Page 52 of The Shadow Key

‘The grave?’

‘Legend says it’s the resting place of Rhita, the giant that King Arthur slew.’

Another local superstition. Henry says nothing; despite Linette’s apparently calm demeanour he is unsure of her true mood today. No indeed, better to hold his tongue than be on the receiving end of hers. She does not seem to notice his lack of response; she is pointing at the stony outcrop rising to their far left.

‘The mines,’ she says. ‘I go once every fortnight to take up food parcels Mrs Phillips prepares. I’m due to go tomorrow, in fact, if you’d like to accompany me? Julian prefers I do not interfere, but mining is unforgiving work and they deserve some respite every now and then.’ A shadow crosses her face. ‘Come, let’s take the path up toward Moelfre. Miss Carew’s cottage isn’t too far.’

It had been her idea to visit Rowena Carew. As a herbalist if there was anyone (so Linette said last night) who could know what the strange liquid in the vial might be, it was her.

‘Do you know Miss Carew well?’ Henry had asked, and even then he felt his pulse pound at the thought of her.

‘Not well,’ Linette replied, ‘for she keeps much to herself. She came to Penhelyg a few years ago, and has never sought my assistance.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because she does not need it. Miss Carew has a serviceable cottage and is not in want of work. She has a good relationship with my tenants since many of them –’ and here Linette had looked at Henry apologetically – ‘prefer the old herbal methods.’

Henry was not sure whether to be pleased or disappointed. On the one hand, Linette might have been able to tell him a little more about her. On the other, he now has a chance to discover Miss Carew for himself without any other opinion to influence his own.

‘Moelfre,’ Linette says now as they walk briskly across the field, Merlin at their heels, ‘is another curious mountain.’ She looks up at it with a smile. ‘Enaid used to read me a story about three women who were turned into standing stones at its summit when they chose to work on the Sabbath. They went up the hill to winnow their corn but because they were unobservant of the holy fourth commandment they were transformed into three pillars of stone for their wickedness, each the same colour as the dresses they wore – Blood Red, Bone White, Vein Blue.’

This time, Henry is not quite able to stem his disapproval.

‘Really,’ he says, sour, and Linette glances at him.

‘You’ve no patience for our ways, have you? Can you not at least pretend to suffer them?’

‘Do you expect me to believe three women turned to stone?’

‘No. But I expect you to enjoy the story for what it is – a fable – and not mock it.’

He thinks for a moment. ‘Why disregard the logic of science in favour of archaic philosophy that has no foundation of truth?’

She quirks an eyebrow at him. ‘How do you know it has no foundation?’

‘Because reason dictates there is none. Besides, you just called it a fable.’

‘So I did. But is that not very stubborn of you, nonetheless? To disbelieve something so assiduously? Legends are legends for a reason. They came from somewhere.’

A stone cottage comes into view. At their side Merlin barks, runs ahead, and Henry watches him jump over a stile. Once the lurcher has bounded further down the field, he clears his throat.

‘I do not mean to mock. But you must understand my upbringing. I am a man of science, not magic.’

‘Interesting,’ Linette murmurs, burrowing her hands deep into her pockets. ‘I think of them as the same thing.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well, in medieval times science was magic. Scholars believed that God created the heavens according to scientific principles, yet they were still considered divine. So to them, magic and science were one and the same.’

Henry looks at her in surprise. Linette shrugs.

‘I read,’ she says, and her tone is so matter-of-fact he cannot dispute it. ‘Besides, our legends are not magic, not neccessarily. They are simply the myths of our homeland, common folklore. They’re to be respected.’

He has nothing to say to this, nor does Linette seem to expect an answer. Instead she picks up pace as they draw closer to the cottage, and as they reach the lower reaches of Moelfre the land begins to change terrain; half-earth, half-turf, half-water. Bog plants blossom about Henry’s feet, marsh insects buzz about their heads. The ground becomes soft underfoot. Just when Henry feels they must wade through water to reach the cottage Merlin leads them across a small makeshift bridge of mountain rock onto drier planes where rabbit pellets litter the ground like tiny round bullets. A few more steps take them past a dilapidated stone wall. A desiccated jackdaw lies against it, the sun having already dried its sinews to crisp ribbons.

The cottage itself is on the other side, and Henry looks at it with interest. A low and rambling one-storey building made of the same stone as the bridge, topped with a slate roof, and as Merlin trots up to the door (no whitewash mark here, he is gratified to see) Henry perceives a small garden not unlike the barren one at the gatehouse, but this one is filled to the brim: wildflowers vie for attention amongst a bed of thyme, rosemary, mint, and numerous other herbs Henry does not recognise.

It is Linette who knocks, fast and firm. A black-stemmed tree sprigged with delicate flowers grows around the doorway, its spicy, almond-like scent heavy in his nostrils, the tiny white flowers shaking on their thorny stems. Footsteps sound within; Miss Carew opens the door. Her cheeks are flushed, red hair loose down to her waist, and as before all Henry can do is stare.

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