Page 8 of A Rare Find

Georgie kicked a stone and kept kicking it, following it back and forth across the lane, concentrating on its progress.

“Are you drunk?”

Georgie looked up. Anne was on the lane, and fast approaching, cheeks pink with exertion, blonde curls bouncing.

“You are drunk!” she exclaimed.

“You’re mad.” Georgie glared at her. “How could I be drunk?”

“That flask.”

“There’s nothing in the flask but a few unhappy tadpoles.”

“Well, you were walking like you’re drunk.”

Georgie gave the stone a final kick. It bounced on the packed earth and struck a booted ankle. Muddy boot, no ribbons.

Georgie winced in recognition. Elf. She must have been close on Anne’s heels, and she’d picked just the wrong moment to step around her, out into the line of fire.

Another accident.

Georgie could explain, but explaining to Elfreda Marsden had never produced the desired effect.

“Georgie,” said Anne in a scolding voice. “That was childish.”

“That was a bull’s-eye,” said Georgie, fetching up a cocky smile. Anne shook her head in reproof, but Elf advanced as though she hadn’t even noticed.

“Mr. Clutterbuck?” she asked. Her eyes weren’t accusing, but hopeful, and that actually felt quite a bit worse.

Guilt flooded in, followed by a crashing wave of irritation. She was twisting the screws. She could see for herself that Georgie’s crackpot dash had failed to answer the purpose.

“Gone.” Georgie gave a careless shrug. “Drove off like the dickens. Seemed to have somewhere else he’d rather be. I can sympathize.”

Elf’s throat worked. She was still pale, dark snarls of wet hair straggling around her pointed face.

“Who is Mr. Clutterbuck?” asked Anne. “A beau?”

Elf plucked at her dress, which clung to her body in all the places that Georgie tried hardest not to look. “He is the president of the Albion Society of Antiquaries.”

“Society of Druids,” Georgie translated for Anne. “When my father was a boy, he used to see them walking about in long robes. Her grandfather was the president. Until he tried to sacrifice his rivals in a wicker man.”

“Lies,” snapped Elf. “Invented by his rivals.” She turned to Anne. “The Albion Society is a glorious institution for bold inquiry into the human past. A proud association of lamp-holders dedicated to shining light through the mists of time. They organize and fund excavations all over Britain. You don’t exist as an archaeologist unless you’re a Fellow.” Her voice took an uncharacteristically wistful dip, and her dark eyes seemed to swim with tears, but a moment later, they hardened into obsidian, so Georgie was left to doubt.

“I planned to tell Mr. Clutterbuck about the amulet,” she continued, in a sharper tone. “But he’s gone to Llangollen.”

“Llangollen!” Anne gasped. “To see the Ladies?”

Georgie tried to catch her eye, to signal stop.

“What ladies?” asked Elf.

“The Ladies!” Anne had begun to sparkle. “Lady Eleanor Butler and Miss Ponsonby. All sorts of people pay visits to their cottage. Poets and such. Wordsworth said in a poem that theirs is a love allowed to climb / Ev’n on this earth, above the reach of time. I hope to visit someday myself, when I’ve more to offer in terms of conversation and experience. I so greatly admire them.”

Anne clipped articles about the Ladies from the papers to paste in her scrapbook, and she wrote poems herself in praise of their way of life.

Which Elf might not like.

Or perhaps she would.