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Chapter Text

“He's just through here,” Dr Clotho said, her tone hushed as usual as they turned off the metal staircase into the library stacks, hitting the timed light switch as she went.

The lights flickered on, illuminating dark rows of books.

While Oxford had the hallowed Bodelean, all dark wood and gold stone splendour, Cambridge had University Library, a sinister red brick tower-topped cavern, full of poorly lit stacks that echoed as your footsteps rattled the floor. It was far from her favourite place to study, but also by far the best stocked library in the city, on a par only with the Bodelean and the British Library in London. And it was where the man they had come to meet was basing himself for the day.

She followed Clotho through the stacks, turning a corner at the end to find a small desk tucked under a narrow window. The desk was piled with books and in the uncomfortable wooden chair before it sat a broad shouldered man in a dark linen jacket, his dark hair a mess of waves as he ran his hand through it.

He had heard their approach. How could he not have, the way even their soft footsteps seemed to shake the stacks as they passed?

Sliding his chair back, the man turned and stood, and Gwyn felt herself staring as she followed his movement. Gods he was tall! He towered over her own tall frame, slim but visibly strong beneath his well cut but rumpled suit. His face was beautiful; if his expression had been any less serious and jaw any less masculine you could almost call it pretty. Suddenly embarrassed, she consciously stood up straight and met his eyes - long-lashed, hazel and sharp - before he turned his attention to Clotho.

“Doctor Singer, allow me to introduce Gwyneth Berdera, the research assistant we discussed.”

He turned back to her now, face neutral, polite, but eyes intent and interested, extending his hand in greeting, “Please, call me Azriel. It's a pleasure to meet you.”

His voice was soft and deep, and his hand warm under fingerless gloves as she shook it. Her breath caught.

“You can call me Gwyn”, she said quickly, conscious to power through with what she hoped was a friendly smile as her cheeks heated. “Dr Clotho has been telling me about your research and I'm delighted to be able to help.”

It was a couple of days ago that Clotho first mentioned this potential role. Her academic supervisor was aware she was working several jobs to cover her costs, despite still having a subsidised room in college, and a paid academic post, however lowly, was preferable to other work. Even better, this one was thematically very relevant to her own research, so wouldn't be wholly wasted time.

When she'd heard a visiting fellow was in need of a research assistant to explore the folklore of the local fenland and beyond, she had pictured a fusty old man, eccentric, white haired and tweedy. It had never occurred to her she'd be working for a six foot four adonis, fighting back blushes when he glanced her way. How was this man a folklorist? And how had he achieved fellowship so soon? He looked a few years older than she was, but surely not that many.

“Excellent,” he said, with the barest suggestion of a smile, “Dr Clotho has told me a little about your work too and I think you will indeed be a huge help.” He was softly spoken but sounded genuine.

At this Gwyn couldn't help her smile. She loved her research and if this man was sincerely interested this could turn out to be an ideal solution to her financial woes.

Nodding to the stacks of books on his desk she asked, “What are you working on today?”

He glanced behind himself. “Oh, this is- no, this is something else. An undergraduate course I accidentally agreed to take.” He rubbed the back of his neck, almost shyly. “I thought perhaps we could take a walk and you could tell me more about your work? And then see if we feel this project of mine would be a good collaboration?”

Collaboration? That word implied more sharing of credit than Gwyn knew to expect as a young female researcher. She was surprised, though not unwise enough to show it. Her smile warming further, she answered, “That sounds fantastic.”

-

It had been without a doubt the best job interview of her life. Dr Singer seemed genuinely and intently interested in Gwyn's research into the historical traces of magic in the region, asking informed questions about certain sources and probing ones about details she believed she was the first to uncover.

In turn he told her more about his areas of enquiry, which aligned closely enough she was a tad concerned she hadn't come across his name before.

“Oh, I haven't published much in this area,” he said when she asked. “I'm more known for my work on political theory.”

Huh. Of course she had known of his other work, having looked him up herself yesterday. But she still didn't know what to make of the discrepancy.

“Methodology is the common thread through all my research,” he explained softly, in response to her unasked question. “Ethnographic, primarily. Immersive, practical fieldwork.” He looked up, gaze following the road. “That's what I'm hoping to embark on this year, while I'm here.”

“Ethnography of ancient beliefs in magic?” She voiced skeptically. “Wouldn't the subjects need to be alive for that to work?”

He huffed another quiet laugh. “Well, I still need to identify my communities, of course. This was something I thought you might be able to help me with.”

She blinked at him. They'd drawn to a halt on the Backs, not far from the closed gates of Clare College. The late summer sun was low in the sky, painting the gardens beyond the gate a golden green.

“Right…”

“So what do you think?”

She carried on looking at him. A slight frown shadowed his face, cheekbones sharp in the harshly angled evening light. She blew out a breath.

“Well I can't lie, this is a bit of a dream job. I would need to take my supervisor's advice on the overlap with my thesis, and-” she took a deep breath, channeling her friend Nesta, who would have a keen eye on risks like this one, “and maybe that's something we would need to agree in writing.”

“Of course. I have certain… parameters we would need to discuss with respect to publishing too.”

“Great. Well, great.” Gwyn could feel herself grinning again, holding out her hand for him to take. “In that case, I look forward to hopefully working with you Dr Singer.”

He shook her hand, that slight suggestion of a smile softening his face again. “Please, just Azriel.”

-

After that they had parted ways, Gwyn turning back towards Newnham, while he carried on to St Johns. He had offered to walk her back, but it wasn't late yet and she wanted the time to mentally sort through what had just happened.

A political anthropologist, now interested in the memory of magic use… Wanting to do current day fieldwork to understand, what? How that memory was experienced? How it was enacted? And how did that relate to his work on modern politics? Surely there was more to it than methods; if nothing else how would he have got the project funded? Fascinating.

Then there was the fact of… well, the sight of him. Gwyn hid her face in her hands. She had gotten much more comfortable in the company of men these last few years, as the distance between her and that awful night grew, enough that panic was pretty rare when everyone was sober and well behaved. She could often relax enough to even enjoy a conversation, as she had done today. But the blushing and staring, that was new. Something she would absolutely need to get a handle on if he was ever going to take her seriously in this job!

Head full of ideas, she hurried into college, absently greeting the porters as she passed and jogging up the stairs to her room two at a time. She had just enough time to shower and dress before she was due to meet Nesta and Emerie.

Re-braiding her hair and newly clothed in a modest but elegant-enough blue dress, Gwyn ran back over what she knew of tonight's event. Formal, but not a college event. Free food, which had been a major factor in her agreement to attend. Nesta's brother-in-law, his friends, a swanky restaurant-bar on a street she had only ever cycled down. Wear heels, Nesta had said, so she was; her only pair, well cared for navy blue leather, not too high.

Gwyn's reflection sighed at her. She shook her head back at it. Tonight would be fine. She had Nesta and Emerie with her, and if she couldn't support Nesta at an event she didn't want to attend, after everything that woman had helped her through these last years… No, tonight would be fine. She'd be anonymous in the crowd, not drawing anyone's attention, and when Nesta ran out of steam they would leave. And that wouldn't take long, given her track record with family events.

Nodding at the mirror, Gwyn gathered up her bag and coat and headed out to meet her friends.

-

When they stepped through the doorway into the dimly lit restaurant the maitre d’ ushered them through to a private room at the back. Emerie and Gwyn exchanged a surprised glance. The room was small and the table already occupied by just a handful of guests.

One of them stood, a strikingly handsome man with dark hair and clothes, and intelligent eyes. Rhys, the brother-in-law. He smiled at them, open and friendly. “Nesta, Gwyn, Emerie, I'm so glad you could make it.”

“Thank you for inviting us,” Gwyn replied, returning his smile. Then turning so her back faced the table she mouthed to Nesta, “What. The. Fuck.” Nesta ignored her.

Quietly mortified, Gwyn removed her coat, passing it to be hung. This was clearly a dinner between close friends and family, hardly the busy party in a bar she had been led to expect. Such an intrusion to be here, having met their host a grand total of once! And that meeting very much in passing, as Nesta called him every unpleasant name under the sun and they attempted to bundle her away.

Swallowing she turned back to the table, taking the empty chair nearest to her, Emerie to her left. An evening to be endured then.

“I hope the three of you have had good days?” Rhys enquired, the picture of politeness, while Nesta made a point of not looking at him.

After an awkward pause, shooting a quick glance at her friend, Gwyn answered at the same time as Emerie did:

“Yes, thank you-”

“It was great, and you?”

Rhys chuckled pleasantly, nodding. “Yes, a lovely day, thank you. My brothers and I were just reminiscing about how wonderful it is to be back in town.

“You've not met yet, let me introduce you all. This is Amren, an extremely old friend of mine,” he gestured to a glamorous, petite lady, dark haired and elegantly bored in a stunning silver dress, “and Mor, my cousin”. His cousin was even more beautiful than him, with long blonde hair set in waves and a deep red dress that matched her warm smile. Gwyn felt suddenly appallingly underdressed. “And you know Feyre, of course,” his wife, Nesta's youngest sister beamed at them, “and Elain”, the other Archeron sister smiled kindly too. “And these are my brothers, Cassian and Azriel.”

At that Gwyn's eyes widened, she had been so focussed on their host she hadn't noticed she'd slipped into a chair alongside Dr Azriel Singer.

“Gwyn and I met today actually,” he said with that slight smile of his. “She is deciding whether to come in on my latest project.”

At that Rhys's gaze zeroed in on her. “Well, that is great news. I didn't realise our interests overlapped so closely.”

“Me neither,” said Nesta, frowning slightly as she looked past Gwyn to Azriel.

“Well, Gwyn and Emerie are good friends of Nesta,” continued Rhys, addressing the room again, “Delighted you were both able to join us.”

After that the table settled, Mor offering them wine and pouring Gwyn some water when she declined. She quickly engaged Emerie in conversation, leaving Gwyn to observe the dynamics around her. Rhys and Amren had resumed a heated discussion, with Feyre interjecting at intervals. Nesta was speaking with Cassian, wary eyes not leaving his face, while Elain and Azriel watched their conversation, she with interest and he impassively.

Noticing her attention, Azriel turned to her. “I didn't realise you and Nesta were friends.”

“Since our first week here,” she responded. “We still have rooms side by side in college. Her and Emerie are like family to me.” She smiled, ”I had no idea you were Rhys's brother.”

“In every sense but blood. We grew up together. And we studied together here, at John's.”

“Where you now have a fellowship.”

“A visiting fellowship, yes, just for this year.”

“It must be nice, being back in your old college again.”

“Yes, nostalgic.”

“Nothing ever seems to change in this city. It's part of its charm I think.”

At that he nodded once.

“So what is this undergraduate course you agreed to teach, and how did they dupe you into signing up by accident?”

At that he laughed quietly and answered as if unused to talking about himself. They carried on chatting from there as food was ordered, starters eaten and mains delivered to the table. Azriel told her about his course, then about his PhD fieldwork on the continent. She shared how she, Nesta and Emerie had met and bonded during the weekly self defence class they still attended, and how close she was now to finishing her own PhD. Across the table she noticed Elain watching them with a small frown.

It was only when the waiters came to clear the table of desserts that Gwyn realised they had spent the whole night talking almost exclusively to each other. Nesta raised an eyebrow at her as she tugged on her coat but said nothing until they’d parted ways with the rest of the group on the street outside.

“You and Azriel were cosy tonight.”

“I might not have been as hostile as you were to Rhys, but that hardly makes me cosy.”

“Oh please,” interjected Emerie, “you were practically flirting!”

Gwyn’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me? I was not! He is - hopefully - my new boss! We mostly talked about our PhDs.”

“Well it ruffled Elain’s feathers, whatever it was to you,” chuckled Nesta.

“Is there something going on between them?” Gwyn had wondered, though it seemed surprising. Elain had only recently had an engagement broken off, which had left her desolate for months. She had moved to be nearer Feyre recently, but hadn’t seemed like she was ready to go looking for anything new.

“Certainly nothing official, but Feyre seems to think she’s got Azriel and poor old Lucien hanging around waiting for her to make up her mind.”

“Wow,” said Emerie, impressed, “I didn’t think Elain had it in her!”

Gwyn was inclined to agree, but then the middle Archeron sister was undeniably, stunningly pretty, and seemed not to have the sharp edges her other sisters possessed. She’d always come across to Gwyn as thoughtful, generous and kind, which both Feyre and Nesta could also be, but only when you got past their armour. The real mystery was how she wasn’t settled down already, not how she could have multiple eligible men pursuing her.

“Well, she could do far worse,” she said. Emerie and Nesta exchanged an entertained and knowing look, so Gwyn swung her bag at them, laughing.

“Oi! Don't think I've forgotten you made me think this was a big anonymous drinks party, not an intimate family dinner.”

“Intimate, huh?”

“Oh stop!”

Their laughter bubbled over again. Emerie threaded her arms through Gwyn and Nesta's, leading them towards home.

-

It had been several weeks since the dinner, and with Michaelmas term just about to start Gwyn felt rushed off her feet in a city newly heaving with people.

Young men in suits and black academic gowns milled absolutely everywhere in the centre of town. She battled through the market square to buy the fruit she'd come in for, dodging boys and their parents, smiling encouragingly at the smaller numbers of young women looking terrified as she'd felt first arriving here or as fierce as Nesta had looked. The university admitted more women every year through its two women's colleges, but they were still vastly outnumbered.

With Clotho's guidance she had agreed all the details of her research assistant post with Azriel. Anything they found in the historical record via her contacts was hers to publish first, but all fieldwork findings belonged to the project, which Azriel had assured her would have them both as co-authors. The pay was better than she had expected too, and she'd been able to quit her job in the tea room as a consequence. Between the research, the remains of her stipend and the odd shifts in her college library she was confident she'd be able to cover her costs for the year. All in all it was an incredible opportunity; she couldn't believe her luck.

And as though thinking of him had summoned him, she found herself face-to-face with- “Dr Singer!”

“Hello, Gwyn,” he greeted her with that trace of a smile tugging at his lips, snagging her attention for longer than was strictly appropriate. His hazel eyes were gold and green in the crisp October sun. She looked down.

“You're in your gown,” she blurted stupidly, and he was, dressed like the students around them, formally in a suit and gown.

“Helping with matriculation this morning,” he said.

“Oh, of course.” Gods she felt awkward. Her face was warm, flustered.

“You're shopping?”

“Yes, for fruit.”

She gestured to her bag of pears and apples. He nodded.

“Are you finished?” He paused, as if uncertain whether to go on. “If you have the time, you could join me for tea. I've been working on our project and have pulled some texts I'd love you to look at.”

Oh. She didn't feel at all prepared for that, but with her shopping completed she had nothing else scheduled until her late library shift, so it was as good a time to get started as any.

“Alright. Let me grab my bike.”

Wheeling her pale blue bicycle along the cobbled streets, fruit bag bouncing in its wicker basket, Gwyn followed Azriel as he led the way along Trinity Street to St John's College. She locked her bike out front and he took her bag for her. The porters greeted them cordially as they passed through the lodge.

Gwyn had always found St John's intimidating. One of the two richest colleges in the university, it was huge in comparison to her own home at Newnham, grand and imposing with red brick courts and golden spires spanning both sides of the river. Today the courts were busy with undergraduates, hurrying towards Hall for what she assumed must be their matriculation dinner, welcoming them to the university.

Azriel ignored the crowds, leading them across the river and up a quiet, wood panelled staircase. He unlocked a heavy wooden door on the top floor and ushered her in, before leaving her alone as he ducked out with a teapot. “Make yourself comfortable, I'll be back in a sec with tea.”

The rooms were cosier than she expected; dark wood panelling only coming half way up the wall and softened by the books, artefacts and artwork that covered every surface. Lead-paned windows looked out through red leafed creepers over perfect green lawns to the river Cam. The last embers of a fire glowed comfortingly in the grate.

To her left was a dark door, standing ajar and no doubt leading to his bedroom. In front of the window was a tidy desk, with books and papers stacked neatly alongside a small jar of pens. On the windowsill was an ancient looking pot fragment, covered, she now recognised, in the same occult runes her sources often referenced. She wondered where he had obtained that.

Looking around with sharper eyes now she noticed other references to a magical past. An etching of fae creatures in a dark cedar forest, a dark bladed knife with an inscription she couldn't read, a tapestry of stars hanging over a mountain. So this wasn't a new area of interest for him at all.

She turned to see Azriel slip back into the room, teapot in one hand, two cups and a small bottle of milk in the other. He placed them in a small table between two wingback armchairs and nodded her to sit in the one nearest the fire.

“You've got quite the collection here,” she said, gesturing to the nearest shelf of artefacts.

He nodded, shrugging off his gown and jacket to sit in the chair next to her. “A long held interest of mine and Rhys's.”

“I didn't realise he was in the field.”

“He's not. He is funding us though.”

“Oh! What?”

“It's an area his family has put money into for several generations actually. He has a significant collection of artefacts and an excellent library in his family home. I hope to get you access to it.”

“Wow. I knew he was well off but that's another level. I hadn't even heard of the collection.”

“Yes. An old family. And a private one.”

“Right.”

Stranger and stranger. Gwyn sorted back through what she knew of Rhys from Nesta. Rich and arrogant, eloped with her younger sister after a very short engagement. Nebulously powerful and well connected, though not actively involved in either politics or government. Could swing from charming to icy cold in the space of one conversation. No living parents. Large home in London.

“You've come across the daglan in your research?”

“Yes, of course,” Gwyn responded. The old stories often made reference to these beings, greatly feared and typically associated with the demise of magic, and the ushering in of the new non-magical age.

“They are why I’m back here," Azriel stated. “Stories of them have been resurfacing all over Europe in different forms these last few years. My fieldwork last year in Hungary was looking at something completely different, but the references kept cropping up, and I heard several accounts connecting directly back to old British folk tales. I don't think the stories could have originated anywhere else.

“Cambridge was the obvious base for the project, so I reached out to my old college and my old supervisor and it was her who recommended speaking to you.”

“You were supervised by Clotho?” Gwyn was shocked. Clotho rarely taught outside her own all-female college.

“Yes, as an undergraduate. ‘Myth, magic and memory’; it was my favourite paper. That's why your work is so interesting to me. You're finding new sources, ones that haven't surfaced for hundreds of years. And not just in one place, across the region. Just as the stories are returning elsewhere as well. Where are they coming from? And why now? I was hoping we could revisit some of the places you've been studying, speak to local people who were able to direct you to your sources, understand what else they might believe or think in relation to the stories.”

He was looking at her intently. She swallowed.

“Wow. Well, of course. So you'd like me to come with you on fieldwork and make introductions?” She laughed a little nervously. “I had imagined I'd be writing literature reviews for you or transcribing your interviews.” In short, she'd expected to stay safely in Cambridge.

He smiled his familiar half-smile at that, “Well, you'd be very welcome to, but that could be quite dull for you.”

He poured the tea, now perfectly brewed and pushed the milk her way. “I hope you don't take sugar, I realised I don't have any in yet.”

She laughed again, thinly. What was wrong with dull? “No sugar is fine.” She stirred in her milk and took a sip. It was delicious, smokey and smooth, far higher quality than the stuff she bought herself. She took a breath. “So you said you had some things you wanted me to read.”

Azriel was watching her closely, a slight frown furrowing his brows. “Mhmm.” Azriel stood, crossing to his desk and shuffling through his papers to pull out two roughly bound folios. He handed them to her.

“They're accounts of the daglan and the passing on of magical creatures from around the third century. From Rhys's library.”

Gwyn's pulse picked up. If these sources could be verified… They were completely new to her. She stared at the papers.

“You can take those with you. I hoped you might be able to go through them, alongside your existing research, and see what we can surmise about the daglan from that era? I have teaching I've committed to here the next few weeks but I'm hoping to make my first trip out for All Hallows. I have some villages in mind from what I read in your notes, but if there is anywhere you would prioritise, I'd love to hear it.”

Apprehension forgotten in the face of interest, Gwyn stared at the folios. “Wow. Of course. I can't wait to get started.” She wished it wasn't too impolite to start reading them now. Reluctantly she tucked them into her bag, returning to her tea.

“And if you would feel comfortable accompanying me on that trip, I believe your presence could be extremely beneficial.” He was still watching her intently, having clearly noticed her nervousness. “But I have no expectations, if you would prefer to focus on the written material.”

Right. The fieldwork part of the job. She had felt nothing but comfortable with Azriel in all their interactions to date, her own blushing awkwardness aside, but leaving Cambridge with only him for company, going into the countryside to talk to people who potentially still believed in magic… But no, she had done this for her own fieldwork. Admittedly only daytrips and always with others for company, but she wouldn't be alone this time either, and she had come such a long way since her first week in the city. This could be good for her.

“I'd need to understand the details better, but in principle, yes, I'd be happy to accompany you.”

He sat back, looking quietly relieved, or even pleased. “Great.”

Gwyn sipped her tea, suddenly tired and at a loss for things to talk about.

“So, do you sing?” She heard herself blurt.

“Sing?” He was surprised, eyebrows raised.

“Your name,” she offered with a laugh. “Singer!”

He chuckled at that. “Oh. Yes, I do.” He answered. There was a pause. “So, tell me how you like working with Dr Clotho,” he followed with, firmly changing the subject.

She laughed again but took the opening. She stayed for another cup of tea after that one, chatting about Clotho, how different the city was in term time, how insufferable undergraduate men could be, Azriel relaxed and smiling in the chair beside her.

-

That evening, settled into a desk at Newnham library, Gwyn pulled out the folios.

She had completed her shift, shelving returns and directing a couple of postgrads to the books they needed, and couldn't wait any longer to see if these texts were really as exciting as she suspected.

“The daglan came to the lord's house the day after Beltane. He asked for tribute and we each of us went. The tithe was high that year and every family returned home spent. It would be a hard summer then and men would fall down in the fields. The harvest was abundant but with few to work it crops spoiled, bringing rats that polluted our homes into the colder months. The daglan left not long after Beltane more splendid than he had arrived.”

Eyes wide, Gwyn stared at this direct account, more explicit than any other she'd read about the daglan's feared tithe. And the timing, Beltane fell on the first of May, marking the start of summer. Called Calan Mai where she grew up, and still celebrated as May Day locally today, it was an ancient fertility rite, where magic and nature was thought to be replenished for the year ahead. She'd never read that detail before, the clue of timing. She wondered if anything else in the account would help date the year… a celestial event perhaps, or references to known occurrences in the historical record.

Sure enough, many pages later amongst a detailed description of a later harvest, there was reference to a planetary alignment. Hauling a giant almanac over to her desk she set about trying to date it.

Azriel had said this text was third century. If her interpretation was correct the account itself though was older still, perhaps by a hundred years. ‘The lord's house’ then was unlikely to be a church as she had first guessed, too early. The home of the local lord then, the daglan working through the prevailing power structures of the time.

She sat back to think. This source might be the latest she'd read. Third century… recording events of the second. All stories agreed magic was gone from the world by the end of the third century. Old beliefs fell out of fashion, new religion embedded, and tales of magical creatures became rare fables, stories to frighten children. And contemporary accounts from those final centuries were vanishingly rare.

Absolutely fascinating.

Buzzing with energy, Gwyn pulled out her notebook and pen, thoughts flying faster than she could get them on the page.

–

The sun was rising low over the surrounding fields, the silver mist turning pink as the blades of his oars sliced through the water. Sliding forward for one, two, three and driving back on four, gliding steadily upriver against the current.

He had missed rowing in his time away from Cambridge. He had no time or inclination to join a boat now he was back, but looked forward to the mornings he was able to book one of the college sculls to train alone. When the river was silent and fields misty like this it felt like he was flying.

Breathing in as he slid forward and exhaling with a strong push from his legs as he drove the blades back, he let his mind wander. It had been a successful reentry to academic life, all in all. His first lecture had gone well and he had managed to dodge any other teaching responsibilities for now. And his plan for the year was starting to take shape.

The postgrad researcher, Gwyn, was an unexpected delight. He had laughed more in her company the past month than he had in gods know how long. She was at once shy and irreverent; keenly intelligent, chatty and quick-witted one moment, then quietly watching and reserved the next. Her knowledge and contacts would give the project a huge head start. The analysis she'd provided already was extremely beneficial. He was grateful to Clotho for the introduction.

Eyes on the river back to town he watched smoke from the sleeping narrow boats twining past the willows, disappearing into the sky above. A flock of geese flew past overhead, their V shape precise. Breathing steadily, he kept pushing the slim boat further upstream.

He was seeing her again tomorrow and looking forward to it. He wanted to give her the full story behind this ‘project’, a compulsion he wasn't used to. He would have to talk to Rhys about it. If they were going to be travelling together, working together as closely as seemed likely… he didn't know why but he didn't feel comfortable misleading her, treating her as just another source. Her friendship with Nesta was another complicating factor, probably the one that would sway Rhys to his side.

He kept going until he reached the lock. He could picture it easily, the two of them working together. Debriefing after challenging interviews. Working through ideas, paper notes spread messily across a desk. Her coat on the back of his door, red hair bright in the firelight. Connections drawn in conversation rather than long late nights alone…

Turning the scull smoothly, he shook his head and reoriented himself for the journey back into town.

Chapter Text

It was mid-October and dreamy in that way Gywn felt only Cambridge in October could be. 

Today the chill mist nipped at her heels as she jogged through Newnham’s gardens to her bike, wool coat wrapped around her and gloves on her hands. She tucked her satchel, heavy with books and notes, into the basket and set off. The roads were quiet as she crossed the Mill Pond, turning left onto King’s Parade. The city was golden: the light seemed to hang from limestone arches and spires, its colours warm against the bright blue sky, though the air was crisp with that first chill of shortening days. 

Clattering over the cobbles of Market Square and back onto the main road between Christs and Emmanuel, Gwyn indicated right, then left, standing to dismount as she swung into the archway leading towards the Haddon Library. The bike racks were still empty; the library would only just be opening for the day. 

Bag back in her arms, Gwyn crossed the courtyard, pulling open the heavy oak door and making her way up the steps inside. She smiled at the librarian, carrying on to select her favourite desk under the south facing windows at the back of the library. Empty of students, the room smelt of wood polish and old books, that golden autumn light spilling in from high windows to illuminate two stories of stacks. It was small by the university’s standards, but possibly her favourite place to study, especially when quiet like it was in the early mornings. She deposited her bag, hanging her coat off the back of her chair, before setting off to gather what she’d come here for. 

The journals room was upstairs and sure enough, in a large leather bound volume, she found the article she was looking for. 

"Daglan sightings in myth: Corresponding material record"

It had fallen out of favour in recent decades but last century academics had loved to seek out evidence of a true magical past by aligning written accounts with archaeological finds. Broadly discredited, it was not fashionable to talk and write about now, but that was the great thing about libraries: nothing was forgotten. 

Heaving the tome back down to her desk, Gwyn settled in with her notes, a contented look of concentration on her face.

-

Hours later the library rustled with other occupants, students gathering the texts for their first essays of the year. Gwyn sat back with a sigh. Her hands were ink stained, her hair rumpled from where she’d tugged at her braid, deep in thought. There was a lot here. She couldn’t wait to share it with Azriel.

They were meeting for lunch. He’d booked a table at the Copper Kettle, a bit of a luxury for Gwyn, whose PhD stipend did not stretch to meals out. 

A bell chimed as she entered the sunny tea room. She could see him already seated by the window, jacket off, sleeves rolled up and book in hand. 

“Hi!” She said brightly, slipping into the seat opposite him and shrugging off her coat. 

“Hello,” he greeted her with a polite nod, tucking away his book and pouring her a glass of water from the carafe on the table. “Have you had a good morning?”

“Such a good morning,” she enthused. “I’ve got so much to tell you! I’ve started on a map, and have several other references I’ll need to go to the University Library for.”

She explained how she’s been able to map various archaeological sites associated with common myths and folktales, and then connect them up with more recent oral history accounts, some of which she had gathered in her own research. They were spread across the country, with clusters in key places, including around Cambridge itself. 

“You were right,” she said, pointing to the city on the map, “in addition to the usual suspects - Wessex, Snowdonia, you know - there’s a group of recent accounts here, and by recent I really mean the most recent. Always impossible to say if people are just telling you what they think you want to hear, but last summer I heard several different accounts where people were talking about magic as though it really existed, here with us today.”

At that Azriel’s gaze sharpened. He pulled the paper towards him. 

“They were strange conversations. Some a bit creepy if I’m honest with you. But interesting. To me they felt honest, like they really believed what they were saying, however outlandish. Really curious how cultural memory of myth, especially when it’s embedded in the landscape, can shape those types of experience for people.”

Azriel hummed, finger tracing over the sites nearest them, as though committing them to memory. 

“This is brilliant, Gwyn. I didn't think it would be possible to get this far this quickly.”

“Me neither, but then last night I remembered this old journal article I'd seen ages ago and it all started clicking into place. Someone else was trying to do the same thing, 90 years ago, and got their initial thinking published.”

Azriel looked up at that.

“Do you have their name?”

“B. Quinlan”.

“Interesting.”

“Yes, that's what I wanted to go to the UL for. He has two other publications there, plus his PhD thesis.”

“Do you have the references?” Azriel asked quickly. “I need to drop in there later, I can pick them up.”

Gwyn tugged the page out of her notebook and handed it over. “Here.”

“Thank you.” Azriel folded the page and turned to tuck it into his jacket's inside pocket. He looked back down at the map, before sliding it back to her. “This really is great work.”

She felt warm at the praise, but honestly she agreed; she was delighted at how quickly things had started to come together. 

“Shall we order some food?” he asked. 

She pulled the menu towards her, “Absolutely!”

The rest of lunch passed quickly. Gwyn shared some anecdotes from her fieldwork last summer. Azriel was particularly interested in the villages where her most eccentric conversations took place, people who really bought into the old stories and tied them to experiences in their everyday lives. 

While she did not share their beliefs, she did not exude the skepticism many would expect from a visiting academic, which likely helped her interviewees to open up in ways they might not otherwise. In truth the stories reminded her of people she grew up with, who had also been open minded to other forces at play in the world. Those conversations, though sometimes unsettling, gave her a sense of connection to the past that was now lost to her. 

“You are less dismissive of these stories than I’d expected,” she told him.

“Am I?” He looked thoughtful, “No less than you.” 

“No, but I know my perspective is unusual. I’ve always been fond of the idea of magic, and where I grew up this way of understanding the world was… still discussed, I suppose.”

“Where did you grow up?” 

She paused, suddenly shocked at herself for bringing it up.

“Oh, Wales. It was remote, in the mountains.” 

Her eyes were on her plate now, but she could feel him watching her. 

“You don’t like talking about it.” 

It was not a question, but she answered anyway. “No, not really I’m afraid.”

There was a pause. “I don’t like talking about my childhood either,” he said softly. 

At that she looked up and he held her gaze, the gold in his eyes bright against the green, expression unreadable. She smiled tentatively and felt a quiet understanding settle between them. 

“So do you have a busy afternoon?” she asked, moving them on.

He shook his head. “No.”

“Me neither,” she smiled. “We could go for a walk?”

-

“Let me get this straight: You went on a date with Azriel this afternoon? And didn’t even tell me it was happening?”

“Oh come on, Nesta! I went on a walk with Azriel and we talked about work. Would you prefer me to only talk to him in front of a desk?”

“No, I’d prefer you to be honest and tell me you think he’s gorgeous and are trying to find any excuse possible to spend time with him.”

She rolled her eyes. “I really don’t spend that much time with him.”

“But you do think he’s gorgeous.”

“Oh please, I think we can all agree he’s gorgeous,” interjected Emerie. “He’s not even my type and I can tell you that.”

“We talked about occult inscriptions, crop failure and ancient burial practices. Not the vibe you’re going for, I think.”

“You’re right, you’re definitely going about this wrong if you like him. He’s going to get completely the wrong idea!”

Emerie cackled.

“We’re colleagues and I enjoy talking to him about work,” Gwyn responded primly.

Both her friends laughed. 

“Sure,” said Nesta. 

They were in Nesta’s room in college, Emerie sprawled on the bed, Gwyn curled up on the armchair under the window and Nesta on her desk chair. It was dark outside, the wind shuffling leaves in the gardens below.

“I have to go away with this guy in a couple of weeks. Please don’t make it harder than it needs to be.” 

At that they sobered up. “He’s a good guy, Gwyn,” Nesta said, sitting forward, “You know you don’t need to worry about that. And I wouldn’t ever tease you like this if I thought you did.”

“No, I know that. Of course. And it’s not him I’m worried about. It’s… What if I freak out? Gods, I’d be so embarrassed if he had to deal with me panicking.”

“You’re not going to. But if you did, that would be okay and he better deal with it or he’ll have us to answer to.” 

“Seriously, Gwyn. You’ve come such a long way. And you did all your own fieldwork last year, no trouble. You enjoyed it.”

“I did… But I kept it all to day trips. This is three nights out of town. And over Halloween, which could get a bit drunk and messy, depending on where we’re staying.”

“Well, just be clear you’re not spending time down in the bar while everyone is getting wrecked. If he wants to talk to drunk men, he can do that himself. Honestly, he’s not going to have a problem with it. He wants you there to get him talking to the right people, making sure he doesn't miss any important insights, not as some kind of honeytrap.”

“If you’re nervous maybe you should talk to him about it. Just give him an idea of what you’re comfortable with and what you're worried about. It will probably make you feel much better to have it out in the open.” 

“I just feel silly. How do I tell him - a man - that I’m scared of men? When I’m clearly not scared of him?”

“Well, you don’t tell him that, do you? Because that’s not what it is. You’re not scared of men. You’re scared of how certain men behave in certain situations because it brings back memories of a terrible, monstrous attack you survived. But you did survive it, and since then you’ve learned to heal and fight, and you’re a different, even stronger person than you were then. But sometimes, in some situations, it can come back to you. Nothing silly in that, Gwyn.”

“Yes, but I’m hardly going to tell him the whole story.”

“You could, you know.”

“Theoretically, I’m sure. But I’m not going to.”

“Okay, I hear that. So what are you going to do?”

She sighed. “I'll talk to him, you're right. I'll find a way to say something before we go.”

“Good. You know we're here if you want to talk it through first, or debrief after.”

“Thank you, I really do appreciate it. And I really do want to do this. It's fascinating work, it pays well and if nothing goes wrong I really think I'll enjoy it.”

“Yes! Good.”

Emerie and Nesta's smiles mirrored her own at that. They were quiet for a moment, the silence warm and comfortable between them.

Then Emerie rounded on Nesta, her smile turning wicked. “Now we've addressed that, I motion that you've been doing some deflection, Ms Archeron. I want to hear what's going on with you and Cassian.”

Nesta looked at her steadily for a moment, then grinned a catlike grin. “Now, Emerie, you know me. I never kiss and tell.”

“What! No way-”

“I knew it!”

“Since when?” 

-

Hours later Gwyn settled down into her own bed, heart full from an evening of laughing with her friends.

She meant what she'd said to Nesta, her long walk with Azriel was a long way from a date. It had felt good though. Walking side by side she felt herself relax into his company, somehow feeling less scrutinised, though she was sure he was listening just as keenly as he had been at lunch. He wasn't a big talker but what he did say really got her thinking differently; she'd come back to immediately jot down some potential edits to her thesis draft as a result. And he was calm, his energy almost peaceful, despite how intently he seemed to observe things. She would never have brought up her childhood otherwise.

She sighed. Emerie was, of course, correct: he was gorgeous. And thoughtful and calming and intelligent. And easy to talk to. 

There was something else though. Something wasn't quite tying together just yet. It felt like they were having two conversations: one she could follow on the surface and another taking place in the undercurrent. The interest in actual present day belief in magic; the sharp focus she felt from him when she mentioned her upbringing; the artefacts in his room… Was he really back in Cambridge because old fables were regaining an audience? She couldn't shake the sense that there was something she was missing. 

Mind drifting back through their conversation, she slipped eventually into sleep. Her dreams were choppy: Welsh valleys, shadows, and warm hazel eyes.

-

Azriel tucked the books Gwyn had identified into his bag, along with her note and the catalogue cards that helped him find them. He didn't dwell on the ethics of stealing from a library. Anyway, he might bring them back, depending on their contents. 

What he couldn't risk was B. Quinlan’s writing falling into the wrong hands, not when they still hadn't got to the bottom of what was going on. Gwyn's journal article was obscure, and as she hadn't left the library with it there was at least no record of it being taken out for someone to find. He'd have to risk leaving it where it was; taking the whole volume or defacing it by removing the article would be too conspicuous. 

He thanked Gwyn's brilliance for finding these papers so soon. The publication timeline, 92 years ago, lined up almost exactly in advance of one of the last known disturbances, over in what was once Wessex. He had no way to know for sure yet but there was a good chance B. Quinlan was contemporary with or even involved in those events.

Instead of heading back to college he crossed the river at Magdalene, following the shadows of the narrow towpath along to where it opened out onto Jesus Green, then further across the road to Midsummer Common. The night was cold and mist was curling off the river by the time he reached the door to Rhys's townhouse. 

Cassian flung it open before he had the chance to knock, his silhouette imposing in dark leather. 

“We've been waiting for you.” 

Fuck.

His brother tugged him in, pushing him towards the stairs. 

“Go get dressed. We're leaving here in five.”

-

“I think we should go to Avebury.”

Gwyn looked up, surprised. She and Azriel were walking down King's Parade, students on bikes barreling past, rushing between lectures. She had met him after his own lecture, as agreed, so they could plan their fieldwork. 

She had assumed they'd be staying local, just based on the casual references to this trip to date. But Avebury was perhaps the most significant neolithic complex in the country and attracted a huge number of people, many of them pilgrim believers, around All Hallows. She had only been a couple of times and never over Halloween. In spite of her nerves, she was excited by the idea. 

“Wow, I don't know why I didn't think of that sooner. The numbers of visitors… we won't have a shortage of people to talk to! How will we find somewhere to stay though? The inn will have booked up months ago.”

“I have a contact in the village; if you're happy with the idea, I'll see what I can do.”

He was looking at her, seeking confirmation in her face as well as her words.

She smiled, “Definitely happy. Excited actually! I have always wanted to spend a festival day at one of the big sites.”

Summer Solstice at Stonehenge, which sat on the other end of Salisbury plain from Avebury, was legendary. People travelled from all over, even from Europe, to watch the sunrise on the longest day of the year. It was something she and her sister had always imagined together: staying up through the shortest night of the year, dancing with flowers in their hair amongst pilgrims, artists and hedonistic festival goers. 

And now she would visit what was said to be the magical era's largest known stone circle for Samhain, when the veil between the worlds was thinnest. She couldn't help but think of Catrin. A shiver ran through her. 

Azriel was still watching her when she glanced his way. 

“I'm glad,” he said after a pause. “It will be quite the experience I think. I wanted to ask if you'd be willing to stay an additional day? I'd really like to get there early, to explore the sites and speak to the villagers before the crowds start to arrive.” 

Avebury was unusual in that an entire village intersected the ancient stone circle. People lived out their daily lives in the shadow of the great standing stones, many of which had laid buried under their fields and gardens until several decades back, when an eccentric amateur archaeologist had excavated them. He was the heir of a marmalade fortune, passionate about automobiles and the occult, and after a spell in the military considered dynamite the most effective tool for excavating an ancient monument. Thoroughly mad, from what Gwyn could understand, but he had achieved something remarkable. The concentric stone circles and their surrounding earthen henge now stood proud as they once did, only now they were intersected by the village crossroads, with shops and cottages jumbled amongst the ancient stones.

The more Gwyn thought about it the more excited she felt. “Absolutely! I'll need to rearrange my library shift, but that should be no problem.”

By now they were approaching St John's College, blustery weather chasing clouds across the sky. She tugged her coat collar up to cover the back of her neck from the chill. 

“Have you spent much time in the area before?” He asked her.

“Only to visit the big sites. The stones, the long barrow, Silbury Hill, Stonehenge of course. I've never been there for a festival. I've read and heard so many stories though. It really captures the imagination doesn't it?”

“Always has, I expect.”

“Yes. You know, I find that so incredible to think about. How long people have found meaning in spaces like that. You can almost imagine there really is a hum of magic about the place.”

Azriel smiled a little grimly at that but said nothing more, pushing the heavy door to the college open and ushering her through ahead of himself. 

They walked quietly through the college, both in their own thoughts. She had often thought the same could be said of colleges here, and she considered that as they passed through St John's cobbled courts, over the Bridge of Sighs, up towards Azriel's rooms. There was a hush that could come over you on quiet days when you passed through these gates, like stepping into a library, or a secluded garden. These were places built and used for learning, hundreds of years of people passing through, all their complex lives and histories aligning for just a few years in this space, with that shared goal in mind. Well, at least some of the time, she thought with a smile, as raucous laughter spilt from a neighbouring window. There was a type of magic in that. 

Ushering her through his door, Azriel went to fetch them some tea. Still deep in thought, Gwyn ran her fingers absently over a shelf of books, gazing out the window at the river. 

“The Quinlan books are on the desk,” Azriel said from behind her, gently placing the teapot down, this time with a plate of biscuits. “The ones you gave me the references for.”

“Oh! Thank you.”

“You can take them, though I’d ask you to bring them back to me when you’re done. I’ll go over them again.”

“Of course.”

“She's where I got the idea for Avebury, actually. There was real alignment between her speculation about the site and what we now know following the excavation. The stories she recorded made me inclined to prioritise a visit there for Halloween.”

Gwyn stared at him. He was hanging his jacket up.

“She?”

“Dr Bryce Quinlan, a fellow Newnham alumna.” He smiled.

“Ergh, I feel terrible for assuming she was a man!” 

He chuckled. “She did some impressive work in quite a short span of time.”

“So what were her stories that led you to Avebury?”

He paused, gesturing for her to sit as he did so himself. 

“She recorded rumours from the village. About both Silbury Hill and the stone circles. These weren't long running fables, but contemporary rumours. Sightings of people climbing the hill, lights on dark nights, chanting heard from the stones without anyone visible to the listeners. This was before the excavation, so not all the stones were standing, but of course its magical history would have been familiar to everyone.”

He took a sip of his tea, looking pensive, as though choosing his words carefully.

“People connected these… rumours… with remnants of magic. There was talk in the village that outsiders were trying to use the stones to bring back something, and with it the magic that was lost. The activity was clustered in the autumn, hence the Halloween visit.”

Gwyn's eyes were wide, gripped by the story. “But they're Solstice aligned, the stones. Samhain is a cross-quarter festival.”

“True, but it's also when the veil between the worlds is said to be thinnest.”

Gwyn's mind was racing, “They were thinking of the daglan?” 

Azriel shrugged, “It's possible, isn't it?” Gwyn felt her heartrate pick up at the thought. “And there's the hill to think of as well as the stones.”

Silbury Hill was an incredible man-made mystery; an ancient, steep-sided hill not far from the Avebury standing stones. Excavations had shown it to be empty, so not a grave. Its purpose was completely unknown and the labour required to create and maintain it in ancient times would have been immense. 

“Okay, fascinating. I can't wait to get reading!” 

Azriel smiled, reaching for a biscuit. 

“I've drafted a rough research plan that I'd love you to take a look at. It's similar to what we've talked about before but also touching on some of these accounts,” he said, then paused. “And I'd like to talk about what you're comfortable with as well,” he looked straight at her, suddenly serious, she felt her breath catching. “If you can tell me which parts you're excited about and which you'd rather leave to me, we can split the work up, and if you have any concerns about anything - work, travel, other - we can work through that too.”

Gwyn could feel her heartbeat in her throat as she looked down. He'd anticipated her worry, planned for it. She hadn't expected that. She took a deep breath and looked up, “There were a couple of things, actually,” she said and he nodded.

They spent the next hour talking through Azriel's plan - refining questions and timeframes - then Gwyn explained her concerns: about being alone in crowds after dark, how she sometimes panicked in the company of rowdy men, and how she would prefer to avoid the pub late at night. Azriel listened intently and seriously, agreeing to all her requests for things that would make her feel safer: they wouldn't stay at the inn, even if rooms became available; he would stay with her at all times when they were out at night; and at the first sign of discomfort he would walk with her back to her room, no questions asked. 

As they talked she felt a restlessness in her settle down, tension easing. By the time they'd finished off the biscuits and emptied the teapot she felt relaxed and even excited about the trip. 

As she walked up towards Newnham later that afternoon her thoughts had drifted to what she should pack. Her sturdiest boots, she thought, in case the fields were muddy. 

Chapter Text

It was drizzling when they stepped off the bus outside the Red Lion inn. Gwyn tugged up the hood of her waxed raincoat, grateful for her boots as she looked out across the fields, anticipation building.

She couldn’t believe they were really here. Through the thin curtains of rain the standing stones seemed to almost shift and quaver in the field alongside the inn. It really did feel magical, uncanny. She shivered. 

Alongside her Azriel shouldered both their bags, waving away her protest and leading the way wordlessly down the lane from the crossroads where they had been dropped. He had arranged for them to stay in the spare rooms of a local widow.

The cottages alongside them were picturesque, a chocolate box picture of rural England with rose bushes twining over doors. To their left she could see more of the stones in a wide field beyond a low wall. Past them a steep grassy bank rose beyond a deep ditch: the henge. 

It was late October, two days before Halloween. From tomorrow evening the village would start to fill up with pilgrims, arriving from across the country to celebrate Samhain in the presence of the ancient stones. They would be shown around the site by a local man this afternoon, so they could get their bearings before the crowds arrived. 

Just ahead of her Azriel had paused by a small wooden gateway into a neat kitchen garden. He opened the gate and ushered her in ahead of him. The cottage was pretty and inviting, warm lights on behind the windows, dispelling the shadows of the overcast day. 

Their host was a kind woman in her late fifties. After hanging their coats to dry, she led them upstairs, where their bedrooms sat side by side. Gwyn’s was simple, whitewashed with a narrow bed and a window that looked out the front of the house, towards the stone circles. She didn’t see Azriel’s, but could hear him unpacking next door. After watching the rain shift across the view for a few moments, she stepped back to do the same. 

-

Later that afternoon they stood wrapped in waterproofs in the field with John, the farmer whose sheep grazed placidly amongst the stones around them. The stone circle dated from around 2800 BC, he told them, and was the largest of its kind known in the world. There was a huge outer ring, which encircled half the village, and two smaller ones, side by side within it, which once would have contained smaller circles within them as well. These stone rings were now largely reconstructed, thanks to excavations that had taken place a few decades back, which John had been involved in. 

“And the henge,” Azriel asked, “What do you know about that?”

“Oh, now that’s an interesting one. You know it used to be much deeper than it is today. The ditch was almost 30 feet deep, and steep too, with the high bank on its outer side. That’s a weird one, that is. No one knows why it’s like that. You see, henges are normally to keep things out: the ditch on the outside, then the bank inside of that. Easy to defend. People used them for forts, settlements. But here, here we’ve got the bank on the outside and then the ditch. It’s the wrong way round. And such a deep ditch. Like it was there to keep something in. Something inside those stone circles.” 

He paused meaningfully, looking at them each in turn. Gwyn couldn’t help it, she shuddered. 

Seeming pleased with the reaction he received, John continued, walking them over to the edge of the ditch alongside them. “It wouldn’t have looked like this back then either, all grassy. It would have been chalk white. This ground here is chalk and they cut into it and then maintained it, keeping it white, like the horses down the valley.” There were several monumental white horse silhouettes cut into the chalk hillside in the surrounding areas, it was something the region was famous for. “You’d have seen it for miles, a bright white ring, with those stones in the middle.”

These were details Gwyn hadn’t known before and she was struck by the image they presented. Beside her, Azriel’s face was grim. 

John led them around the whole village, pointing out places of interest, explaining where the stones originated, how they aligned with the summer and winter solstices. He talked about where pilgrims focussed their attention these days, though of course no one knew for sure how the site would have been used back when it was created. 

They sheltered from the wind that had started to pick up in the shadow of the two Cove stones, huge slabs of rock that had stood upright for thousands of years; the very oldest part of the monument. This was where the pilgrims would gather tomorrow, he explained. They liked to do their speeches and singing in this spot. 

After a couple of hours out in the rain Gwyn’s head felt full and her body chilled to the bone. She was grateful when Azriel thanked John and they trudged back to the cottage. 

“What are you thinking?” she asked Azriel, who looked even more stoic than usual. 

He didn’t answer straight away, looking over his shoulder at the field they were leaving. Then, “They made the Cove first, that inner circle, those huge stones placed together almost like a gateway… Then the outer circles. And then finally the henge… a monumental defensive structure, inverted, so it’s defending nothing.”

“Unless he’s right, and they were trying to contain something?”

“Exactly.” He paused before looking up at her as she clambered onto the stile out of the field. “But to contain what?”

Gwyn felt a sharp shiver of cold run through her that had nothing to do with the weather.  

Next to her Azriel shook his head, “Right, enough of that. Let’s go get some hot food.” 

He flashed her a quick smile, which she couldn’t help but return. Yes, a good warm meal was just what was needed. 

-

“My sister swears she saw people on the hill the other week,” chimed in a young regular. 

“Your sister is away with the fairies,” said an older man, laughing. 

They were in the Red Lion inn, sitting side by side at a table near the fire after finishing a hearty dinner. It was quiet tonight and Gwyn felt comfortable enough amongst the small crowd of local men who had settled in to chat with them. 

“She hears things sometimes,” the young man said with a frown, in response to Azriel’s questioning glance. “Thinks the stones sing. But she’s not mad! She does well at school, gets on well enough with people. Mum says it’s in the nature of this place, it gets people that way sometimes.” 

The young man, Balthazar, lived above the shop across from the inn. It sold occult books, charms and crystals to passing tourists and pilgrims. They should come by tomorrow, he said. He’d introduce them to his mother and sister. His mother knew all the old stories; she’d lived here all her life. 

They were talking about Dr Bryce Quinlan’s rumours. The oldest in their company was familiar with the period; he was over 90 himself, and his older brother had gone missing around the time Dr Quinlan had been writing. He remembered the stories his parents had told about their oldest son, who may well have been connected with Dr Quinlan himself. 

“He was a brave boy, book-smart but foolish. Foolish for girls most of all. She was an out-of-towner, up from London or somewhere. Could be your doctor. My mother said she was pretty but bold as brass. No decorum. Red hair. Dark though, not like yours.” He gestured to Gywn’s copper braid. “They spent a lot of time together when she was here, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He’d taken her around all the sites. My mother never approved, so they snuck around. And then one day both of them were gone. The family searched for him for years, the police got involved and everything. He hadn’t taken a stitch with him, no money, no clothes. It was like he’d gone out for an evening walk with her and vanished into thin air. Couldn’t find hide nor hair of either of them. She never got back to the university, and he never came home.” 

Gwyn glanced at Azriel, wide eyed. So Dr Quinlan had disappeared? They’d not been able to find any more publications, but it had never occurred to Gwyn there could be untoward reasons for that; female academics often retired early to marry, even today.  

“Has anything like that happened here before?” Azriel asked, “Or since?” he added.

“Disappearances? Well you have the visitors that come and go, always have done, but villagers like us just vanishing like that? That’s not happened like that again, not that I can think of.”  

The conversation was subdued after that. In time Azriel and Gwyn finished their drinks and made to leave, agreeing to drop in at Balthazar’s shop the following morning. 

“What do you think?”

“About Quinlan?” Azriel responded.

“Yeah. Do you really think she just disappeared like that?”

He was quiet, looking again out towards the dark fields where the stones stood. She had thought he might not answer, letting her question hang there in the damp night air, but then he spoke again, “I don’t know.”

They were both quiet after that. She felt that chill again, which settled into her and didn’t dispel even as she wrapped herself up under wool blankets with the hot water bottle that had been left in her bed. Sleep came slowly that night and was troubled by strange dreams, though when she woke, she couldn’t recall what they’d been about. 

-

The next morning, as she dressed, she found herself holding her old blue necklace. Her ‘invoking stone’ they'd called it growing up. Catrin had one too. They were gifts from their mother, by far the finest thing either of them owned. The stone was pale blue and seemed to burn with an inner fire in certain lights, bright against its silver mount. For protection, her mother had said. She hadn't worn it since Catrin's death.

Her hand trembled as she undid the clasp and slid it around her neck. She wanted to carry her family with her today, she realised. This is a place of ancient magic, her mother would have told her, You should honour it.

She tucked the necklace into her dress.

-

Stepping out of the overcast morning into Balthazar’s shop was like stepping into a rainbow. The space was brightly lit by large windows and every possible surface, including floor to ceiling glass shelves, was packed with baskets of crystals in every colour. 

Her eyes caught on a sign placed in one of the baskets: ‘You’re in the centre of a sacred stone circle: DON’T STEAL’. She huffed a laugh. 

“People do, you know,” Balthazar said, stepping up beside her. “Mum likes to appeal to their sense of supernatural dread,” he winked at her and she laughed again. 

“Does it work?” She asked, smile growing.

“Hard to say,” he responded, looking up and sobering slightly as Azriel stepped up behind her. 

“I told my sister all about you two. She’s in the back, if you’d like to come through and talk?”

They followed him behind the counter into a small but cosy room, closed French doors looking out over a damp but verdant garden, where apples still dripped from a straggly tree. Balthazar’s sister stood to greet them from her chair by the fire, hair and eyes dark like his, though her complexion was paler. 

“You’re interested in the visitors?” She asked, looking between them.

Azriel nodded, taking one of the proffered chairs.

With gentle probing from Azriel she told them all about the things she'd seen. Lamplight winking in and out towards Silbury Hill, shadows prowling between the stones in the dark of night. Male voices singing in the dark, with no one she could see around. Much of it tallied with Quinlan’s accounts from all those years ago, though she thought it unlikely this girl would have read those books; she had only left the village once, she'd told them.

She found herself feeling pity for the quiet girl and the small life she lived here, though she immediately scolded herself for the thought. Perhaps if she'd had an older brother and a parent still living she would have stayed like this herself, dwelling on whispers and flickering lights, too scared to travel, too troubled to sleep. The totality of what she'd lost had forced a new life on her, and not for the first time she felt something uncomfortably like gratitude for that at least. 

Before leaving they stopped to look around the shop. Gwyn selected three crystals with holes pre-carved that she thought she could thread onto bracelets for Emerie, Nesta and herself: purple, silver and teal. It was something she and Catrin used to do, and since the conversation with Balthazar’s sister she felt a flood of gratitude to her friends that she wanted to acknowledge. 

“Good choices,” said Balthazar over her shoulder. She turned to smile at him in question. 

He touched each stone in her palm in turn: "Amethyst is for calm and courage, haematite for grounding, healing… and battle,” he quirked an eyebrow at that one and Gwyn giggled; there couldn’t be a more perfect choice for Nesta. “And labradorite, for protection, intuition and insight.”

“What about this one?” she asked, impulsively picking up a black stone that seemed to absorb the light in the bright room. 

“That’s onyx,” he said, “inner strength and healing.” 

“Well, they’re all perfect,” she said with a smile. “I’ll take these please.”

He led her over to the counter, standing close and looking pleased. She felt Azriel watching them and sure enough, when Balthazar turned back towards the storefront he paused suddenly, creating a bit more distance between them. 

Gwyn smiled conspiratorily, “He’s not as intimidating as he comes across, I promise.” 

Balthazar raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?” He carefully wrapped each crystal and placed them in a small paper bag that she tucked into her coat. “You’re colleagues, you said?” 

“Yup,” Gwyn said brightly, pulling out her coin purse to pay. 

Balthazar looked unconvinced, taking the coins and placing them in the register. 

“Hello there,” with a rustle of cloth and chink of bangles, a woman with long dark grey hair and Balthazar’s dark eyes stepped into the room from behind the counter. “Balthazar told me you’d be visiting.” 

Azriel greeted her with flawless politeness and she stepped over to engage him in conversation. 

Gwyn looked back to Balthazar as if to say ‘see?’ He huffed a laugh and they went to join the other pair. 

“You are wearing powerful charms,” Balthazar’s mother said, eyeing Azriel, clearly impressed. 

Gwyn followed the woman's gaze and sure enough, there were matching cobalt blue stones at Azriel’s wrists, almost completely hidden between his sleeves and the fingerless gloves he always wore. She felt a flush of surprise. 

He'd given her no indication he believed in this sort of thing, or any magic for that matter. At least, not in that earnest, reverent way she associated with her mother. 

Though, now she thought about it, perhaps… His intensity at odd moments… and now these charms on his wrists, set in well worn leather, clearly scuffed from long use... But what did that signify? She was wearing something similar herself, out of superstition, nostalgia and a desire for closeness to those she had lost. She had a sudden, disorienting moment of sonder: this quiet, intense man she had known just a couple of months was in that moment an unknowable being, with a life as long and complex as her own, full of secrets.

Azriel said nothing, just nodded.

“And you,” the woman continued, eyes finding Gwyn's. “So are you.”

She felt rather than saw Azriel’s attention snap back to her. He stayed silent.

“An old gift from my mother,” she managed to get out, suddenly conscious of the necklace's weight on her chest, her hand finding its shape through her clothes. 

“A very fine gift,” said the shopkeeper, maintaining eye contact. “She blessed you with it.”

-

“I should have asked you how you came to study what you do,” Azriel said softly as they crossed the road into the field beyond the inn. They were walking to the Hill. “Your mother…”

“She believed in magic. Yes. I suppose we all did, growing up.”

“When did that change for you?” He asked.

“I think it was gone after my sister died. Maybe it was gradual before that, but I remember after she was gone, any sense that it might be real was gone too.”

“You lost them both?”

She swallowed, tears rising even after all these years. “Yes.”

“I am sorry.” 

“Please, don't be. You weren't there, were you? Couldn't have done a thing.” She kicked a clod of earth with the toe of her boot. “I miss them though. Most of all in places like this. They'd have loved it. That's why I put the necklace on this morning. I suppose I wanted to carry them with me.”

“You should keep it on.” Azriel wasn't looking at her but his voice was firm.

“I will.” She kept walking. “What about you? When did it pass for you?”

Azriel sighed, tilting his face to the sky and raking his hand through his hair. “It didn't,” was all he said. 

Gwyn felt a tremor shock run through her and found she had nothing at all to say to that. 

They kept walking. 

-

Later that night, when Azriel softly knocked on her bedroom door to let her know he was heading to the inn, Gwyn asked to join him. They were going to speak with new arrivals who had been piling off buses all afternoon and she found, following the conversations at Balthazar’s, that she would rather be party to what they had to say than indulge her nerves by waiting at home.

When they stepped into the pub the atmosphere was so different to yesterday that she shrank back. It was humid, smelling of beer and mud and sweat from all the newly arrived travellers, some of whom had unmistakably walked here over many days along the old Ridgeway. 

Azriel’s hand was gentle between her shoulder blades. He leant in and asked softly, “Is this okay? Just say the word and I’ll walk you back.”

She flashed him a grateful glance, “I’m fine, just need to relax,” she said, stepping a little closer to him nonetheless. He let her, his hand staying where it was and guiding her through the crowd to the bar. 

They'd spoken no more of magic since the morning. She was still trying to reconcile the rigorous academic, who watched everything and seemed to miss nothing, with the man beside her who wore crystal charms and believed magic was real. She supposed she knew nothing of his upbringing. Nothing of his life at all really, except what she saw in his college rooms, and his interest in the magical past was hardly hidden there. She wondered if Rhys knew, or if he even shared his beliefs; he was funding this project after all. 

She had so many questions. 

They would have to wait though. They'd arrived at the bar and Azriel was ordering them drinks: a pint for him, soda water for her. 

“You're ready for tomorrow?” he asked the man alongside them.

“Of course, looking forward to it. Yourself?" He had brown hair and eyes and looked between them kindly.

“Absolutely,” answered Azriel, tucking her into his side as a burly man shoved past, holding six full pint glasses overhead. Her heart sped up at the feeling of his arm warm and heavy around her. For a moment the foul smell of the surrounding patrons was swallowed up in the clean scent of cedarwood and she found herself blushing at the realisation that it was from him. 

“My sister passed last year,” the man was saying, “We've come to honour her, let her know she's not forgotten.” 

“Sorry to hear that, but glad you're able to be here for her,” Azriel responded, while Gwyn, thoroughly distracted, subtly tried to angle herself away from his body.

“Are you here for anyone yourself?” The man asked. 

“No,” responded Azriel. “Just casting off the old year and bringing in the new.”

“Very good,” said their companion. “To the new year!” He toasted, and Gwyn and Azriel raised their glasses in turn. 

“And to those we've lost,” followed Azriel, and they toasted again. 

The man laid a hand on Azriel's shoulder in thanks, and then they were moving away from the bar, tucking into a shadowed corner, out of the melee. 

“So what's the game plan?” Asked Gwyn, extracting herself from his arm and resting against the wall. She was grateful for the cool stone behind her; she felt very warm. 

Azriel shrugged, leaning back into the wall alongside her. “We watch and listen.” 

So that's what they did, drifting in and out of conversation with people who passed, and listening to the raucous chatter all around them. 

There were more like their friend from the bar, here to honour loved ones, but far more were here - as Azriel had said - for the party and to welcome in the new year. There were plans for costumes and bonfires and dancing tomorrow, which thrilled Gwyn even as her anxiety at the thought of the drunken crowd swelled. 

Then as the night was winding down, they heard a group discussing the monument itself. 

“I heard it was a gateway back in ancient times,” a man was saying.

“A gateway to where?” Asked his friend skeptically.

“The faerie kingdom, obviously,” answered a third man. “Then they built the other circles to close it up!”

Beside her Azriel was as still as stone, watching. 

“Nah, I heard it was a gateway into Hell. The devil himself laid the great Cove stones. The rest are there to confuse his demons, so they can't find their way out!”

“You wouldn't catch me living here for love nor money. Imagine all that on your doorstep. You'd never sleep!” 

The men laughed gleefully. It was Halloween after all, and scary stories of fae creatures and demons were just what they wanted.

“The gate is broken anyway. That third stone that's been gone a hundred years.”

John the farmer had said that too: the Cove would have had another stone to complete its ring originally, but it was broken up and used to build the local school, before the rest of the circle was excavated. There were old sketches that showed its placement hung in frames on the walls of the pub. 

“People want to bring it back, you know,” said one of the men. “I heard them talking on the journey over.”

If possible, Azriel had gone even stiller.

“What, open the gate to the underworld?” His friends chuckled. 

“Something like that. They said you could replace the stone, and the outer circle is still broken, even after the excavation. They didn't put them all back right.” Gwyn's hand instinctively found the charm at her neck, goosebumps raising on her arms. 

“I'd like to see anyone replace a stone that size,” one of them laughed. “You'd need a giant.”

“I heard it was giants who made it in the first place,” said another. 

“No, you're thinking of Stonehenge. That was the giants.”

“No, Stonehenge was Merlin! Him and his dragons fighting the devil on the plain!”

As the group descended into chaotic chatter and laughter, Gwyn felt Azriel's hand at her elbow. 

“We should leave.”

-

The sky was clear and the day windy the next morning when he woke. They had most of the day before the festivities started at sunset. They planned to mingle, gather more ‘folktales’ then eat before things kicked off. There would be a bonfire, sermons, singing and dancing. It marked the first moment of the new year in the old traditions, and the beginning of winter. A night for the dead, when the fabric between the worlds was thinnest.

He’d been out most of the night before. He’d brought Gwyn back from the pub, waited until it seemed she was asleep, then headed back into the dark. He’d walked to, up and around Silbury Hill but found nothing but footsteps, no evidence of what the ‘visitors’ the village girl had seen might have been trying to do. The stone circles had been quiet both as he left and when he returned. 

He strapped his siphons on before pulling on his gloves, this time ensuring their blue stones were fully covered. That was the other elephant in the room. He couldn’t believe he’d said that to Gwyn: in the moment the honest answer to her question - whether he believed in magic - had just tripped out of him, like lying wasn’t an option. She probably thought he was a lunatic. 

If only, he thought, sliding his long black knife into its sheath under his jacket. If only. 

Chapter Text

With the sun behind the surrounding hills the sky had taken on an indigo tint. Jack o’lanterns flickering with candles popped up in windows and sat dispersed around the stones. The fields now had a carnivalesque atmosphere, with fortune tellers and fire dancers competing for attention with robed and bearded men holding forth to rapt crowds.

She saw the man from the pub, who had recently lost his sister, and they exchanged a wave. He was lining up to buy flowers for the bonfire, a traditional way of honouring the dead. She pushed down the thought of her own sister as she turned from him, trying to find Azriel in the crowd; she was here to work, not mourn.

“Gwyn.” Her arm tingled where he nudged it. He was holding out a steaming mug. “Mulled apple. Thought you might want something warm.”

She took it with a grateful smile, warming her hands on the drink. 

Azriel stood before her, imposing in head-to-toe black, a mug between his own gloved hands. His cheekbones caught the flickering firelight, his eyes shadowed. In that moment he looked like something out of one of their tales; a fae lord visiting from the otherworld, beautiful but unknowable, somehow dangerous.

“Everything okay?” He asked.

She felt her face heat and hoped the lighting was dim enough he wouldn't notice. Everything is absolutely okay and your face is perfect.

Taking a sip of the hot spiced drink to hide her embarrassment and errant thoughts she responded, “Yes, fine. I was just watching the bonfire.” She raised the mug with a smile, “this is delicious by the way. Thank you!”

He smiled back, looking pleased. She tugged her gaze away from the hint of a dimple, gaze roving the field for a distraction. 

“There are people doing fortune telling!” As soon as it left her mouth she felt like an idiot. There wasn't a fair in the country that didn't host a woman draped in scarves who promised she could tell you who you'd marry. 

“You want to have yours told?” Azriel sounded entertained. 

“Have you ever done it?” She asked, stalling.

“No. Have you?”

“No…”

“Do you want to? They say Halloween is the best time for it,” his smile had grown and he raised an eyebrow at her. 

Flustered, averting her eyes from the dimple that had reappeared on his cheek, Gwyn laughed a little breathlessly. “I suppose we could see what rumours she might have heard? You'd have to be a good people watcher to convincingly sell people stories of their futures.”

Azriel's smile turned conspiratorial, “Great idea.” He gestured for her to lead the way.

-

People all around them shouted, laughed and jostled in fantastical costumes. It was traditional to dress up as fae creatures and demons tonight, to confuse the spirits who accidentally wandered into this realm though the thinning veil between the worlds. Gwyn laughed, holding onto Azriel's arm as a pack of older children ran past; their faces were painted red and they wore demon horns on their heads and black cloaks on their backs. 

The fortuneteller had little to tell them that they had not already heard in the pub. She had, predictably, assumed she and Azriel were a couple, and taken delight in telling a red-faced Gwyn and her quietly amused colleague that they would be married within two years and could expect a long and happy life together. Once Gwyn had steered her off the subject of their happy matrimony she had been able to share similar rumours of people thinking they could reinvigorate the stones, “educated men” apparently, “up from London.” 

Azriel had nodded stoically, asking pointed questions about these men, who had been talking about them, what other ideas or motivations they might harbour; the woman had no more details to share. 

After that they had ambled through the field, listening in on speeches at the Cove stones, mostly about honouring the dead and staying safe as the veil thinned. They had eaten food from the smaller cooking fires that had sprung up around the great ceremonial fire, and chatted with patrons. Magic had never left, they were told, it had only been weakened. On nights like this you could still sense it, and those with the right knowledge and power could still wield it. The daglan had drained the land of magic, one older woman told Gwyn. The daglan had saved magic and were destroyed in the process, a man told Azriel. 

“When people come together like this, in places where magic was once strong, that's when it's easiest to access again,” said a grey bearded man holding a staff topped with a sheep's skull. “It was always this way, that's why we have these festivals.” 

“Do you practice magic?” Azriel asked, all polite curiosity, as though asking the man if he grew potatoes. 

“Me? Oh no,” chuckled the man, “I don't have the knowledge or the pedigree for that. But I do honour it, and those who do.”

“Who?” Asked Gwyn, alight with curiosity. 

The man nodded towards the Cove stones, solemnly. “You'll find them over there. People who don't just know the old ways, they live them still.”

Azriel thanked him and they moved on. The crowd at the Cove had their heads bent in prayer. Gwyn thought of her mother.

Rather than spend more time listening to speeches or jostling with crowds, she and Azriel walked the perimeter of the outer stone circle, observing the ruckus. 

“So where do you sit?” She asked him, “Daglan good or daglan bad?”

He tilted his head, questioning.

“Did they save magic and sacrifice themselves in the process, or did they drain it from the land and get banished?”

He looked towards the bonfire. “The latter.” 

“You sound confident,” she said, a smile twisting her lips. 

He looked at her for a moment, face unreadable. “Do I?”

“Yes, do you know something I don't?” she teased him, giving him a nudge with her elbow. 

She had hoped for that small smile of his, but he kept his eyes on the field, face neutral. He shrugged, “Call it a hunch.”

They finished their loop, talking over the different accounts they'd heard and their various implications, while all the while Azriel watched the crowd. It was almost as though he was on alert for something, though when she followed his gaze she couldn't see anything besides costumed party goers and solemn pilgrims. It was an unlikely sight, she supposed, the two groups milling seamlessly together in these strange, ancient surrounds. 

Weaving back through the campfires and stalls, she waved at Balthazar, who she spotted drinking with a group of young men. He grinned back at her, before the crowds between them shifted and she lost sight of him again. 

Then suddenly something shoved her from behind. Her heart rose to her throat as she staggered, spinning around and barely keeping her footing. A man stood hunched over, glaring at her through the most lifelike mask she'd ever seen. His eyes looked wholly black, his skin dark grey and leathery, the bones on his face harshly angular and wicked, oddly deformed. Her blood ran cold. He hissed at her, reaching to grab at her and she stumbled back, gasping for breath. The air around her felt suddenly bitterly cold, the necklace at her chest warm. His arms were bare and grey, and in fact so was the rest of him. She staggered back as he lunged again. The figure before her wasn't human; she felt it with a certainty that shook her to the core.

And then Azriel was behind him, furious. He pulled the man, the creature, towards him with a strong arm around its neck. Then with no hesitation plunged a knife into its chest. 

Gwyn's heart might have stopped.

She stared at him, a terrifying vision wreathed in shadows, pure horror pulsing through her. For a moment she was at once here in Avebury, with revelers screeching and chanting and running all around, and suddenly also back in the mountains of her old home, her sister’s body still warm of the floor, her attackers dead alongside her, a shadowed warrior reaching out to give her a cloak to wrap around her body. 

Between them the creature disappeared. 

All around them the party continued. 

She stared at Azriel and the memory of the warrior receded, replaced by the quiet academic she’d come here with, inexplicably wielding a dark bladed knife. 

“What was that?” 

He bent to clean the knife on the grass, before tucking it back into his coat. “A nightmare made flesh,” he said. “Someone must be summoning them, they’re not strong enough to come through on their own.” 

She stared at him, horrified. 

“What?”

“Someone is using the stones, using magic, to bring these monsters through. The veil is weak today, and they couldn't hope for a better distraction.” He looked to the carnival all around them.

“But those are stories. They’re just stories.”

Azriel’s hand was in his hair, he looked at her, frustrated. He shrugged with an air of futility, gesturing to the empty space in front of them, where the creature had been poised to attack her.

“Are you telling me it’s real?” 

He just looked at her. 

“The stories we’re collecting. You think they’re real?” He raised his eyebrows, and she could see why. Hadn’t she just seen the evidence with her own eyes? “You think someone is going to open a gate into another world?” 

“I think someone is trying. That creature could be a side effect of their attempt. But if a gate is their goal, they won’t succeed tonight.” 

“They won’t?”

“I don’t think so. It’s like we said earlier, the circles are broken. That’s not changed.” He paused. “But they would know that. That’s the part I don’t understand, why tonight? Why somewhere as conspicuous as this? It’s like they’re testing something…”

Her brain felt like soup, sloshing between her ears. She shook her head, trying to dislodge some kind of sense or understanding. 

“If this is a test run, when is the main event?”

His eyes met hers, just barely lit by the fire behind her, shadowed still. “That’s what we need to find out.” 

Her heart pounded in her chest.

“You're not an academic, are you?”

He paused. “I'm not only an academic,” he said finally. 

“Were you going to tell me?”

He looked conflicted, answering softly, “I hadn't decided yet.”

Finally dragging her eyes from his face, Gwyn wrapped her arms around herself and blew out a deep breath. The necklace from her mother sat warm over her breastbone. To their right the bonfire roared, sparks rising heavenward, revelers dancing in its circle of light. She felt adrift, the vertigo of being suspended between two points in time returned: she had stood by a bonfire just like this, on a night similar to this one, many years ago with her family. Back then she had believed the stories, believed they were singing to guide the spirits of the dead safely across the veils between the worlds. What did she believe now? 

“I didn't think anything would happen here tonight, Gwyn. If I had, I would never have asked you to come.” 

She looked back at Azriel. His face was earnest, concerned.

“What I told you was true. I thought this would be an ideal place to hear the latest rumours, stories. None of the evidence I'd seen suggested anything would happen here.” 

She nodded once. Silence hung between them like a physical presence, despite the raucous party all around.

“We should go,” she said at last, resolution setting in. “There could be more, couldn't there? We should find them, before someone gets hurt.”

His brows furrowed.

“I'm in it now, Azriel. Whether you intended me to be or not. Let's finish what's been started.”

He held her gaze, reflected fire flickering in his eyes, and then nodded. “Alright. Stay with me. And don't engage unless you're in mortal danger and confident I can't get to you. We're looking for singers: they'll be still and likely in costume. Or creatures like that one.” He looked at the sky, which was lightening towards the southeast. “There's not long left.”

-

The morning light was grey as she dragged herself up the hill to West Kennet Long Barrow. Her ankles were soaked with dew despite her boots and her thighs burned at the brisk uphill pace she set herself. Avebury lay behind her and with it all the horrors of the night before. 

They had found two more creatures, both of which Azriel dispatched with lethal efficiency. They hadn't found the singers, or any sign that they had succeeded in greater disruption than bringing across the creatures. The party had petered out as the sun neared the horizon, and had now dispersed completely. Azriel hadn't left her side since the attack. He was with her now, walking several paces behind, giving her the space she so desperately needed after the night they'd had. Neither of them had slept. They had barely spoken, certainly not about anything of substance, since the revelation that was still reverberating through her.

The ancient tomb loomed up ahead, a jumble of monumental stones both framing and disguising its entrance. It was thought that fifty people were laid to rest here almost five thousand years ago; all gone now, of course. In the old traditions ancient spaces like this were sites to revere all those who had passed, especially today. 

She had come prepared, two roses and a candle clenched in her fist. Pushing her hair from her face she ducked under the great stone doorway into the damp earthen gloom. She could feel why people felt close to the underworld in spaces such as this one. The air was cold, dry and still. The tomb was empty but a couple of alcoves flickered with candlelight: offerings left by pilgrims overnight. She pushed forward into the dark, finding an empty alcove and dropping to her knees. 

She lit her candle with shaking hands, laying her two roses either side of it on the dusty earthen floor, stems crossed. 

Azriel had bought her the candle early last night. “For you mother and sister,” he had said, pressing it into her palm. She had felt so touched that he had remembered and thought of them; she still did, amongst the maelstrom of other emotions. The roses she had bought herself, as the seller was packing up this morning. 

She looked at the candle flame, the velvet softness of the petals. A seismic horror of the night before rose up over her and she let a sob rip through her, doubling over and clutching her necklace. She thought of her mother, her soft and reverent belief in the goodness of magic, taken by illness none of her rituals could cure. She thought of her sister, her twin, so violently ripped from the world on a night so horribly reminiscent of this one. She thought of the barren wilderness she'd felt herself living in after they'd gone, and then the light and purpose she'd found in Cambridge with Nesta and Emerie. And now those worlds had collided once again. All her years of healing study had somehow led her back here, to a place where the edges of the world and reason were blurred, where once again she didn't know what to believe.

Eyes screwed shut against tears, she rested her forehead against the earth and spoke silently to her mother and sister. The whole story of the last ten years tumbled through her mind, and she imagined them hearing it, absorbing it, accepting it. Her face was wet with tears. The heavy weight she had dragged with her up the hill lessened. She had suppressed what she knew to be true. She had held onto it as stories, as eccentric, occult beliefs and theories, objects of academic curiosity. And then Azriel. This project. This ‘fieldtrip’. And now what?

She opened her eyes, took one last look at the roses and candle, and stood to leave.

She found Azriel atop the grassy roof of the long barrow, looking out over the ritual landscape below them. Silbury Hill caught the light of the rising sun, and behind it Avebury village, the henge casting a ring of shadows through it. Only the Cove stones were visible from this distance, though in her mind’s eye she could see the others too, casting their nets around it. Visitors were packing up tents in the surrounding fields, readying to make their way home. 

Azriel turned to look at her, eyes catching on the necklace she had left out over her dress, before returning to her face. He didn’t say anything, but she felt empathy in his gaze. He understood why she had wanted to come here. 

She wrapped her arms around herself and looked back out over the view. 

“We have a lot to talk about,” she said, not looking at him. 

“Yes,” he said, softly. 

“When we get back to Cambridge?” she asked, suddenly aching to be home. 

“Yes,” he said again.  

Chapter Text

“I’m not gaslighting her, Rhys, she knows what she saw.” 

“Help her unknow it.” 

“No.”

“... You like her.”

“Of course I fucking like her, what’s your point?”

“You’ve never wanted to bring anyone into this before.”

“It doesn’t matter what I want, she’s in it now, and I want her to have all the information. So she can stay safe. So she can help us!”

“She’ll want to help us?”

“She’s been helping us already.”

“Yes, in the guise of an academic job that pays and bolsters her career. Not quite the same as taking on monsters with our little court of dreams and nightmares, is it?”

“Her role doesn’t need to change, I just want her to have the whole picture.”

“Her role will change the moment you tell her what we’re doing and why. You know that.” 

“I can keep her safe.” 

“Don’t be stupid, Azriel. We can barely keep ourselves safe. If she’s in, she’s all in, and she’ll have to fight. Maybe not now, or even soon, but eventually.”

-

Ergh. 

Azriel had a headache. He’d barely slept, though that was hardly new. He couldn’t stop replaying his conversation with Rhys from the night before. He’d gone straight to the townhouse after he’d left Gwyn and they’d talked late into the night. 

The activity at Avebury was concerning. His misjudgement that nothing would happen there was concerning. What Gwyn had seen and how she might react to it was concerning. He was concerned. 

He slammed his fist into the punchbag in front of him; it swung heavily, its chain creaking. 

He had to get his head straight. They were meeting tomorrow morning. What the hell was he meant to tell her? 

-

The wind was absolutely bitter as she walked past the Mill Pond. They said the wind blew straight through the flat Cambridgeshire fens all the way from the frozen Ural mountains and on days like today she believed it. She stuffed her wool mittened hands into the pockets of her long, darned winter coat. 

She was meeting Azriel after his morning lecture, something she’d been putting off thinking about. She hunched her shoulders against the wind before crossing the road and pushing through the heavy wooden door into the building. 

It was two days since they’d returned from Avebury. Their journey home had been long and quiet, and they’d parted ways at the bus station with little conversation besides agreeing to meet here today. Gwyn had found the further their journey took them from the stone circle the lighter she felt. As she’d walked through Cambridge city centre back to her college the spell of the place passed further. She was back home, in this beacon of rationality and learning. She’d passed students yelling to each other from their bikes, old white haired dons talking seriously about their latest research, tourists excitedly pointing to where this or that Nobel prize winning discovery had been made. It made magic feel distant and dreamlike, fantastical. 

She’d seen what she’d seen, and she couldn’t explain it, but that didn’t mean the myths and stories of her childhood were all true. It didn’t negate the truths she’d learnt about the world since leaving her mother’s home. It was a new puzzle to unpick, but one she would tackle as she tackled all things in the new life she’d build for herself: through research, reason and evidenced argument. 

The entrance hall to the teaching building was cool and smelt of wood polish, cold from the sandy flagstones underfoot doing battle with the clanking radiator on the nearest wall. She tucked herself up against the radiator alongside lecture theatre one; she could hear Azriel’s voice, muffled through the dark wood doors. Second year political theory: the course he’d told her about that first dinner they’d spent together.

That was as big a mystery as the monster she had seen. This quiet academic, his gentle manner, his sudden moments of kindness and consideration, contrasted with the lethal violence she’d witnessed Samhain night. Balthazar had seen something she hadn’t, watching him warily in a way that had seemed funny to her at the time… well, it made perfect sense to her now. 

As his voice hummed in the background, she sifted through her memories. 

“You're not an academic, are you?”

“I'm not only an academic.” 

“Were you going to tell me?”

“I hadn't decided yet.”

She wondered what he’d decided to tell her now. 

She was jerked from her reverie by the doors beside her swinging open. Students pushed past, jostling and laughing. The lecture was finished. 

As the stream of people thinned she ducked into the back of the hall herself, looking down the stepped seating to find Azriel shuffling papers back into his bag. He was striking as ever in the slanted late autumn sun: it filtered through dust motes to cast shadows across his face, cheekbones sharp and hair curling over his forehead. He was ignoring a group of giggling girls on the front row, all watching and pushing each other in his direction. As he finished closing his bag one of them stepped forward, red faced and twirling a lock of her hair. Despite her swirling anxiety Gwyn was tickled by the obvious display, and Azriel’s polite response as he took some papers from the girl, nodding. Having achieved her goal the young student turned and hurried up the stairs, her friends following, giggling and whispering as they passed Gwyn and headed out the hall. 

“What do you have there?” She asked lightly, as he came to meet her at the back of the hall.

He glanced down at the paper in his hand. “An essay. She wants some additional feedback.” 

Gwyn laughed, “I’m not sure that’s all she wanted!” 

She couldn’t be sure, but Azriel’s cheekbones looked a little pink. “Well, that’s what she’s getting.” 

“Very good,” she chuckled with a smile. She felt lighter and more settled now he was actually standing here, quiet and calm in a tweed jacket, wrapping a wool scarf around his neck: playing the part of Cambridge academic to perfection. 

He gestured for her to go on ahead and then followed her out of the building.

“I thought we could get a drink round the corner,” He was watching her closely. “There's a private room at the back of the pub, it's got a fire. I was going to suggest we walk, but the cold…”

“That sounds perfect,” and it did, both neutral territory and warm. 

The pub was still decked out for Halloween, pumpkins either side of the door and wooly cobwebs draped over autumnal window boxes. Inside smelt of wood smoke and spilled beer, and Azriel nodded to the barman before leading her through a door to a small parlour. It was a surprisingly pretty room, lead-paned windows overlooking a cobbled side street and a fire crackling cheerfully under a white painted mantel. He pulled out a cushioned chair at the table for her before sitting himself. 

For a moment they just looked at each other across the table. 

“I just wanted to-”

“I'm really-”

They both broke off, and Gwyn laughed nervously. They sat in somewhat awkward silence as the door opened and the barman bought through a tray with two steaming mugs of tea. Once he left, Azriel continued. 

“I want to be clear, what I told you about our research is all true. Rhys really has funded this post for me to learn more about contemporary belief in magic and the daglan in particular, and I really did need a research assistant with your skillset and interests to make that work move quicker.” He paused, shifting in his seat. “What I wasn’t straightforward about is probably now self-evident, but clearly our interest is not purely academic…” 

She sat still, wide eyed, and nodded for him to continue. 

“Our upbringing was not… conventional. Cassian and I were fostered by Rhys’s mother, and as I said before, his family has had an interest in the occult for many generations.” He paused again, clearly choosing his words. “A lot of this, most of it really, is not my story to tell. But the core truth I wasn’t sharing is that we are interested in this subject because it is real. There are people who believe in magic because they are practising magic, and sometimes it works. You witnessed that yourself this weekend. A creature, several creatures, were summoned from another realm, another dimension, and arrived with violent intent.”

Her heart was pounding as she watched him speak.

“People dabbling, mishaps like that,” her eyebrows raised at the word ‘mishap’, “are not uncommon… but the reason for my post here is that in the last couple of years they have been becoming more common. I observed it during my fieldwork in Europe and Cassian and Rhys observed it here at home. We are concerned these efforts are not just hobbyists, that they are becoming more consistent, more effective.”

At this Azriel stopped. He picked up his teacup and they watched each other through the steam that rose from it. Slowly, Gwyn nodded again.

“So, people are using magic to summon… creatures… and you and Rhys, and Cassian… stop them?”

“We try to stop harm coming of it where we can, yes.” 

“How can no one know?”

“Many people do know. And many more choose not to.”

“Like me?”

He didn’t reply to that. His face was neutral, utterly unreadable. 

“You said you weren’t expecting anything to happen at Avebury. Why was that?”

“The only recent activity we’d encountered was near here, near Cambridge. The last disturbance at Avebury was around the time of Dr Quinlan’s disappearance, an incredibly long time ago. What I said was true, I thought Avebury would bring together people who listened out for stories of magic, who might have some light to shed on trouble closer to home. I thought it was far too public a gathering for anyone to attempt anything.” He sighed, impassive mask shifting to clear frustration, “Clearly I got that wrong.”

“What has happened near here?” Gwyn asked, brows furrowed. 

“Similar incidents to what you saw, creatures who shouldn’t be here. None as aggressive as the one who attacked you though. No one has been hurt.” 

“And you, what? Take them out?”

“Yes, a mortal injury here sends them back to where they came from.”

“Right.”

Gwyn took a sip of her tea.

“So you’re, what- a demon hunter?” 

At that Azriel laughed, a short huff at first, followed by a genuine guffaw, and before she could help it Gwyn was laughing too. The tension that had held her rigid all morning broke with her shaking shoulders and she found herself grinning at Azriel, smiling even wider as she saw him grinning back, shaking his head. Gradually their laughter subsided, and as she leaned back in her chair Gwyn observed their usual companionable ease settle back in. 

“I appreciate you telling me.”

He smiled ruefully, rubbing the back of his neck and slumping back in his chair. 

“I’m going to have a lot more questions.”

He nodded, “I’d expect no less.” 

“Do you still need a research assistant?” 

His sharp gaze flickered over her face. He nodded again.

“Good,” she said decisively. “Then we should regroup on what we learnt from our fieldwork.”

Azriel’s hazel eyes were warm on hers as he sat forward again. “Excellent idea.”

Chapter Text

“Remember, remember the fifth of November, gunpowder, treason and plot!” 

Nesta unsentimentally pushed past the group of chanting children with an eyeroll. 

“What?” she said, when Gwyn nudged her. “They were going to make us late.”

“You know, some people might think you were hurrying to meet someone, what with the rushing us and the shoving small children out of the way,” teased Emerie, flashing a grin back at Nesta’s stony faced look. 

“Feyre and Rhys are a lovely couple,” chimed in Gwyn cheekily, “I’m excited to spend the evening with them too.”

“Yeah, yeah,” replied Emerie, laughing in earnest now, “Cassian and Azriel have had no bearings on our plans whatsoever.”

“Oh shush,” replied Gwyn, cheeks flushing. “I think it’s really kind of them to invite us.”

“To meet them in a heaving field of people at a free event the entire county is attending? Sure, so kind.” 

“Well, I didn’t see you complaining when Mor asked if all three of us were coming,” snapped Nesta sharply, before sighing. “Sorry. I’m on edge.” 

“Yeah, getting that vibe.” Emerie pulled Nesta in with an arm around her shoulders, “Don’t worry about it. And don’t worry about him. We’re going to have fun tonight, with or without company.”

The crowd grew thicker as they crossed the road separating Jesus Green and Midsummer Common, starting to jostle as they pushed towards the gate. Without comment Nesta and Emerie rearranged to bracket Gwyn, holding back some of the press of bodies until they were past the fence and on the Common. 

The usually peaceful green space, home to a herd of cows for much of the year, was transformed tonight. A fairground blazed to their right, bright lights and blaring music advertising rides, games, food and drink. Straight ahead towered a huge stack of wood, looming like a pyre beyond the billowing crowds. And it was a pyre of sorts, for the Guy, which Gwyn couldn’t see from her current vantage point. She wondered what politician or other powerful character had been chosen as effigy for burning this year. It was such a grizzly tradition, but looking around the chattering, cheerful crowds on what would otherwise be a fairly miserable November evening, she found it hard to object. 

She followed the tug on her arm as Nesta steered them towards the fair, stepping carefully over the damp, lumpy grass, eyes on the crowd. It was hard not to make the parallel with Samhain, not even a week ago. But this was a very different type of event: no magic, no costumes, no stone circles, no chanting… well, unless you counted children reciting nursery rhymes. Just thousands of people all wrapped up to watch a bonfire and some fireworks. 

In the end she saw them before Nesta did, her eyes landing on Azriel as though drawn to him through the crowd. He was bundled up in a dark winter coat, scarf up to his ears, backlit by the candyfloss stall behind him, breath misting in the air as he replied to something Rhys said to his left. For a moment she just took in the sight of him, all sharp angles and soft edges, before motioning to Nesta and Emerie that she’d found their friends. 

Her heart was beating hard in her chest as they drew level with the group, and she made a point of hugging Feyre and Elain before turning to greet him.

“Hey,” she said, smiling brightly through the unfamiliar shyness she felt creeping in.

“Good to see you, Gwyn,” he said back with that slight smile of his. Her chest fluttered. 

Just a few days ago, they’d spent the rest of their afternoon together in that pretty parlour at the back of the pub. They’d sifted through notes and recollections, ordered lunch, chewed over stories and mapped myth against fact, both of them relishing the ease that had resettled between them. She liked spending time with him. She suspected he liked spending time with her. Gods, it was terrifying.  

“Have you tried anything yet,” she asked, gesturing to the stalls and rides around them. 

He shook his head, “I-”

“Right, come on, haunted house! Off we go!” Cassian called, pulling on sleeves and cajoling the group into movement.

Gwyn chuckled, “I’m not sure that’s what Nesta had in mind when she pictured this evening,” she murmured conspiratorially to Azriel. His eyebrows rose, expression interested, and she immediately kicked herself. “Err, not that-” She shook her head. “You’re going to immediately forget I said that, alright?”

“Forget what?” he said innocently, that small smile tugging at a thread in her chest. 

“Exactly,” she said primly, stepping away to follow their friends into the fair. 

–

The bonfire was roaring now, the heat from it nudging them to loosen scarfs and tug open coats. To her left Nesta and Cassian were in the midst of a heated debate, to her right Emerie chatted away cheerfully with Feyre and Mor. Behind them she could see Azriel’s head ducked to listen to Elain, whose shining eyes never left his face. 

Gwyn worried her lower lip between her teeth, willing herself to look away from the pair. It was a good thing they got on so well, Elain certainly deserved some good after the year she’d had. Barely two months ago she had been cheering Nesta’s sister on for sparking Azriel’s interest, it didn’t make sense to feel differently now. She shook her head, returning her gaze to the fire. 

She was sufficiently lost in her thoughts and the sight of the flames that she didn’t notice Rhys step up beside her. 

“It’s good to see you again, Gwyn,” he said smoothly, causing her to jump. 

“Oh- gods, I’m sorry, I was in a world of my own.” She could feel herself blushing.

Rhys was watching her closely, his striking eyes reflecting the sparks of the fire before them. He smiled, softening the sharp expression she’d caught on his face. He was almost alarmingly good looking, she thought. The comparison to Azriel came to mind immediately, unbidden. Two very different types of beautiful men. 

“Azriel told me what happened at Avebury,” he said, and she suddenly felt very silly for her frivolous train of thought. 

“Oh.”

“And he told me what you both talked about since.”

She nodded, “Right.”

“I wanted you to know that our door is always open. Should you ever need us,” he gestured to his brothers, his cousin, his wife. “You’re in the circle now, and we look after each other.” 

She didn’t know what to say to that, so just nodded again, looking down, and murmured, “Thank you”.

After a pause, Rhys continued. “Your necklace, you’ve had it a long time?” 

Her eyes snapped up, hand drifting to her chest, where her necklace sat under several layers of clothing. “Since I was a child,” she replied, uncertain. 

“This will sound strange, but I encourage you to keep it on you at all times.”

“It does sound strange,” she said, her brow furrowing. “Azriel told me the same thing.”

“He was right to,” he continued, undeterred by her expression. “It’s a very powerful protection charm. You’re extremely lucky to own it.”   

“How can you know that? You’ve never even seen it.”

“I can feel it,” he replied simply. “Can’t you?”

“Azriel said…” she paused, “he wouldn’t tell me much, but he told me your family-” 

Rhys smiled, all pleasant charm, as he interrupted her: “You'll have to join us for dinner at the house soon. You and Nesta.” He nodded back to the fire.

-

The fireworks still hadn’t started and the field by the fire had got uncomfortably busy and hot. Their group had retreated to the funfair again, and now Cassian had a massive stuffed bear under one arm that he kept knocking passers-by with, while Emerie gestured energetically with a giant cloud of candyfloss, causing Nesta to scowl as it caught on her coat. 

Despite the family-friendly atmosphere, there was no shortage of alcohol and, despite trying to keep amongst her friends, Gwyn had been barged more than once by drunk men trying to get past. After the third hit and run she felt nauseous, her teeth grinding, tension running through all her limbs as she tried to keep up with Emerie’s chatter. 

“Are you alright?” a hand on her arm accompanied Azriel’s low voice. 

She stared at his gloved hand for a moment before looking up at him and nodding, “I’m fine. It’s just- the crowds.”

He knew, of course. They’d talked this through before their field trip. 

“We’re not far from Rhys’s house, if you want a break?” 

“Oh no, I couldn’t impose. And I wouldn’t want to miss the fireworks!”

“It would be no imposition, the rest of us practically live there. And there’s a roof terrace overlooking the Common. Probably a better view than you’d get here anyway.”

She was sorely tempted, almost vibrating with anxious energy and struggling to keep up with her friends as it was. 

He must have been able to tell because he nudged her towards Nesta as though it was all decided, “Just let them know where you’re going.”

In the end she did as he suggested and after a brief exchange with Nesta, who shot Azriel a sharp look of warning, she followed him out of the crowds, following a narrow, lantern lit path at the edge of the Common. 

Rhys’s house was a tall whitewashed terrace, elegant without being stately. Azriel led her through the entranceway and up several flights of stairs; she saw shadowed bedrooms through doorways but nothing that gave much away about its owner. Finally they reached the top and her breath caught as Azriel pushed open a heavy door onto a tiny roof terrace. 

The space was only big enough for a single table and chairs, with small box hedges in pots framing the view over the Common towards the river. The willows on the footpath whispered below them, just audible over the clamour of people on the field beyond. She could see the haunted house Cassian had pulled them round, the stall where Emerie bought her candyfloss, the ferris wheel, the dodgems, the huge bonfire, still burning away, and thousands of people milling around, laughing, shouting, eating, dancing. She felt Azriel step up beside her as she settled against the railing, taking in the view with a sense of awe. 

“Wow,” she said, glancing towards him. His smile was quietly satisfied as he nodded her attention back to the view, and sure enough, with a resounding crack, the first firework exploded into the sky. 

She couldn’t help it: her face split into a grin and she nudged his shoulder with her own, “This is so great. Thank you.”

He laughed softly, a warmer sound than she was used to from him, and stepped back, eyes on the sky. “You’re welcome.”

Not long later, the sky was dark again and the air thick with smoke and the sharp tang of gunpowder, shrieks rising from the common below as crowds pushed towards the exits. She looked over and found Azriel watching her back, forearms resting on the railing, eyes reflecting back the shadows and flickering lights of the field down below. 

“Thank you,” she said again, softly. 

“You’re welcome,” he repeated simply, eyes on hers.

“I struggle with the crowds…”

He shook his head. “You don’t have to explain anything to me.”

A lone rocket exploded somewhere behind him, golden sparks crackling across the sky behind his head. 

He was right, she didn’t. But in that moment, looking up at him backlit in gold, the part of her that wanted to terrified her. 

-

Dr Bryce Quinlan had been a Newnham alumna: that meant there should be records of her in the college somewhere, but so far Gwyn had had no luck finding them. She was named in the matriculation list for her first year in Cambridge, and her BA, MA and PhD graduations, but beyond that there was nothing of her in the college library. 

Her next avenue of enquiry had been asking for access to the college administrative records and her approval from the bursar came through early the following week.

The records were primarily financial - payments taken and prizes awarded - and academic, with scores for assessed work totalled in neat columns. Like Gwyn, she had kept the same room in college for the full duration of her residence in Cambridge. Like Gwyn she had aced her exams from first year onwards, receiving several modest scholarships and prizes. Unlike Gwyn she had family, with parents listed as emergency contacts, and a benefactor, who covered her bills each term via an anonymous transaction. Her PhD had been accepted with only minor corrections and she had seamlessly transferred onto the college books as a post-doc supervisor for both Archaeology and Art History undergraduates. Her last teaching payment had been the end of the academic year before the date of her apparent disappearance from Avebury; there were no records indicating why the payments did not start again with the next term. 

Gwyn huffed out a frustrated breath. None of this got her closer to Bryce Quinlan the woman. She shuffled through the papers one more time and, just as she went to shut the manila folder, her eyes snagged on a line in an accommodation bill: 

Room 12, Newnham Hall

She knew where that was, not far from where Emerie had lived in their first year, in the oldest part of the college.

Her lips quirked into a satisfied smile. She had somewhere to start.

-

Room 12 Newnham Hall, now more often called Old Hall, was currently home to a second year undergraduate chemist named Mairead. Her chestnut hair was piled in a precarious bun atop her head and she listened curiously to Gwyn's request to look around while picking at the fraying cuff of her college crested jumper.

After stepping back to let her in, Mairead chattered pleasantly about her first month back in Cambridge while Gwyn poked around. 

Boys studying natural sciences were predictably awful, Mairead told her, but there was a beautiful one studying Classics at Queens who she hadn't spoken to yet but would like very much to in future. They got lunch at the same spot on Wednesdays when her labs finished early. He always ordered the same baguette and had a lovely speaking voice. Gwyn let the chatter wash over her, running her fingers over the original, tiled fireplace. As Mairead speculated on the many virtues of baguette boy she dropped to her knees and looked up the chimney. It was thick with soot from last night's fire but to Gwyn's shock there did appear to be something of interest beneath it: rings of overlapping circles, carved precisely into the stone of the flue. A witch mark.

Witch marks were used for centuries to ward against harm from witches, the devil and the evil eye. The sight of one tucked away like this would not have surprised her in an old college like St Johns, which pre-dated the witch hunt hysteria of the 17th century, but it was very unusual, if not inexplicable, to find one quite like this somewhere built in the late 1800s. Gwyn ran her hand over the carvings, fingers turning black with soot.

There was nothing to say they were put here by Bryce, or even to say that they were put here with intent; they could just as easily be the idle scratchings of a history student with an enthusiasm for old superstitions. It was interesting though, to find this here, in the room she had lived in all those years. 

Standing slowly, Gwyn turned back to Mairead. 

“If you come across anything hidden away anywhere, loose floorboards, space at the back of a cupboard, notes or papers or even something odd carved into the wall like this,” she gestured to the etching in the chimney, “I'd love to hear about it.” 

Wiping soot off her fingers, she passed the girl a slip of paper with her name on it. 

“Just pop a note in my pigeon hole and I'll be right in touch.”

Mairead agreed cheerfully, inspecting the witch mark with mild curiosity and a quirk of her lips. The young scientist clearly thought her visitor's enthusiasm for traces of a long dead student was harmlessly odd.

On her way to Hall for dinner Gwyn dashed off a quick note to Azriel, dropping it in the Porters’ Lodge to be delivered the next morning. 

“Witch marks in hearth of Quinlan’s old room - any possible significance?

-G”

-

Azriel kicked shut the door to his college rooms, fishing his post out of his coat pocket before hanging it up. He prodded the embers banked in the grate and settled into an armchair, rubbing warmth back into his knuckles.

He had just cycled back from the river and his hands were so cold his old injuries were cramping. It had been windy, though not so windy he couldn't row, and he had been up since well before dawn. The air outside was like sheets of ice. It was frowned upon to row in gloves, but he wasn't competing anymore and realistically he set off so early, even by rowers’ standards, who was there to judge? He would have to buy some lined ones soon; this was untenable.

Once he had thawed a little he reached to pick up the small stack of envelopes he had collected from the porters. A journal subscription, a bill, and an envelope from Newnham College… 

Hastily he ripped open Gwyn's note, eyes catching on the elegant loops of her cursive, before taking in the substance of her question. A wry smile tugged his mouth, fingers tracing the pattern she had sketched under her initial. He knew the same pattern marked the chimneybreast in front of him, and he had scratched it carefully into the window frame in his bedroom himself when he had first moved in.

He eyed the fire, fingers smoothing the paper: he should burn it. He had been careful to cover all traces of his research into Quinlan and her work. 

His eyes fell back to the overlapping circles, precisely sketched in black ink. He paused for just a moment more, pressing the pad of his thumb over the pattern. Then he folded the note in half and tucked it into his wallet. 

A simple protection charm, gifted to him, however unwittingly, by Gwyn. He couldn't bring himself to burn such a thing.