-aye! He doesn’t waste much time, does he?” to Sulis as he unlocked. She laughed, but Josh said nothing, and outside he walked quickly across the square as if annoyed.
    She hurried after him. “He didn’t mean anything.”
    â€œHe’s a pain. You don’t have to work with him.” He paused in the rain. “Which way?”
    â€œUp the hill.”
    â€œGood. I’ve got to go to the bookshop.”
    â€œYou read?”
    He managed a smile. “No, I just look at the pictures.”
    They walked up past the closing shops, the flapping canvas of the market stalls. Rain pattered on the plastic covers of postcards; Sulis caught the frown of the gorgon face through the trickling drops.
    Josh was silent. Really they were strangers, she thought. She had no idea what to say. And he walked fast. Always a little ahead of her. He said, “Must be strange, moving so far.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œWell, Sheffield’s a big city . . .”
    She almost stopped walking. “How did you know . . . ?”
    â€œRuth said.”
    â€œShe shouldn’t have said.” Sulis caught up with him. “Have you been talking about me?” Her breath was tight.
    Josh laughed. “Everyone gets talked about in that place. Don’t worry about it.”
    Rain dripped down her fingers. She shoved her hands in her pockets. “It’s just . . .”
    â€œReally. No one’s said anything bad.” He looked uneasy now.
    After a minute she said, “Don’t tell anyone, will you?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWhere I came from. Don’t.”
    Josh shrugged. At the bookshop he said, “I won’t be long.”
    â€œTake your time.” She was glad to stand in the blast of heat at the entrance.
    â€œIt’s upstairs.” He strode off quickly between the tables of best sellers. She stared after him, the word
Sheffield
ringing like the echo of an alarm in her head. But it was nothing. It meant nothing.
    There were a few people browsing—she studied each of them carefully. None of them were him. She moved toward the stairs along the shelf labeled
Crime,
trailing her hand over copies of Agatha Christie. She’d seen some of these on television. Bodies in the library, murder on the Orient Express. Scornful, she flipped one with her finger. What did they know? How many of these writers had witnessed a murder, seen a girl fall out into the blue