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“Good of you not to judge him for the nipple clamps,” said Osric.

“With an entire bargepole up my arse, I haven’t any room left for judgement,” said Fairhrim. “I nearly screamed when I saw him. All I could think about was sea urchins.”

She led Osric to the worktop in the back room, upon which lay a messy heap of documents and a half-folded map, looking as though it had been hastily taken down.

“I didn’t want Leofric to see,” said Fairhrim. With precise, though irritated, gestures, she put her documents back into stacks. “Tore it all down while he was disrobing. Hold this up.”

Osric pushed the corners of the map against the wall. Fairhrim ducked under his arms to pin it back up, along with her data tables, a drawing of the Monafyll Stone, and her notes from Widdershins.

As it had last time, her casual nearness surprised him. Those who approached a known Fyren without an iota of fear numbered zero.

Well—now they numbered one. What a pity it had to be Fairhrim.

These musings were interrupted by a sudden, “Ouch—ouch!”

Fairhrim had bumped her bun against him. The silver curette that held her hair in place caught the knife holster at his forearm. Osric attempted to disentangle the mess, but gloved fingers were not adequate for so delicate a task, and all he managed to do was hook more fine hairs around a buckle. Fairhrim gave him two seconds of fumbling before swatting his hand away and doing it herself.

By the time she had got untangled, three hairs had snapped, and fluttered thereafter from Osric’s holster like cobwebs, or torn lace, or a secret favour from a Lady.

“Could you stop bobbing about and getting your hair caught everywhere?” asked Osric.

Fairhrim pinned her bun back into place. “Perhaps if you weren’t armed to the teeth at all times one could pass you without getting scalped.”

And her deofol had called Osric prone to exaggeration.

Fairhrim, her hair in order, turned her attention to the map. “Right. Where was I?”

“You’ve transposed the ley lines onto this,” said Osric.

“Yes—far easier than faffing about with two maps. I’ve also replaced my pins.”

Osric had indeed just noticed that the map was dotted with pink hearts. “Erm…are those…?”

“Cerys’ nipple pasties, yes,” said Fairhrim, wiggling a sheet of nipple pasties. “I like the adhesive; it doesn’t damage the map.”

Fairhrim had placed the hearts upon areas that they had visited, but also new ones: a place in Somerset, a place in Dyfed, and the empty sea off the coast of the South Downs, where the Hedgewitches had been. (“Those five ley lines,” tutted Fairhrim with respect to this last one. “I fancy going back and trying again. But only when we’ve exhausted our other options.”)

“The June lunation takes place in three weeks.” Fairhrim tapped at the heart in Somerset. “My proposal for our next attempt is here. I wasable to conclusively locate a dozen stories in this specific area, all taking place during the Begbéam moon.”

“That’s at a crossing of three ley lines,” said Osric. “Promising.”

“Yes—and at the intersection of two watercourses, which matches your precious Widdershins’ translation for June.” Fairhrim pointed to her notes, which duly indicatedrunning waters cross.

“But, most interesting of all, if we go precisely here”—the tip of Fairhrim’s finger stopped at the heart—“we’ll add a labyrinth to the mix.”

“What’s so good about a labyrinth?”

“They’re another sort of in-between place. Sacred paths, pilgrim paths—ways to reach a new state of consciousness, ways to approach the Otherworld. Disorienting. Thin.” An unimpressed grimace pulled at Fairhrim’s lips. “A recurring theme is the importance of trusting the path, even though it seems to be meandering without purpose.”

“A bit on the nose for what we’re doing at the moment,” said Osric.

“Isn’t it? I hate it.”

“So, we’re going to Avalon?”

“Yes. The Færwundor at Glastonbury Tor, to be specific.”

“Ah,” said Osric, significantly.