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“Careful.” Anne tried to not to stare at the shoulder of the road as Michael pulled the black Vauxhall onto the road that led to Glastonbury.
“I’m used to driving on the left side,” Michael said.
Anne hid a smile. She just hoped the tires were sturdy. “It always takes me a couple of days to get used to it.”
Michael completed the turn with no scrapes, and Anne leaned back, willing herself to relax. She’d never been so nervous before, had even enjoyed driving with Thomas, infamous for speeding. A burning lump constricted her throat. The memorial service had only been last month. Thomas Le Clair’s plane had been shot from the sky leaving Tibet where he had been tracing one of six crystal keys to the Hall of Records in Egypt. Although his body had not been found, he and the crew of his private jet were presumed dead. Anne reached for the bottle of Celtic Springs water, took a sip, and watched the green fields behind the hedges. A house with a thatched roof stood on one side of the road, the garden full of spring flowers. She turned back to Michael. “What’s Glastonbury like? Just another small English village?”
He glanced over at her. “You don’t know the history?”
She shook her head.
“You still surprise me sometimes.”
“I’m still learning all this, remember?”
“It’s been a long time since I was here. I spent one summer on a dig on one of the nearby heaths.” He smiled like a man with a secret. “I think you’ll like it.”
“Yeah?” Anne rubbed her shoulder unconsciously.
“Still hurt?”
“What?”
“You do remember Egypt?”
“My shoulder is fine, but my ribs are still sore.” She’d been kidnapped. Cagliostro’s questioning methods had been anything but gentle.
Michael reached over and squeezed her hand. “I don’t ever want you to be in danger again.”
“Don’t worry. We saved the world. Remember?”
“I do.” Michael paused. “Do you miss it?”
“Saving the world?” She smiled, remembering the rush of energy filling the star gate when they had brought the six crystal keys together.
“No, in the temple, when we all merged, that moment of—” he searched for the right word, “—illumination.”
Anne turned back to the road. Now they were driving through a tunnel of trees. “It was real, then.”
Michael glanced at her sharply, then back at the road. “You didn’t really doubt it?”
“You’ve had a lifetime of study. I’m still relatively new at this, remember. I never realized humans could have such experiences. It feels like a dream now.”
Michael nodded.
Anne squared her shoulders. “I’m looking forward to this vacation, to spending some quiet time with you. Before the official wedding and that zoo.” She reached over and traced his chin with her finger. “Well, maybe not quiet exactly.”
“Your ribs are still healing.”
“I think I’ll be all right.”
“I’ll be careful.”
Her belly flushed warm. She sat back and stretched out her legs. They drove for a time in companionable silence, the Vauxhall humming along, the trees giving way to a village.
“Look.” Anne pointed ahead. “Is there a sale?”
“A sale?”
“Don’t you see that spotlight?”
“What are you talking about?”
“There. That beam of light. It’s like when they open a new store and have a huge spotlight turned up into the sky.” She looked over at him.
“I don’t see any spotlight.”
Anne looked back, her eyes searching. “There.”
Michael negotiated the next roundabout, then pulled over. “Show me.”
Anne raised her hand to point, but stopped short. “I thought I saw—”
“That’s the Tor.”
“But—I thought I saw a light.”
Glastonbury Tor rose out of the fields before them, its green slopes spiraling to a slightly rounded top, the stone finger of St. Michael’s tower etched against the purple streaked sky of sunset.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
“Told you that you were going to like it here.” Michael smiled over at her. “Which way?”
Anne smoothed out the map in her lap. “Go up Street then left on Fisher’s Hill.”
“The Fisher King,” Michael said.
Anne’s face lit up. “Wait, you mean this is where it actually happened—Morgen le Fey, King Arthur?”
“Not all of it. I don’t think Arthur and Guinevere are really buried here, but this is the Sacred Isle all right.”
“Remind me about the Fisher King.”
“You should know. This is your heritage. I’m the Egypt expert.”
“There’s bound to be a connection between Glastonbury and Egypt,” Anne teased.
“Of course, but you’re avoiding the question.”
They passed a grocery store on the left and a slope of green on the right. “There’s his hill now.” Michael pointed.
“Okay, smarty pants, the Fisher King kept the Holy Grail. He had a wound in his thigh—probably higher. Percival came to dine and the king showed him the grail.”
“Well, technically the grail was kept by the maiden, but a passing summary.”
“Oh, thank you Professor Levy. Do I get an A?”
“You’re my best student.”
Anne dug into his side.
“Ouch.”
“I’m the one with the sore ribs. Oh, turn here. Left.”
The tires protested Michael’s quick response. He drove up the street and negotiated the next roundabout.
“Now, watch carefully. Grandmother Elizabeth said it’s easy to miss the next turn. It’s really just an alley.”
They drove beside a low stone wall. “This might be it. Yes, Wellhouse Lane. Turn left.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No, this is it. It doesn’t look like much, but—”
“Your Aunt Cynthia owned a house on this road?”
Something in his tone made her turn to look at him. “Why?”
“See that?”
Anne squinted in the growing dark at a squat brick building with wrought iron gates over wooden doors.
“Do you know what that is?”
“An old garage?”
“That, my dear, is White Spring, one of the sacred twin springs of Avalon. Your aunt’s house—your house now—is on the Tor. Smack in the middle of one of the world’s major power spots.”
Anne looked back at Michael. “I thought you said this was the perfect place for R&R.”
“Glastonbury is full of peace.” Michael pulled the car into a spot beneath the house and they climbed cracked cement steps toward a two-story stone cottage. The front yard lay in the shade of an ancient oak. Ivy and shade-loving flowers filled the front yard. The round stones of the house’s foundation supported a white wrap-around porch. They arrived at an oak front door with a diamond paned window inlaid with red and white roses. The door swung open to a long hallway and set of stairs on the left.
“Hello,” Anne called out. They stood listening in the hall on a blue Persian runner, but no answer came. She called again. They listened for footsteps, a voice, but the house was silent. “The housekeeper said she’d get the place ready.” Anne found she was whispering.
They walked into the parlor on the right where a small fire burned cheerfully in the grate. “Looks like she did just that and took herself off. The perfect housekeeper.”
“Well, she left the door unlocked.”
Michael swung Anne into his arms and kissed her forehead. “This will be—” he kissed each eye closed “—an extremely—” he kissed the tip of her nose “—quiet—” he kissed her mouth lightly “—relaxing vacation.” Anne pushed against him and the fire between them kindled. Michael’s hand found the smooth skin of her back.
The sound of someone clearing her throat made them jump apart. “Excuse me, ma’am. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” A short, round woman stood in the hallway watching them quite frankly. Her brunette hair hung in a long braid down her back and matched the brown of her eyes. Fine lines at the corners hinted at her age.
Anne pulled at her blouse. “Tessa?”
“Yes.” The woman walked into the parlor.
“I’m Anne Le Clair, Cynthia’s niece.”
“Tessa Harden.” She extended a reddened hand, which Anne shook. “Welcome to Glastonbury. The house is ready for you. I’ve even stocked the fridge.” She walked into the room to check the fireplace, then straightened a doily on the back of an overstuffed chair. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll be going now. I’ve left my number on the kitchen counter. But the phone’s switched off.” She went into the hall again and stood studying Anne.
“We’ve got our cells.” Anne found herself blushing under the woman’s gaze.
“Sir,” Tessa inclined her head to Michael, then left.
After a minute, Anne said, “I guess the diffident servants of England are a thing of the past.”
“Anne,” Michael scolded, “You’ve never stood on ceremony.”
“Not usually, but there was something—she acted like I was in her house.”
“Well, she’s been caretaker for a long time, hasn’t she?"
Anne smiled at his turn of phrase. Michael was already picking up the question at the end of a statement so characteristic of the English.
“I’ll get the bags,” he said.
“Let me help.” Anne followed him to the front door.
He held up a finger to stop her. “You’re still healing.”
She paused at the front door, then on impulse turned and climbed the stairs, trailing her hand along the golden oak banister. The third step from the top let out a rather loud squeak. Light at the end of the hall drew her. A large window inlaid with red and white roses cut to refract the light, echoing the ones on the front door, framed the Tor perfectly. Sheep grazed on the slopes in the last of the sunlight. The silence wrapped around her like a wool blanket
The step announced Michael’s arrival. “Which one’s our room?”
“I haven’t looked yet.” She opened the first door to find a bathroom dominated by a claw foot tub. The door directly across the hall revealed a small room with a low table in front of another large window. A futon stood against the wall. Colorful cushions lay scattered about. The walls started out a deep purple at the bottom, then faded gradually to almost white. The ceiling darkened again into a midnight blue with a splash of stars across it.
“Meditation room, maybe,” Anne said.
They walked down the hall toward the front of the house and found a large bedroom with a canopied bed and marble topped bedside tables. Michael dropped the suitcases at the foot of the bed, and they turned to find that the room stretched the whole width of the house. Opposite the bed, a large chair and chaise lounge were drawn up to another fireplace laid ready. A gilded mirror hung above the mantel decorated with dried-up evergreen sprigs, holly with browned berries and pillar candles.
“Looks like she planned to celebrate here. Wonder why Tessa didn’t take it away?”
“Maybe she misses Cynthia.” Michael kissed her forehead. “I’ll get the rest of our bags.”
Anne turned her back on the sad mantelpiece and explored farther. What had once been a smaller room, perhaps the nursery, had been converted into a walk-in closet. Rows of drawers and hanging clothes ended in a cozy dressing room complete with a little table and mirror. Anne opened a small door on the left and found a water closet. The second, larger door led to the bathroom they’d first discovered.
Suddenly, Michael stepped up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. Winded from the steps, his breath blew warm on her neck. “Hungry?”
“What time is it really?”
“New York is five hours earlier, but it’s really dinnertime here.”
“Look at all this.” Anne pointed to the full closet, then at the dressing room. Brilliantly colored Egyptian perfume bottles lined the dressing table. Silk scarves and necklaces hung from small gold hooks from floor to ceiling. “She must have spent a lot of time in this house.”
“I don’t blame her.” Michael closed his eyes for a moment. “Do you feel it?”
Anne stretched her senses. “It’s so quiet. Not like Giza. I couldn’t sleep there.”
“Glastonbury is full of peace,” Michael repeated, then his stomach rumbled and they both laughed. “Let’s go to town. There are some good restaurants and the walk will work out the kinks from the plane.”
They hiked down Wellhouse Lane, then passed the stone wall dividing Chalice Well from Chilkwell Street. Past the Well, a row of townhouses crowded up to the sidewalk, the windows full of plants and sun catchers with pentagrams and Celtic knots now lit from the lamps inside. An orange cat ran from the garden of a larger house and paused to look at them. The mouse he’d been chasing took advantage of his hesitation and dove into a drain pipe.
They turned down High Street and slowed their pace, looking into shop windows. “There’s Chinese takeout,” Anne pointed to a sign in the window. They stopped and read the menu.
“Another night,” Michael said. “I’d eat it before we got home.” They passed a health food store, then noticed a regular grocer across the street. A young man with dreadlocks was just folding up his display blanket from in front of the St. John’s Church. The store windows displayed their offerings to the tourists. Crystals filled one window, locally made clothes another, books and Tarot cards in a third.
“Here.” Michael led the way into Café Galatea where they took an empty table next to the front window. Work from local artists hung on the walls and a variety of newspapers were strewn about. They ordered a large pot of tea and two sesame sir fries. The tea arrived, and with steaming mugs in hand, they watched the tourists and town residents parade up and down the street. After dinner, they strolled past Market Square and the haunted George and Pilgrim’s Inn, down Magdalene Street along the wall of the Abbey, then up the hill back to the house. Michael lit the fire in the bedroom, and they sat in comfortable silence.
“I’m too tired to unpack.” Anne pointed to the suitcases still piled at the foot of the bed.
“We’ll settle in tomorrow. Then I’ll show you around.” Michael stifled a yawn.
Anne smiled. “Time for bed.” They curled together between the smooth sheets, but sleep won over passion.
Something woke Anne. She listened for a sound, but heard only the ticking of an old clock downstairs. She rolled over and snuggled down under the duvet, but sleep did not return. Rather than toss and turn, she crept out of bed, careful not to wake Michael. In the closet among Cynthia’s clothes, she found some old jeans and a shirt. At the window, the dark sky held a faint promise of light. Birds twittered in the apple orchard. The earth lay suspended in that silent moment before the tides swing toward morning. Anne made her way down the stairs, avoiding the squeaky step, and found a woolen cloak and clogs next to the back door. She slipped them on and walked through the dark backyard. A rickety wooden gate opened onto the gentle green slope. Above her, Anne could just make out the long finger of St. Michael’s Tower. She climbed the wet grass to the steps running up the hill. She stopped to catch her breath at a convenient bench, then pushed to the top and sat against the old stone tower facing east, waiting for the sun to rise. She closed her eyes for a minute and sank quickly into deep silence.
From the west side of the tower, a lone voice lifted in a wordless chant. She opened her eyes and half turned to see who else had left their warm bed to climb the Tor and greet the dawn, but instead of the tower, she found herself leaning against a tall standing stone. Anne leapt to her feet and backed away.
“Good morning, Cynthia,” a voice called from behind her.
Anne whirled to find an older man walking up the last slope of the Tor, his breath steaming in the chill.
The chant cut off mid phrase. Anne turned back to look for the singer and almost rammed her nose into St. Michael’s Tower.
“You’re up early,” the man said.
“What the—” Anne turned back to the newcomer. He wore a woolen cloak similar in make to the one Anne had grabbed from the back porch, but his was a darker brown, almost matching his hair.
“Oh, you’re not— I thought—” He came to a halt.
“I’m Anne, Cynthia’s niece.”
He stood close enough now for Anne to see wisps of silver in his beard. She pointed behind her. “Did you hear someone chanting just now?”
“You heard chanting.” It was a statement.
“Yes. And I thought—” She pointed to the tower, then shook her head. “Never mind.”
“You thought?”
“The tower disappeared and I saw a standing stone.”
He nodded. “Some people see a ring of stones, some just the one.”
Anne gave him a closer look.
“When is Cynthia coming back?”
She hesitated. “You haven’t heard?”
He shook his head. “Sometimes we are out of touch for months at a time.”
She took a deep breath. “I’m afraid Aunt Cynthia died late last year in New York.”
“Died?” He stepped toward her. “But, such a vital woman.”
“It was sudden. A heart attack.” No sense telling the world it had been murder.
The man stared at her, eyes wide. Then he shook his head. “Cynthia and I were . . . neighbors.” He offered his hand and Anne shook it. “My name is Garth.”
“I’m sorry to bring you this news.”
He ducked his head and leaned on his walking stick. Finally, he looked up and studied her face. “Anne.” He shook his head. “I don’t recall—”
“She and my mother were estranged. Cynthia probably never mentioned me.”
“Ah, so you’re the one.”
“Excuse me?”
“The niece she had so much hope for.”
Anne stifled her surprise. “So I’m told.”
“You’ve taken up residence?”
Anne nodded. “I inherited the house. We—my fiancé and I—we came to see about it. Visit Glastonbury.”
“And you’re an early riser?”
“Actually something woke me. Probably jet lag.”
“I felt it, too.” He turned back to the east and gazed out across the downs. The bright curve of the sun lit the horizon. The fields greened under his gaze.
Garth turned back to her. “I hope you and your fiancé will come to dinner. I would like to hear more about Cynthia’s passing. Perhaps I can help you know her better.”
“We’d be delighted.”
“It was good to meet you.” He walked into the middle of the tower, his shoulders bowed.
Anne walked back down the hillside, leaving Garth to his own meditations. The sun lifted fully from the horizon and the mists began to thin. She slipped through the gate, now seeing the flower beds in the morning light. The jonquils were fading, but tulips pushed up from the earth. She picked one with a bent stem, went into the kitchen and rummaged through the top shelves until she found a small vase. Setting the flower in the middle of the table, Anne shed her aunt’s cloak and clogs, then climbed the stairs. The third step from the top protested her weight.
“Anne?”
She opened the bedroom door to find Michel looking up at her from a jumble of covers, his hair tussled, eyes still heavy from sleep. “Where were you?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
He reached for her. “You’re cold.”
“I went for a walk.” She shed the rest of Cynthia’s clothes and crawled into the warm bed. Michel pushed against her and she wrapped herself around him eagerly. Afterwards, they slept again.
A clatter followed by a muffled curse woke Anne this time. Nothing mysterious in that. The smell of coffee followed the sound up the stairs. Her stomach responded with a loud gurgle. After a quick shower, she slipped into the clothes she’d worn earlier and found Michael in the kitchen scrambling eggs.
“Good morning.” He kissed her on the cheek. “There’s coffee here, tea in the pot, cream and sugar on the table.”
Even though the coffee had beckoned her, the china cup with its row of delicate rose buds around the rim called for tea. She added cream, then took a tentative sip. Perfect. The red tulip had opened in the warmth of the kitchen. Michael pulled scones out of a small toaster oven and placed them on the round table. Anne reached for one.
Michael held up an imperious forefinger. “Wait.” He turned and rushed into a small nook, then came out with raspberry jam and Devon cream still in their containers. He rummaged through a cabinet looking for bowls.
“They’ll get cold.” Anne opened the containers, then spread cream and jam on a scone. “It’s a good thing I climbed the Tor already,” she said, then took her first bite.
“Is that where you were?”
She nodded, savoring the taste.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
She told him about her experience.
“Having visions already.” He tilted the pan to test the eggs.
Anne took a breath to deny it, but stopped short. How else could she explain what had happened? “I met a neighbor. He asked about Cynthia.”
“He didn’t know?”
“No, but I got the feeling they were close. He asked us to dinner.”
“Maybe we’ll learn more when we go over.” He scraped the eggs onto a platter and grabbed a bowl of heated beans, then placed them like an offering before her. “One more thing.” He took a small casserole dish out of the oven and with tongs lifted a cooked tomato onto each of their plates.
“So you want to open an English bed and breakfast?” Anne asked. “Where’s the bacon?”
“I knew I’d forgotten something.” Michael put another plate down, this one filled with soy strips masquerading as pork.
“How long have you been up?”
“About an hour.”
They ate in quiet contentment, listening to the song of the birds in the orchard and the occasional bleat from the sheep on Chalice Hill. Finally Anne could fit no more into her stomach. She took her plate over to the sink, then sat back down. “Thanks for breakfast.”
“You’re welcome.” Michael nodded. “I was inspired.”
“I’ll say. What’s next on the agenda?”
Michael finished his last bite before answering. “You have to do the dishes.”
Anne laughed. “And then?”
“Let’s get some water from White Spring first, then we can go see the sights. You’ve already been on the Tor, but I’d like to climb up sometime today. We’ll go to Chalice Well, maybe get over to Wearyall Hill. Tomorrow, we’ll tour the Abbey.”
“Sounds like a real vacation.”
Anne filled the dishwasher, protesting he’d used every dish in the house. Then they walked down to White Spring with a few gallon jugs they’d found on the back porch. A local man held his own plastic container under a trickle of water next to the brick building. He nodded as they walked up. “It’s still sluggish.”
“What is?”
The man glanced up when he heard Anne’s accent. “On holiday?”
“We just got in last night,” Anne said.
“Welcome to Avalon.” He jutted his chin toward the stream of water. “White Spring is running slow. Has been for a while now.”
“How long?” Michael asked.
“For a few years really, but worse since midwinter.” He studied Michael for a moment. “It perked up around Imbolc for a few days, but then the flow got erratic again.”
“Has this happened before?” Michael asked.
“White Spring’s flow always changes, but it’s been reliable for thousands of years. Now, we’re not so sure of it.”
Anne stepped past the two men onto a flagstone patio. Spirals and inlaid crystals decorated a moss green wall next to the brick building that was now the entrance to the spring. A few ferns had found footholds in niches in the rock. Water trickled down the wall and gathered in a small pool. Several silver containers of votive candles, now burned down, sat on the edge. A few colorful ribbons hung from crevices in the rock face and the branches of vines. Tiny green buds swelled along the stems. Anne turned back.
The local man tightened the lids on his bottles. “You know, there used to be a restaurant here. Some people just don’t get it.”
“Surely the damage isn’t permanent,” Michael offered.
The man shook his head. “One would hope not, but we must restore the flow.”
Goosebumps spread up Anne’s arms. “Restore the flow.” It was the phrase that had been passed down over the centuries to explain the purpose of the crystal keys.
Michael touched the crystal hanging beneath his shirt. “What did you say?”
“Something needs to happen to balance the spring. We’ve done some rituals, but if White Spring fails, I don’t know what that will mean for the world.”
He loaded his bottles in the back of a Citroen. After he’d settled the last one, he smiled. “Sorry to be glum. Have a good visit.”
“Thank you,” Michael said.
Anne watched the car swing deftly around and head back to Chilkwell Street before she turned back to Michael. “Did he just say what I think he said?”
Michael shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. “I’d tell you it was just a coincidence if I didn’t know better.”
“We already saved the world.”
“Guess it’s a two part job,” Michael quipped. He bent to open their jugs. “We’ll need water.”
“I’m on vacation,” Anne said, then held the first container under the pipe. “But, Michael—”
“Like you said. We’re on vacation.” He smiled at her. “Besides, there are plenty of Druids and witches around here. They can fix the place themselves.”