“You’ve thought of something, haven’t you?” she asked gently.
“Emmy Court is American,” Evan said. “She just appeared over here, right before this happened. Why pick this place to start doing her research?”
“I’d have someone look into this man’s background in America,” Bronwen said, “and maybe check out Emmy Court too, while they’re at it.”
Evan kissed her forehead again. “Smart girl,” he said. “I’ll suggest it to Watkins if I can catch him between his training sessions.”
“Training?”
“They’re promoting him to inspector, didn’t I tell you?”
“Oh.” Bronwen looked up. “Does that leave a vacancy, do you think?”
He stared past her, into the fire. “Not that I’ve heard. They’ve just taken on Glynis Davies, haven’t they?”
She reached out and squeezed his hand. “Your turn will come. And there’s really no hurry, is there? You were quite content here to start with. You said you liked the quiet life—and your hiking and climbing.”
“Yes, that was before …” He paused. Before I thought of supporting a wife and family, he didn’t finish out loud.
That evening Evan was attempting to cook a leg of lamb. Rather stupid really, he thought, to cook a whole leg for one person. But he liked leg of lamb on weekends, and he was considering using the bone to make Bronwen a lamb stew. His mother always served him lamb stew with dumplings when she wanted to build him up. Maybe he’d have a go at dumplings tomorrow and take some over to Bronwen.
The lamb was beginning to smell appetizing and Evan was just putting frozen peas into a saucepan when there was a tap at his front door.
“Ooh, smells good. What are you cooking?” Betsy asked.
“Roast lamb.” He saw her eyes light up. “Have you eaten yet?”
“No, and there’s nothing in the house except baked beans. The old man’s down at the pub already and I didn’t fancy baked beans on my own.”
“You’re welcome to join me. I can’t eat a whole leg on my own.” Evan stood back to let her in.
“Lovely! Diolch yn fawr, Evan bach.” She gave him a beaming smile as she came in. “Do you want me to lay the table?”
She had opened the kitchen drawer and was taking out knives and forks without being asked, laying them swiftly on the table in the living room. Then she went back into the kitchen and perched herself on the counter again as Evan took the roast from the oven. “I’ve never carved one of these things before,” he said. “Where do you think I should start?”
“Absolutely clueless, aren’t you?” Betsy slid from the counter. “Your mam must have spoiled you something rotten. Look you—this is how you carve a leg. You make a vee in the top like this and then you work backward. Got it?” Her hands covered his and he was conscious of how warm and real her hands felt after Bronwen’s fragile icy ones.
“All right. I’ve got it now.” He laughed her off awkwardly. “Let me try it. I’ve got to learn.”
Several large and not very elegant chunks of lamb were put on each plate, followed by roast potatoes and a generous spoonful of peas.
“I’ve got a jar of mint sauce on the shelf, I think,” he said, “but I’m not sure what to do about the gravy. Mrs. Williams used to make lovely thick gravy with lamb.”
“I make mine with gravy mix,” Betsy said, “but I’ll do what I can with the drippings.”
“You’re quite handy in the kitchen,” Evan commented.
“I’ve had to be, haven’t I? With my mam gone all these years and my tad only good for staggering to the pub? And I’m learning a lot by watching the way they do things at the Sacred Grove. You should see how lovely they make the food look. Little swirls of color and bits of flowers and things on the plate. Ever so pretty it looks.” She sat down opposite Evan, took a mouthful of meat, then looked up. “That crabby old cow wants me to stop working there,” she said.
“Mrs. Powell-Jones?” Evan smiled. “Yes, she gave me a long lecture about it this afternoon.”
“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Betsy said. “Going on about devil worship and all that nonsense. I think Rhiannon makes a lot of sense. Why shouldn’t the spirit of the universe be all around us in nature? She’s asked me to help her with the ceremony this week—you know, the Galan Mai? It’s going to be so exciting—lots of people coming from all across Britain, all wearing white robes and then the fire and everything. I always did love Guy Fawkes Night when I was a little kid.”
Evan watched her as she spoke, her face alight with excitement like a small child’s.
“This is cozy, isn’t it?” She beamed at him. “I’ve waited a long time to be asked to dinner alone with you, Evan bach.”
Evan couldn’t think of the right thing to say and went on eating.
“So Bronwen’s no better yet, is she?” Betsy asked suddenly.
“A little better, but not much,” Evan said. “I don’t know why it’s taking so long. Those bloody doctors just say it’s an unknown bug and leave it at that. I hate to see her as weak as this. She still won’t eat—” Suddenly a picture formed in his head of Betsy sitting on the counter as he carved the lamb. She had sat on his counter like that on the evening that Bronwen became ill. She had been in the kitchen as he prepared the meal. And she had asked him that question—if there was no Bronwen, would he notice her then? Was it too absurd to think that she might have put something in Bronwen’s food? Was it also too absurd to think that she might have spiked Randy Wunderlich’s coffee?
Chapter 20
Excerpt from The Way of the Druid by Rhiannon
The Cycle of the Druid Year
We believe there is a deep and mysterious connection between our individual lives and the life force of our planet. Therefore, we recognize eight occasions during the yearly cycle that are significant to us and we mark them by special ceremonies.
Four of our special ceremonies are solar, four are lunar—a balance between the feminine and the masculine, the Goddess and the Sun God.
At the solstices the sun is revered—in the glory of its maximum power in midsummer and in the quiet of its near-death in midwinter. At the equinoxes day and night are balanced. These are the times of planting and of harvest. In spring we sow and in autumn we reap the fruits of our toil.
Then there are four more ceremonies, during the year. This is the cycle of the land of planting and harvest.
At Samhuinn, on October 31st, livestock used to be slaughtered before the winter when there was no fodder. At Imboic, on February 2nd, lambs were born. Beltane, on May Ist, was the time of mating and purifying. Lughnasadh, on August 1st, was the time of harvest.
We celebrate these festivals to remind us that our lives are intervowen with the cycle of the year. We see them as more than festivals of farming. On October 31 time stands still. The veil between this world and the other is lifted. The spirits of the dead walk among us. We make contact to share their wisdom and inspiration. The dead are honored and feasted as guardians of the tribe.
The winter solstice, called in the Druid tradition Alban Arthan—the Light of Arthur—is the time of death and rebirth. In the darkness we throw away those things that have been holding us back. One lamp is lit from flint and raised to the East. A year is reborn and a new cycle begins.
On February 2nd, called Imboic in the Druid tradition, is the celebration of the first snowdrop, the melting of the snows. Lambs are born. It is a gentle festival in which the Mother Goddess is honored with eight candles rising out of the water at the center of the ceremonial circle.