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it. I go back now to my lord Arthur, with the Signs, and the power of the Circle which only they can call.”
    He held out his hand, barely visible in the star-washed darkness, and Will gave him the linked belt of crossed circles, gold and crystal and stone glittering between dark wood, bronze, iron.
    â€œGo well, Merriman,” he said quietly.
    â€œGo well, Will Stanton,” Merriman said, his voice tight with strain. “Into your own place, at this Midsummer hour, where affairs will take you in the direction you must go. And we will strive at our separate tasks across the centuries, through the waves of time, touching and parting, parting and touching in the pool that whirls forever. And I shall be with you before long.”
    He raised an arm, and he was gone, and the stars spun and the night whirled about, and Will was standing moonlit in the hall of his home, his hand on the frame of a sepia Victorian print that showed the Romans building an amphitheatre at Caerleon.

•  
Midsummer Day
  •
    At a triumphant trot Will mowed the last patch of grass, and collapsed, panting draped over the lawn-mower handle. Sweat was trickling down the side of his nose, and his bare chest was damp, speckled with tiny cut stems of grass.
    â€œOuf! It’s even hotter than yesterday!”
    â€œSundays,” James said, “are always hotter than Saturdays. Especially if you live in a village with a small stuffy church. James Stanton’s Law, you can call that.”
    â€œGo on,” said Stephen, passing with his hands full of twine and clippers. “It wasn’t that bad. And for two horrible little boys you still sound pretty angelic in the choir.” He dodged neatly as Will flung a fistful of grass cuttings.
    â€œI shan’t be there much longer,” James said, with some pride. I’m breaking. Did you hear me croak in the canticle?”
    â€œYou’ll be back,” Will said. “Tenor. Bet you.”
    â€œI suppose so. That’s what Paul says too.”
    â€œHe’s practising. Listen!”
    Distant as a fading dream, from inside the house the soft clear tone of a flute rippled up and down in scales and arpeggios; it seemed as much a part of the hot still afternoon as the bees humming in the lupins and the sweet smell of the new-cut grass. Then the scales gave way to a long lovely flow of melody, repeated again and again. Halfway across the lawn Stephen stood caught into stillness, listening.
    â€œMy God, he’s good, isn’t he? What is that?”
    â€œMozart, First Flute Concerto,” Will said. “He’s playing it with the N.Y.O. this autumn.”
    â€œN.Y.O.?”
    â€œNational Youth Orchestra. You remember. He was in it for years, even before he went to the Academy.”
    â€œI suppose I do. I’ve been away so long….”
    â€œIt’s a big honour, that concert,” James said. “At the Festival Hall, no less. Didn’t Paul tell you?”
    â€œYou know Paul. Old Modesty. That’s a lovely-sounding flute he’s got now, too. Even I can tell.
    â€œMiss Greythorne gave it to him, two Christmases ago,” said Will. “From the Manor. There’s a collection that her father made, she showed us.”
    â€œMiss Greythorne…. Good Lord, that takes me back. Sharp wits, sharp tongue—I bet she hasn’t changed a bit.”
    Will smiled. “She never will.”
    â€œShe caught me up her almond tree once when I was a kid,” Stephen said, grinning reminiscently. “I came climbing down and there she was out of nowhere, in her wheelchair. Even though she hated anyone seeing that wheelchair. ‘Only monkeys eat my nuts, young man,’ she said—I can still hear her—‘and you‘ll not even make a powder monkey, at your age.’”
    â€œPowder monkey?” James said.
    â€œBoys in the Navy in Nelson’s day—they used to fetch the