Page 4

Chasing a carriage down a country lane was fine sport, for a highwayman. But a highwayman would do it on a black stallion, not like this, stumbling along on two less-than-Thoroughbred legs.

Georgie ran for longer than was sensible, and in the end, as was obvious from the beginning, the carriage’s lead proved too great.

A pity.

It would have been satisfying to see something besides accusation in Elf’s bottomless black eyes.

The walk back up the lane dragged on. The landscape was the same as ever, a rolling green patchwork, green fields stitched together with darker green hedgerows.

Georgie had an unobstructed view of Marsden Hall.

Fortresslike, it jutted from the highest hill, heavy wings of gray stone pierced with lancet windows, crenelated tower etched against the cloudless sky.

Redmayne Manor lay less than a mile south. A redbrick mansion in the Georgian style, airy and symmetrical, with large sash windows and a bright white portico.

The houses themselves would feud if they were able.

You are my enemy.

Elf had been pale with fury when she said it.

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.

Georgie tamped down that train of thought.

Elf was frowning. “Mr. Clutterbuck didn’t mention any ladies.”

“Why else go to Llangollen?” Anne gave a little sigh. It was a rhetorical question, but Elf turned owlish.

“To survey the northern stretch of Offa’s Dyke. The earthwork King Offa built to defend his kingdom from the Welsh.”

“Was this also in the ninth century?” asked Anne brightly, blue eyes slightly glazed.

“The eighth,” corrected Elf.

“King Offa stole his territories from the Welsh.” Georgie smiled. “That makes his earthwork an offense, not a defense.”

A strange look passed across Elf’s face.

“What do you know about King Offa?”

“Nothing,” said Georgie. “But my mother was from Wales, so I know a few things about thieving, murdering Anglo-Saxons and marcher lords.”

Elf’s chin shot up. “I wish there were a dyke between our properties.”

“Let’s build one.” Suddenly, Georgie was laughing. “Why not? I don’t have anything else to do.”

Elf went still.

“I do,” she said. She passed a hand briefly across her eyes. Dirt made lunar eclipses beneath her fingernails.

“I must tell Papa.” She was speaking to herself, gaze turned inward. “An amulet on the bluff. He’ll understand that we need to dig in earnest.”

“I can help.” Georgie offered without thinking first. “You lost the amulet because of me. I’ll find you a new one.”

“A new one.” Elf’s lip curled, and her gaze focused. She stared so hard and long, Georgie’s muscles went rigid.

Five years ago, during their last encounter, they had stared into each other’s eyes. Their faces had come so close that Georgie had smelled the strawberry lemonade on her breath. Their mouths had nearly touched. And then they’d both started in shock.

Another accident. One Georgie hadn’t forgotten.

How did Elf remember that night? That moment?

She was already walking away, arms stiff at her sides, left heel pulling out of her boot with every step.

Georgie gazed at her retreating figure, which seemed so small and fragile, and then up at Marsden Hall—uncountable tons of stone, and the weight of history besides.

God, it was gloomy.

Anne broke the spell. “You could go after her.”

“I don’t want to go after her. I want to go back to London.” Georgie started kicking a new stone down the lane.

“You should go after her.” Anne followed. “It is your fault, about the amulet.”

“It’s Rosalie’s fault.” Georgie sent the stone sailing into the grass. “Where is Rosalie? She was supposed to meet us at the pond. Why aren’t you worried?”

“Because I know where she is. She’s sleeping under the willow. Bedded on the moss like a fairy. Cowslips all around. She looked enchanted, so I didn’t dare to wake her.”

“I dare,” said Georgie darkly, and quickened the pace.

“Yes, you’re very bold.” Anne skipped to catch up. “Soooo.” She drew it out. “Elf.”

“Elf,” muttered Georgie.

“Is the name derived from her appearance? She looks supremely elf-like.”

“How’s that?” Georgie snorted. “She looks…”

Dark eyes that could drown the sun. Elf always seemed on the verge of a frown. It was the shape of her lips. They had a downward turn. Coaxing them into a new shape would make for a challenge. One might start with a featherlight touch. Trace their outline with a fingertip. And then—

“She looks…” prompted Anne.

“She looks like she looks,” finished Georgie, with a scowl. “Her name is Elfreda. Hence Elf. I say it to annoy her. No one else calls her that.”

“I see,” murmured Anne. “A pet name. Something just between the two of you.”

Georgie examined Anne’s profile suspiciously. A dimple dented her cheek. “It’s not like that.”

“Of course not.”

“She’s not like us.”

“Of course not,” said Anne. And then: “How can you be sure?”

“I’m sure.” Georgie wasn’t sure. It was maddening. “I’m sure. And it doesn’t matter. She hates me.”

“She seemed to.”

“I hate her.”

“Mm.”

They’d reached the part of the lane enclosed by hedges.

“Is that where we came in?” asked Anne, pointing to a gap. “I squeeze through there, get back to that boulder, and then I’ll see the path to the pond?”

“Why are you asking me?”

Anne swung around and caught Georgie by the biceps. They stood like that, face-to-face. Anne wore a tiny smile.

“Because I don’t want to wander in circles while you convince your elfin queen to forgive you.”

“Ha,” said Georgie.

Anne let go. “I’m sure you’ll succeed. You usually do.”

Georgie gave a groan and half turned, looking down the lane. Back and forth, again, and for what?

The hedges rustled with country birds. And with Anne, slipping away, leaving Georgie alone with their thoughts.