free of them will be in your presence.'
Lauralee understood immediately; Carolyn took a moment or two of thought, and the hint, from her older sister, of 'he's
It was Alison's considered opinion at that point, that regardless of Carolyn's superior looks and predilection for flirtation, Lauralee was probably going to win this particular contest. 'That will be up to the two of you,' she said serenly. 'I will supply the structure.'
'Which is all any good daughter could ask, Mama,' said Carolyn sweetly. Lauralee leveled a withering glance at her, but said nothing. Alison was pleased. With a contest of rivalry set up between the two, things should proceed apace, as soon as Reggie made his appearance back home.
'Now, I have something important that I must tend to,' she said, and got to her feet. 'A small matter on behalf of the Lodge and the Department combined. I will take the auto, and I should be back by dark. Has that odd butcher sent anything of my order? Or the tavern?'
Carolyn shook her head. 'Just notes that there is no meat to be had today, so no roast and no ham.'
'Have the girl do something with potted pheasant then,' Alison said, absently. 'Get it out of the pantry for her.'
'Certainly, Mama.' Carolyn always enjoyed the opportunity to humiliate Eleanor, even when it meant having to set foot in the kitchen.
Eleanor still wasn't much of a cook. Fortunately, there wasn't much that the girl could do to ruin a potted pheasant 'I will see you at dinner, then,' she repeated, and went out, jingling her keys.
It was a distinct inconvenience to be required to drive herself, but there wasn't a man to chauffeur to be had, and Alison had learned to cope. The auto was less than comfortable on the country roads around Broom, but a carriage would have been just as bad, and at least the weather hadn't left the roads nothing but muck or kicking up choking clouds of dust. She needed her duster and her hat and goggles though. This time it was going to be a considerable drive—into Stratford.
Even now, three years into the war, Stratford-on-Avon was an attraction for visitors, who came to see Anne Hathaway's cottage and other Shakespearian landmarks. That most of them were elderly or female was of no matter. Strangers, even strangers with accents, occasioned no undue attention. There was an industry—no longer thriving, but still in place—of people renting out their cottages to visitors.
The Lodge had been good enough to give Alison not only a name, but directions to the quarry, who had established himself in a cottage on the outskirts of Stratford, one that had once been a farm cottage for a tenant, until the land was given over to grazing.
Rose Cottage was exceptionally remote, tucked off by itself down a little by-lane; the owners had probably been pathetically grateful that anyone was willing to take it these days. Grateful enough to look the other way when the man claiming to be a refugee from Belgium had turned up wanting to take it.
Alison stopped the car at the head of the lane in the partial concealment of some overgrown hedges, and cautiously cast a shield of protection about herself. She had no intention of going into this unprotected. Then, without taking off the enveloping duster and goggles that hid her identity, she walked cautiously down the lane. That few people came this way was given mute testimony to by the grass growing rank over the road. That fit with what Alison had been told.
As she approached the cottage, it was clear that it was several hundred years old, and 'improvements' to it had been minimal. No gas, probably no water pipes, certainly no electricity or telephone, and what heat there was would be supplied by one or two fireplaces. There was a single chimney, and the roof was of thatch.
The aura of magic was muted and subdued; probably no one would have noticed, if not for the tell-tale traces of Elementals that were strangers to this part of the world. What was it about Germans that so attracted them to Tibetan magic? That was something that had always puzzled Alison. Weren't their native creatures powerful enough for them?
Well, the little air-demons of the Everest were not going to be able to deal with the Earth Elementals of England on their own ground.
Particularly not as Alison had surprise on her side.
She stopped just long enough at the gate to invoke a gnome, a twisted and ugly little manikin the color of old stone.
'Where is the master of this place?' she asked quietly, as it emerged out of the rock of the garden wall and stood there, rock-silent itself, looking at her.
'Gone,' the gnome croaked, and waved in the direction of meadows.
