She mashed out the cigarette. 'They had you in a cell with a collar and a leash around your neck. I've got one, too, only mine is invisible, and I was dumb enough to put mine on with my own hands. At the moment, Trismegistus is holding the other end. You didn't need to go through all this whoop-de-do to get me to help you. Lord Trismegistus wants you guys out, and free. He wants peace between Cosmos and Chaos. You four are the only possibility to making that peace.'
I said, 'Who would you help if you were free to do what you wanted?'
She smiled and stood up, tugging at her belt buckle. Her bosom flattened like balloons with the air let out, her hair crinkled and got short, her hips slimmed.
A man again, he said, 'Are you blind? I am a shape-changer. I am one of the daughters of the Old Man of the Sea. If there was peace between Cosmos and Chaos, I could go home and see my folks again. I'll get you your passports and stuff by Christmas. Here.'
He tossed me a small key on a chain.
'This opens a bus locker on Waterside Street in Aber-twyi. There is only one bus station in the village.
The locker number is on the key. It's no bigger than the size of a phone booth, and only three rows of lockers, but the village is so small that even you couldn't miss it, blond brain.
'I'll clear my stuff out before Christmas and leave you children a nice stocking present there. I cannot promise the siren won't find out, or the witch. I'll even give you some spending money, which you weren't smart enough to ask for.
'Rome is cheaper than New York by a long shot, so it will be Rome. The air tickets will be third class, and you will have to find your own bumbling, bungling way to get to the airport at Bristol. You may have to change planes at London Heathrow. It's a big airport, so don't get lost.
'I'll leave some sightseeing maps and instructions on how to buy fish and chips from a street vendor.
When you get caught, and brought back here, I'll tell you how to contact Lord Trismegistus, and he can set you up with a real escape.'
'When… ?' I said.
'When. Not if.'
Ap Cymru paused to let that comment sink in.
Then: 'You want to save time and have me leave the contact instructions in my stocking gift?'
I nodded.
He laughed harshly, walked over, snuffed the candle out with his fingers, and held open the narrow door for me, bowing and smirking.
He swatted me on the bottom on the way out. I turned around, my hands doubled into fists, but he just laughed and wiggled his finger at me. 'Temper, temper, little blackmailer!' And he closed the door.
I rubbed the seat of my skirt with my hand, pouting. Colin and Boggin and now ap Cymru. Did everyone want to swat my bottom? I thought it was a guy thing, but ap Cymru was a girl.
That thought made me queasy, so I skipped away downstairs before I had another one.
2.
Days went by. Finally, it was Christmas Eve. Colin was let out of confinement for carols.
At dusk we all trooped the two miles along the road to Abertwyi. There was snow on the ground, but the air was chill without being unpleasant. Picture-postcard weather.
Miss Daw passed around a lighter, and we lit long white candles we held.
We walked from house to house, singing songs of joy, peace on Earth, and goodwill to men. Miss Daw led us; her voice was like an angel's, clear as crystal, strong and fair. The rest of us did not do badly, considering we have had music classes since as far back as memory goes. Bog-gin had a voice that was loud and deep without being overly tuneful; he joined in once or twice for some of the songs. Mrs. Wren did not sing, but daubed her eyes with a hankie, overcome by sentiment. Or perhaps Christmas carols wounded her ears. I mean, she was a witch, after all.
The decorations that the villagers hung on their houses transformed them into fairy palaces. Light shimmered on the eaves, little toy Santas in sleighs were arranged among lawn gnomes, divine babies in mangers were watched over by shepherds and kneeling farm animals. The lampposts in the town square each had wreaths upon them, and red bunting ran from pole to pole.
Some of the houses we sang before invited us in for a moment of warmth and a cup of hot cider. Several of these houses were undecorated and somewhat shabby-looking. Often, no one lived there but one old lady, by herself or with a clowder of cats. Boggin made a point of handing over a small wrapped present or an envelope. I assumed from the grateful reactions that these presents were expensive indeed, and that the envelopes contained money.
We were also invited up to some of the finer houses, large ones set well back from the lanes, some with gates and stone fences of their own. One was owned by Sir Rice Mansel, others by families called Penrice, Myrick, or Lucas. Old money, long established in the parish. But there were also new houses, well built, with all the walls and gates and ornaments of the old money. New money. The Lilac family was one such.
Since we tramped back and forth across the village fol-lowing no particular straight lines, I assumed our visits and their timing were controlled by some unspoken protocol as rigid as the exchange of salutes during the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace. The Lilac family were the last on the list, perhaps because they had the most money or had earned it by doing something useful, like running a cannery.
That put them at the bottom of the social totem pole, it seemed.
We had been invited only into the foyer of Sir Rice, but Mr. and Mrs. Lilac invited us into their drawing room.
The drawing room was paved with stone for half its length, but had a split-level made of polished wood overlooking it, with a short little balcony rail separating the two. Pushed up against this rail was a long table set with food. Here was a steaming crystal bowl of cider, a second of eggnog, and a third for the adults, spiked with alcohol. Other trays of food arranged in cunning decorations were spread across the table.
