“Thanks.”
At Swindon, we changed to a bus. Kelly and Jane rushed on ahead of us and took a seat right at the back. There were no other empty seats around them, so the rest of us had to crowd up the front near the driver. It was past midnight now, and I could barely keep my eyes open. I leaned against the window and fell into a sleep haunted by terrible dreams.
“Maeve.” Arthur shook my arm to wake me. “Time to go, luv. We’re here.”
I dragged my weary body off the bus. A woman stood with Corbin, helping him pull out our backpacks from storage. Arthur swooped in and grabbed Kelly’s pack for her, grunting under the weight as he staggered away from the crowd of passengers.
“Maeve Moore.” The woman’s round, kind face broke into a smile as soon as her head turned toward me. She looked a little like a witch you’d seen in a movie – probably in her fifties, with strawberry-blonde hair reaching down past her waist, thousands of bangles and bracelets that clinked together when she moved, and laugh lines crinkling at the corners of her eyes. She clasped my hand in hers. “You look so much like your mother. The Avebury Coven welcomes you with open arms.”
“The what?” Kelly’s head whipped up.
“Oh, um…” My sleepy brain grasped for an explanation.
“Poor gullible Yank,” Flynn drawled, wrapping his arm around Kelly’s shoulders. “This is Gwen’s act for the tourists. Because of the stone circle, many of the locals pretend to be witches. The ‘Avebury Coven’ is just the name of her artist’s collective. Isn’t that right, Gwen?”
The woman nodded, picking up on Flynn’s lie. “Yes. We have ten artists who all produce work inspired by the history of Avebury. I’d be happy to show you around our studio space and gallery shop if you’re interested.”
“Oh.” Kelly looked relieved. “Cool. I’d love to see the gallery, as long as it’s not too New Agey? I’m not into all that occult stuff.”
Gwen glanced from me to Corbin, her grey eyebrow raised, but she didn’t give us away. “Follow me,” she said. “You must be tired. I’ve made up beds for all of you, and we have food waiting.”
Gwen hurried us to her house as fast as she could – just as well, because my teeth chattered from being out in the crisp night air. She lived in a beautiful ancient cottage on the edge of the village. An enormous rock stood pride of place in the middle of her front garden, surrounded by beds of herbs and wildflowers. “It’s not original, you mind,” she explained as we traced our fingers over the rough surface. “After the archaeologists mapped the site and released the probable locations of other stones, I decided to erect this one where one of the ancient stones stood.”
Beside me, Flynn smirked. I jabbed him in the ribs, realising he was giggling about the worderect.
Typical Flynn.
Gwen held the door open for us and we hurried inside. She flicked on the light, revealing a long, low-ceilinged sitting room where several air beds and cots had been erected in front of a roaring fire. The warmth enveloped me, and I instantly felt at ease. “I’ve set the girls up in the spare bedroom, so you can have privacy with the baby, but I know Maeve might like to sleep out here. I know it seems mad to have the fire on in summer, but I thought you’d appreciate it arriving so late. it gets cold in this old house. Plus, it gives the stew a great smoky flavour.”
The scent of hot meat wafted across my nostrils. My stomach grumbled. Gwen went to the fire, swung out a large cauldron on a long hook, and gave it a stir. “All ready. My daughter Candice will be along shortly with the bread.”
“Here you are.” A beautiful girl about my age with ice-white hair down to her waist entered, holding a large wooden tray upon which was perched two loaves of crusty bread. From the smell of them, they’d just come out of the oven.
“Gwen, you’re too kind.” Corbin took a stack of plates from Gwen and handed them around.
“The only way you could be kinder is if there was some Irish whiskey available,” Flynn mused, accepting a heaped plate of the meaty stew and a slice of bread.
Grinning, Candice produced a bottle from the folds of her skirt.
“A woman after me own heart.” Flynn grabbed her around the waist and hugged her close, his grin wide as he swiped the bottle from her hand and took a huge swig.
We all sat down around the room, some on Gwen’s floral-patterned sofa, others perched in the deep window seats or kneeling beside the fire, and finished our food in companionable silence. I admired the artwork hanging from every spare inch of wall space – some bold abstracts, some ethereal illustrations of fairies and nymphs, some that seemed to depict astrological signs and constellations and the arrangement of the stones. Candice sat with Flynn and told him about the studio in their barn that she and Gwen shared with eight other local artists, and the gallery shop in the village where they sold their work. He couldn’t stop staring at the paintings.
I didn’t blame him. They were captivating. Candice pointed out two of hers, which leapt out from the rest – the visible brushstrokes almost dancing across the canvas, as though she’d captured the sound of music.
“I’m beat,” Kelly announced as soon as she was finished her food. “I’m going to brush my teeth and crawl into bed.”
I hugged her goodnight. The hug felt stiff, forced, but I didn’t know how to fix it. The rest of us moved into the tiny kitchen to give Kelly some quiet. Gwen made hot chocolate in a pot on the old-fashioned wood-fired range, and we talked about Avebury and art and the sights we’d seen in London until I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. I kept trying to go off to bed, but Corbin held my hand firm at his side.
Gwen poked her head into the living room and beckoned me over. “Is your sister asleep?” Gwen asked. I nodded, watching Kelly’s slumbering figure, her mouth hanging open and emitting tiny, wheezing snores.
“When she’s snoring like that, not even the Slaugh could wake her.”
“Good.” Gwen pulled the back door open, sending a cold gust of air across the room. She grabbed a long, gnarled staff and a white robe from beside the door. “Grab your coats and shoes. Hurry now. The rest of the coven is waiting for us.”
I shivered between Blake and Flynn. We stood inside the area of what Gwen called the Southern Inner Circle, beneath a tall standing stone called ‘the obelisk.’ Women wandered around the outside of the circle, where only a few stones remained, carrying flaming torches high as they chanted in a language I didn’t understand.
“They’re speaking Breton,” Corbin said. “That’s so cool. I’ve never heard it spoken aloud before. Gwen’s coven traces their ancestors back to the earliest druids, who used to worship on this site after the Neolithic peoples abandoned it.”
