Page 31

“Your father,” said Rosalie. “He goes on and on.”

“I don’t listen.” Anne lifted her chin. “And now I despise him all the more, for what he did to the wolves.”

“To be fair to your father,” said Elf, “there haven’t been wolves in England since the Tudors, and there weren’t many even then. Most wolf pits are far older.”

“How old is this one?” asked Georgie.

Elf didn’t hesitate. “It was dug before 835.”

Georgie blinked at the specificity. “835.” They studied the former pit. It was little more than a shallow, circular depression, a few yards in diameter, barely noticeable to a passerby, given the length of the grass. The idea that Elf could read so much meaning into an all but undetectable dip in the ground produced in them a feeling of disconcerted awe.

“Why 835?”

Elf reached for her notebook. She’d been carrying it around all week, a notebook with a mottled pasteboard cover, big as a ledger, stuffed with loose papers and tied shut with string. She picked at the knot. “835 is the date of the land charter establishing the abbey at Twynham. The description of the boundaries of the land parcel relies on landmarks, such as the wolf pit.”

“This is what you hoped to find? This…?” They gestured, feeling guiltier than ever for knocking that amulet from her hand. Elf had to content herself instead with a dent. It was lowering, literally lowering.

“Wolf pit. I mapped my perambulations, and…” Elf cut herself off. “Never mind. You’d all find it dull.”

“Not a bit.” Georgie held up a finger. “Hang on, though. I’ll bring intoxicants.”

They turned and legged it for the oak. They had to repack the basket, and by the time they got back to the wolf dent, Rosalie and Anne were sitting beside Elf, who held the notebook open on her lap.

“Georgie.” Anne looked up from the notebook. “Your house was built on top of the abbey. Were you aware?”

“There was very little left of the abbey.” Georgie sat, flicked off their hat, and arranged the repast on a folded square of linen. Cold meat, salmagundi, plum cakes, cheese, fruit, biscuits, tea, and most important, champagne. “Above ground, anyway.” They passed around glasses of champagne. “We turned the crypt into a wine cellar.”

Elf made a tiny, judgmental sound in her throat.

“Taste this champagne,” Georgie commanded. “Then tell me it wasn’t worth it.”

Elf hesitated, glancing down at her frothing glass. Finally, she sighed and tightened her fingers around the stem.

“Wassail,” she said, and drank.

There were only three glasses, so Georgie splashed champagne into a teacup and polished it off in a single gulp.

Anne downed her own champagne and crawled through the clover toward the plum cakes. “Elf, tell Georgie about Sexburga.”

“Sex what?” Georgie refilled Elf’s glass. “Yes, please. Person, place, or thing?” They paused. “Or Germanic harvest festival? Pagan feast day?”

“I thought that too!” Anne giggled. “It sounds like a medieval rite of spring that ends with an orgy.”

“That’s the kind of thought you keep to yourself,” said Rosalie, serving herself salmagundi.

“Thank you, Mrs. Herridge.” Anne rolled her eyes.

“Person.” Elf spoke firmly. “Sexburga was a nun at the abbey, and a scribe. She wrote a chronicle that my grandmother studied and translated. It included the land charter. But it’s gone now. Chewed up by rats.”

Anne coughed on plum cake. “Did you say chewed up by rats?”

“That’s my theory. They sometimes come down the chimneys and bite through the leaves of old manuscripts.” Elf toyed with her glass. “We’ve lost several that way. Grendel isn’t any help.”

“The monster from Beowulf?” Rosalie was staring.

“Rats and monsters.” Anne looked delighted. “Are there also ghosts and miasmas? May we please pay a call?”

Elf regarded Anne with wary eyes. After a moment, she seemed to decide that Anne was sincere in her excitement, and her face cleared.