Page 113 of A Rare Find

“I see.” Georgie tried to sound innocent. “You have found a pastoral pastime.”

“He’s a person, not a pastime.” Now Phipps looked at them, offended. This from a man who’d tumbled half the House of Commons.

The prickliness. The blush. Phipps was in love.

“You have found a person.” Georgie leaned forward, relentless. “With whom you share a pastime.”

“We share several pastimes.” Phipps sniffed. “There’s one, of course, that’s extremely agreeable. But we also talk about seed drills.”

“Seed drills.” Georgie fell back. It was too good. “Seed drills.”

Phipps glared. “Just so. But we haven’t much cause to pass any time together, so it’s all a bit too furtive for my taste. And I can hardly lodge at his cottage when you jingle off. In fact, I’m hard-pressed for what to do.”

“Stay on here.” Georgie waved their hand.

“Without you? Just stay on, at your house? Bagshaw enjoys my flirting, but I hardly think—”

A sound interrupted him. This time it wasn’t a crash. It was pounding footsteps.

They pushed back their chair, were already rising, when Elf pelted into the room. Blades of wet grass stuck to her skirt, and all her hair had come loose. She smelled like wind and electricity and came at them like a storm.

“The answer!” She had to grab their arms to arrest her forward momentum, and even then, her damp skirt slapped their shins. “I have it.” She sobbed for breath. “I have the answer.”

So do I, they almost said, but didn’t, because she was running again, and they had to chase her down the hall.

30

Soon Georgie was also sobbing for breath. Last night, the trees had swarmed in darkness like denizens of a mythical greenwood, party to the revelry of outlaws, vagabonds, and witches. They’d seemed animate, ready to march to Dunsinane under their own power. Now Georgie leapt their stubborn roots and wove between their expressionless trunks.

The trees were once again typical trees, filled not with spirit but timber.

The morning was a typical country morning.

Why, then, did Georgie still feel sorcery, darkling bright, flowing in their blood? Why this buzzing in their ears?

Elf ran quick as a hare through the woodland, and they followed, heart tumbling loose in their chest. She passed between two oaks at the woodland’s edge. The sun spilled over her. She was racing into an ocean of clear morning light, her long shadow black on the vivid green grass.

Georgie slowed, sun dazzled, watching Elf open the distance between them. She’d almost reached Holywell Rock. Was she heading for the bluff?

She spun toward them. “Holywell Rock!”

They’d barely slept. They’d spent the previous hours cycling through emotions, stirring up the sediment of all their hopes and fears even as they strained for clarity. Then Elf had flown through the doorway, and their body and soul had made the same decision. But they’d yet to turn that decision over fully in their mind, to examine the angles. It was still revolving, occupying every thought. And now she wanted them to think about something else.

They rallied their forces.

“What about it?” They trotted on until they reached her. “You’re not saying the answer to the riddle is Holywell Rock.”

“Holywell Rock,” she repeated. “Why is it called Holywell Rock?”

“All I know is we could call it by another name, and it would smell as sweet. Or weigh as much. Feel as hard? What’s the most rocklike quality of a rock?”

She pushed her hair over her shoulders, face flushed with eagerness, and exasperation. They loved that look. But maybe they were about to earn a kick instead of a kiss.

“It’s in the Domesday Book.” They hurried to redeem themself. “It has been Holywell Rock for a very long time.”

She nodded. “Holy. Well. Rock.”

They turned their gaze from her face to the rock. Their pulse had been returning to normal, but it tripped, then began to sprint.