Page 32 of A Rare Find

“Grendel is a dog,” she said. “I can’t guarantee ghosts or miasmas, but you will meet my sister Agnes. She spends most of her time playing lute in the tower.”

The promise of a lute-playing maiden proved more than satisfactory to Anne. She beamed. And Georgie refilled their teacup, wondering if Elf’s tacit invitation had extended to them.

“The wolf pit,” they said to Elf, as the foam subsided. “Why is it significant? As a monument to historic gamekeeping practices, it underwhelms. As a boundary, it’s defunct. I appreciate it as a picnicker, but you were ecstatic before the picnic arrived.”

Elf was smiling that smile again. “The wolf pit.” She sounded dreamy and stroked her hand through the grass. “The wolf pit is how I’ll catch William Aubin-Aubrey.”

As answers went it was the worst.

Georgie poured champagne down their throat then muttered, with obvious bad grace, “It’s not a William pit.”

“Who is William Aubin-Aubrey?” asked Rosalie, as though this William Aubin-Aubrey hadn’t taken up too much of their time already and wasn’t best forgotten.

“The Barrow Prince.” Elf’s eyes sparkled. “Author of Sepulchral Anecdotes. He’s a Society Fellow.”

There was less to like by the second.

“Barrow Prince!” Anne gasped.

“He’s not a real prince,” said Elf. “But he has opened over a hundred barrows, and his method is the finest in Britain. And he’s not eight and twenty. No one knows more about Celtic, Saxon, and Roman funeral rites.”

“Hmm,” said Rosalie, with appropriately diminished enthusiasm.

Elfreda didn’t seem to notice. Georgie had never seen her show such enthusiasm.

“He is planning a trip to the Peak,” she said. “He wrote to Papa about it. But if I can just explain to him the strength of the case for the Northmen’s winter camp on the bluff, I’m sure he’ll dig here instead. I lack physical evidence.” Her avoidance of Georgie’s eyes was somehow more damning than a glare. “But there’s an entry in our family’s copy of The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle that records it. And Sexburga’s chronicle records it as well.”

“And this wolf pit attests to the accuracy and reality of Sexburga’s chronicle.” Georgie blew out a breath. “Which matters because the original has vanished.”

Elf’s expression betrayed her surprise.

Georgie enjoyed the feeling of having impressed her with their reasoning, until they remembered her surprise was premised on her thinking them an absolute idiot.

“And Prince William makes all the difference?” they asked, slouching like a child, and feeling like a child, for pettiness.

“He has assistants.” Elf was looking at them, brows slightly lower than before. “If William Aubin-Aubrey decides that the bluff is worth excavating, it will be done properly, much more quickly and thoroughly than I could do it myself. And the camp will be uncovered.”

“What specifically does one uncover in a camp of Northmen?” asked Rosalie.

“Dice?” guessed Anne. “If they were just sitting around.”

Georgie expected Elf to reject this immediately, but instead, she seemed thoughtful. “Perhaps dice. We’ll have to see.” Excitement flashed across her face. “It will be the very first.”

“And so you’ll be made a Fellow.” Georgie’s disbelief was plain in their voice. They dangled their teacup from their pinkie, watching it swing. They felt Elf’s gaze, and a blush crawled up their neck. They were acting like an ass, and they weren’t even sure why.

“Grand,” they said, lifting their head. “Let’s drink to it.”

Elf shifted a little, the wary look in her eyes again. But Anne poured the champagne, with disarming exuberance, and she settled and accepted the toast with a vaguely suspicious befuddlement that wasn’t devoid of pleasure.

For a time, they all ate and drank, warmed by the sun, the low hum of insects creating drowsy music. One bottle of champagne was empty, and two more rounds emptied the second. Elf seemed almost as relaxed as before, smiling as though she enjoyed Anne and Rosalie’s convivial chatter. She’d never seemed so at ease when Georgie and the Janes surrounded her at neighborhood parties. She’d exuded disdain and stayed all but mute.

Anne collapsed in the clover, giggling.

“What?” Rosalie raised her brows.

“Nothing.” Anne smiled up at the clouds. “It’s just…Do you think any of the nuns at the abbey fell in love? With each other?”

“Forget I asked,” groaned Rosalie. “And stop talking or I’ll pelt you with these strawberries.”