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chasing him. I thought Thomas might recognize him or Vivian from some conference or other, but he doesn't.” With a thoughtful frown, Gupta collected the photos and tucked them inside his jacket.
    A telephone chirped and Bess hurried off to answer it. “And?” Maggie prompted.
    "We traced Vivian to the Shambhala Guest House. She left late last night, wearing a green cloak with gold embroidery, away to the Samhain ceremony at Baltonsborough, or so she told the proprietor."
    "A cloak,” repeated Rose.
    "The ceremony that turned into a riot?” Maggie asked.
    "The very same."
    Sean asked, “Did you find a knife to go with that sheath?"
    "No."
    "And you don't know how Vivian died?” asked Anna.
    "Not as yet."
    Alf clucked his tongue. “Nice young lady like that. And the Scotsman—well, he'll turn up right as rain, just you see."
    "I hope so,” said Gupta. “We're expecting his son here tomorrow. Don't you have a single room empty yet, Alf?"
    "That we do. The lad's welcome to it."
    Maggie opened her mouth, then shut it. The Dewar boy didn't have an infectious disease. They owed him some sympathy, already.
    "I don't suppose we can tell him anything more about his father and Vivian,” said Anna “but he might feel better if he tells us about them."
    "Perhaps,” returned Gupta. “Save the lad's never heard of Vivian."
    "Oh...” Rose's voice trailed away, as she no doubt visualized half a dozen possible scenarios.
    Maggie didn't need to visualize any scenarios at all. Her stomach felt hollow, as though she were riding a rapidly dropping elevator. But taking the kids and running back to London wasn't an option. They'd signed up for a course in Arthurian legend and history and that's what they were going to get, even if the syllabus included footnotes in crime and weirdness. It would all blow over soon ... Yeah, right said the part of her mind which was like a pebble in her shoe.
    "I'm off, then. Thank you,” Gupta said to everyone, without quite looking at anyone, and turned toward the door.
    "I'll see you out.” Maggie grabbed her coat and followed him out the door and across the cobbles of the courtyard. When they were past the deep shadow of the archway she asked, “So Rose is still on the hook?"
    "If I say ‘no,’ will you stop worrying yourself about it?"
    "But I'm living proof worry is effective. Ninety per cent of everything I worry about never happens."
    Gupta smiled at that. “Lovely evening,” he commented, and climbed into his car.
    That he hadn't answered her question was answer enough. Maggie stood with her arms crossed as he drove away. A scent of smoke teased the frosty wind. The lingering glow of the sunset made the sky a translucent Prussian blue. One bright light hung above the horizon, a planet or maybe even a UFO. Funny, people used to see angels and demons and now they saw UFOs. Signs and portents, oh my .
    She heard a bell ring, and again, and then again. The pure notes spread outward like ripples in a pond, seeming to still the wind and quiet the noises of the town. Was that St. Bridget's bell tolling the end of All Saints’ Day, the eve of All Souls'? That was pre-Reformation practice, but then, a lot of early rituals and symbols had been revived, to illustrate transcendence for a material and secular age.
    Maggie's shoulders loosened. The stars blossomed, one by one, as the clear peal of the bell filled the night. When it stopped the silence echoed. And then from the depths of that silence came a reply, distant music played on some subtle wind instrument. The slow lilting melody was a lament. It was a lullaby. It was unearthly and otherworldly and fingered her spine like a flute. And yet a laughing ripple of harp strings ran through it as well, and she laughed in delight.
    Then the music was gone, leaving only a resonance in her mind. A car drove by. The wind gusted so fiercely her hair blew back from her scalp and her nose tingled. Shaking her head—was it Glastonbury's reality that had