Home From The Sea: The Elemental Masters, Book Seven (22 page)

The birds were just as tired as they were at this point. Neville, who ordinarily would have been clamoring to be let out the
window for fresh air, just gulped down the dinner presented to him, perched himself on the foot of Nan’s bed, and tucked his head under his wing. Grey was almost as tired, ate slowly, and took her own perch on Sarah’s bed. Nan spread newspapers for both of them.

“I thought I wanted a bath more than anything,” Sarah said, with one look at them. “But I think… they have the right idea.”

Nan was already pulling out their nightgowns from the trunk. “I don’t think there is anything that can’t wait until tomorrow,” she said firmly. “I’m nearly cross-eyed wanting to lie flat.”

“Be quiet,” Grey ordered, crossly, as Neville murmured under his wing. “Go to bed.”

“Yes ma’am,” Nan chuckled, and obeyed.

In the morning, despite the day dawning overcast, everyone was more alert and in a much more cheerful frame of mind. Nan pulled out the maps she had procured, and when the breakfast tray came up, she and Sarah looked them over while munching toast and marmalade.

“Lord A has our mysterious person somewhere along here,” Nan said, tracing a stretch of coastline with her finger northwards from Criccieth. “We have introductions to the family that holds Gower Manor, here, which seems right in the middle of this, but inland. He thought once we got oriented, we might see if they have a cottage they let to visitors. According to what I’ve been told, many people here accommodate summer visitors.”

Sarah nodded. “That would give us more privacy.”

Neville quorked. Nan looked up. He hopped from the floor where he had been eating onto the windowsill and pecked at the window.

That gave Nan an idea. “Neville, do you think you might be able to winkle out magic if you looked for it?” She still didn’t know everything the raven could do. He kept surprising her. She’d had a rather lively correspondence with the caretaker of Neville’s father, a former Master of the Ravens of the Tower, who had told her that rather than the twenty-five to thirty-year lifespan most well-cared-for ravens had, this equally remarkable bird was already forty,
and looked to reach fifty or more. Not only that, but the wise old fellow had a vocabulary that would put many humans to shame. Not unlike his son Neville, in fact.

Neville cocked his head to one side, considering her question. “Can try,” he croaked.

She got up and opened the window, standing well back. Neville had quite a wingspan, and a buffet from one of his wings was no joking matter. He launched himself heavily from the window, and flapped off, heading northwards. Grey watched with interest, but clearly had no intentions of following. That was probably wise; seagulls didn’t much care for parrots, and she was nothing like the acrobatic flyer that Neville was. Nor could she defend herself as readily. There wasn’t much that a raven was afraid of, short of an eagle.

“Well,” Nan said, as they watched Neville flap away. “Now it’s time for us to get to know the town, I suppose.”

They quickly came to the conclusion that the Welsh were the most gregarious creatures ever created. It seemed that all of Criccieth—or at least, everyone close to the hotel—knew about the “young invalid lady,” and any dislike for them being English was overcome by sympathy for Sarah’s having been ill, and further overcome by their background. The Welsh were, for the most part, chapel, not church, and that they made their first contact with the minister of
Capel Mawr
, or rather, his wife, to find out when services were, apparently won everyone.

They were invited in for tea, which was presented in a shabby-genteel parlor, painfully clean, with the windows left open to let in the scent of the rosebushes under them. “We’re mostly Nonconformists here in Wales,” the little, dark woman said cheerfully. “The English gentry go to St. Catherine’s of course, but almost none of us do. If you must have services in English, and don’t mind church—” She paused, and the doubtful look on her face made it plain that she, at least, would rather be seen in sailor’s den of sin than a service in the Church of England, “then that would be where
you would go. There’s St. Deiniol’s for our church folk, with services in Welsh. There’s our chapel, and the new
Capel Seion
, who of course we don’t speak to now that we’ve split—” her eyes twinkled merrily at that, making Nan quite certain that was
not
the case. “And the Congregationalists have their chapel, and the Scotch Baptists have
Capel Uchef
, but
they
split years ago, so the Particular Baptists have their own chapel as well. And there’s even Papists. And we all of us have a hymn-sing down on the green at
Abermarchnad
every Sunday night. You really must come.”

That occasioned some passionate praise of Welsh part-singing, which convinced Nan that the stereotype of the Welsh being able to sing was a truism. And she did love music… it might be nice to go.

They discussed—or, Sarah discussed; Nan kept quiet on subjects she knew nothing about—Ladies’ Beneficent Society, sewing circles, altar guilds. Nan wondered when and where Sarah had learned all of this, because at the Harton School, though they did have a chapel and did have services, said services were decidedly not of the sort that a parish church or chapel would conduct.

Maybe she got all this from letters from her mum.

“And you have birds, then?” the minister’s diminutive wife said, pouring out more of the tea that was a requirement of any formal visit, excepting only one in the evening… and since she was a Methodist, probably even then. “How did that come about?”

“My parrot came with my parents from Africa after their mission duties, and she decided that I was the person she wanted,” Sarah explained. “Parrots are rather like cats;
they
tend to choose the person, not the person choose the parrot.”

The minister’s wife brightened. “Oh! African missions! We support a little mission in Liberia… well, by ‘we’ I mean most of the chapels hereabouts together. It’s not much we can send, but we do our best?”

Nan had noticed that many sentences spoken in Wales, even though they were declarative, ended sounding like a question, as if the speaker was asking for your permission to say it… or, perhaps, for your agreement.

“Our mission was in the Congo, but believe me, every little bit that comes out to the missions is truly, truly, appreciated,” Sarah lied gracefully, as Nan kept her face as straight as possible but dared not say anything. She remembered all too well the hilarity over the “charity boxes” that would come to the clinic, full of completely unsuitable, unusable things like frilly petticoats and woolen waistcoats and thick, heavy shoes. Somehow Sarah’s parents made use of it all, though the petticoats got disassembled into the component parts, the plain part turned into bandages, and the frills went off to gladden the hearts of certain Muslim ladies in the families of the traders, who yearned to wear lace under their
burqas.
As for anything of wool, that often ended up being reduced to threads, and threads turned into wound-wool bangles and anklets. Not what the good-hearted ladies that had sent the boxes pictured when they packed their bounty up.

But that, of course, was exactly what the dear lady wanted to hear, and by the time the visit was over, Nan was fairly certain that there would be nowhere in this part of Wales where they would not have a good reputation.

Then it was back to the hotel for luncheon, and to let Neville back into the room. He hadn’t found anything overtly magical, but he
did
bring back a sprig of oak, a twig of ash, and a leaf from a thornbush.

“Oak, ash and thorn, hmm?” Nan looked at her bird askance. “You think I ought to try calling him, then?”

Neville shook his head.

“Ah, so this is more in case he wants to find us?” As Neville agreed, Nan reflected that made sense. If Puck decided to help them out, it would be easier for him to get to them across any barriers to magic, such as iron or salt or churchly ground, if she had his tokens about her. She tied the bits of foliage together with a bit of red thread, and tucked them inside her watch-case.

“Since you’re an invalid, do you mind horribly if I leave you here to laze about while I look into hiring horses or a pony cart?” Nan asked.

Sarah rolled her eyes. “At least I have some books.”

“I’ll look for a bookshop,” Nan promised, and put on her hat and went out again.

Finding a bookshop proved to be the least difficult thing of all. The Welsh, it seemed, loved books. Nan took a quick inventory of what was on offer, was assured by the proprietor that “anything you can find advertised in
The Times
, I can have here in a week,” then hiked up to the ruins of the castle that overlooked the town. It gave her a fine view of Cardigan Bay, and she reckoned that if she was going to spot anything that looked like a stable, she would see it from up there.

She was a little sad that they actually were
not
going to be able to do much real sightseeing. After Egypt, she’d gotten a taste for poking around in ruins, and it looked as if there were a fair number of them scattered about, not including the castle.

She had thought the air at Lord Alderscroft’s manor, which housed the school, was wonderful. It was not to be compared with the air here, which was in turns gusts off pristine, hilly meadows dotted with sheep, and straight off the sea, salty and alive. As for the view, it was green and glorious on land for as far as the eye could see: hills practically vibrating with greens and the yellow of gorse-blossom to the west, and to the east, the Bay spread out barely rippling with tiny waves. The presence of a lifeboat station, however, was mute warning that the Bay was not always so tranquil.

Nan could not for the life of her spot anything like a livery stable, and walking the streets of the town proved no more fruitful. In fact, all that she did actually learn—beyond that the Castle Bakery produced the most delicious smells—was that she really wished she could learn Welsh instantly. Being able to speak only English was going to be a distinct handicap, especially if their quarry was one of the folk that had no more words in English than she had in Welsh.

So when she returned to the hotel, she sought help there. An inquiry at the desk swiftly brought out the manager. Evidently Lord Alderscroft’s man had been most particular in his instructions when the reservations had been made.

“My sister has been told to get easy exercise and go about in the country and on the shore as much as possible,” she explained, “And we can both ride, so I wondered if there were any horses for hire?”

“Hmm. Horses, not so many, and not at this season,” the manager said. “But a pony cart could be managed, if you can drive? Several beaches are hard enough to drive on. I’ll make the arrangements for you.”

“That would be exceedingly helpful, thank you,” Nan replied with gratitude, for after an afternoon in town, she had become less and less certain that even if she
could
find a stable, she would be able to negotiate for the use of horses.

She came back upstairs to find Sarah at ease, the remains of what looked to have been a lovely tea on the table, feeding bits of toast to the birds. Her friend looked up and saw her dismay, and laughed.

“Don’t look so stricken; your tea is intact on that tray, under the cover.” She nodded at a covered tray on a side table. “Though it was a battle to keep the starving peasants here off it.”

Grey made a rude noise. Nan was famished, and fell on the meal like a starving peasant herself, making her report between bites.

“Well,” Sarah said at last. “I’ve got a notion that what we should do is combine looking for our magician with looking for a cottage to rent.”

Nan nodded. “I really do not think that we’ll find him anywhere near Criccieth. The two of us can take care of a little cottage easily enough, and we can both cook.” She sighed. “Much as I would
rather
have someone else do it for me.…”

“Oh, listen to milady!
Now
who’s to the manor born?” Sarah teased.

“It is the life to which I would very much like to become accustomed, thank you,” Nan replied. “But I
believe
, if what I was told about having holidays in Wales is correct, I can have a standing order put in at the grocer, the butcher, and the bakery, and have one of their boys bring it all out to us once a week. So… Gower Manor should be my next goal, once we have the pony cart, and we can see about the cottage.”

“That sounds like the best plan,” Sarah agreed. “Now, the important part.
Did
you find a bookshop?”