“Stay still,” instructed Evangeline, moving on to Susan. “I can knit the bone, and take some of the pain away, but you will need a sling for a few days and it will hurt. You’ll need to take some aspirin.”
“Thank you,” said Susan as Evangeline rested her right hand very lightly on her clavicle. “Could you . . . can you also tell if . . . if the cauldron has . . . has done anything to me?”
Evangeline took a breath and held it for several long seconds, the glow from her hand painting Susan’s anxious face silver. When she exhaled, the old bookseller smiled gently.
“You are what you have always been, child of Ancient Sovereign and mortal,” she said. “The cauldron has made you no more, and no less. But you have a rare heritage. I do not think anyone can tell you all the ins and outs of it. Our Grail-Keeper, perhaps, or your father. Though as I think you already know, though they may take human shape, they do not necessarily think or act as we do, and communication with them is rarely easy.”
“I will have to take the cauldron back to Dad,” said Susan. She moved her arm a little. It hurt far less, but it still hurt. “I hope you’ll allow me to do that?”
“We will help you,” said Evangeline. “Your father kept it hidden for close to two thousand years, after all, and short of breaking it—which we would not do save in direst need, for fear of unintended consequences—it is far better in his hands than any others. But for the time being, if you do not object, we shall store it with our other treasures in the New Bookshop. I suspect Grandmother will like to see it again, for one thing. And as your father has retired, I believe, until the end of the year, there is no point returning it any sooner to Coniston. But right now, both of you young people need to be taken to hospital—”
“Actually, Great-Aunt,” interrupted Merlin, talking swiftly and exerting all his charm. “I was wondering if we could put Susan up at the Northumberland because she can’t go back to Greene’s safe house anyway. You know those adjoining suites on the top floor, perhaps I could have one as well, temporarily of course, while I recuperate—”
“Merlin,” interrupted Susan. She looked at him fondly, then over to Inspector Greene and Una, who had come over to scowl down at them both, as if they expected to see them mortally wounded, and together would have to do the paperwork to explain this fact to sundry secular powers. Though there had already been a discussion along the lines of the vicar’s serendipitous comment, that maybe it could all be explained as a big budget film shoot that had gotten out of control.
“Merlin,” repeated Susan. “I’m going to take the advice I was given when I first got here, and go home to my mum.”
Merlin’s face fell, his expression equally disbelieving that his charms had been so comprehensively rebuffed, and shattered because he truly did care for her.
Susan enjoyed this for a very brief moment before she added, “Only for a week or two, until I’ve recovered. And I’d like you to come with me.”
“She got you good, brother,” said Vivien admiringly, as Susan and Merlin kissed.
Epilogue
THE BROOK BURBLED LOUDER AS THE TAXI DROVE UP AND SWUNG around in the graveled parking area in front of the farmhouse. It was a black cab, a London one at that, which was highly unusual here, close to Bath. The crows on the chimney of the barn Jassmine used as a studio eyed the vehicle askance, and several small stones rolled down the hill where the earth shivered, as if it was about to move more weightily.
But the entities of water, air, and earth settled back with a collective sigh of relief as Susan got out of the back of the cab, away from the mass of shielding iron. It was not a sigh that could be heard or seen by ordinary mortals, but Susan felt it, and looked to the brook and the ravens and up the hill, and waved to each in turn, before leaning back in to get Merlin’s crutches out of the car. He edged out gingerly after them, and took the crutches from her, got himself up and balanced, and slowly moved from the graveled car park to the flagstoned path leading to the front door.
Susan was wearing a new blue boiler suit, another one exactly her size being found easily, much to Merlin’s surprise. He had adopted a dashing ensemble he was sure would impress Susan’s mother, a pale blue long-sleeved shirt with ruffled cuffs, a Black Watch kilt, and despite Susan’s frowns he’d cross-gartered dark green ribbons over the bandages that ran from ankle to knee, above carpet slippers, also in tartan. The ubiquitous tie-dyed yak-hair bag was over his shoulder, where it annoyingly swung against his crutches every now and then.
Audrey got out and removed Susan’s backpack and Merlin’s suitcase that had perhaps once been Noël Coward’s out, and four cardboard book boxes. These had handwritten labels in bold marker pen over the publishing house logos: “Sayers-Allingham-Marsh-Christie,” “Vivien’s Recs—None too difficult for Merlin,” “Rare Edns, We Want These Back,” and “Best Novels in English and Translation 1920–1950.” As soon as she had stacked the boxes up, Mister Nimbus jumped up on top and surveyed what might be his new territory, though he did incline his head to the ravens, suggesting he had the wisdom to share.
“Meter says two hundred and sixty pounds,” said Audrey cheerfully. “But I’ll settle for a cuppa char before I go back.”
“You can have several,” promised Susan. “And probably some cake, or at least biscuits. It rather depends on what Mum’s been—”
“Susan!”
Jassmine came flying out the farmhouse door, struggling to take off her painting smock to show the vintage violet silk dress beneath but succeeding only in breaking the necklace she wore, sending beads spraying everywhere. She laughed and let the smock fall, enfolding Susan in a careful embrace that avoided her slung-up arm and shoulder.
“My shoulder’s a lot better,” said Susan, forestalling Jassmine’s question. “Mum, this is Merlin. Merlin, this is Jassmine.”
“Oh, poor Lenny,” said Jassmine, staring at Merlin appreciatively. “Though I did hear he’s already taken up with Kerry O’Neill. She plays clarinet, you know.”
“Does she?” asked Merlin blandly. “I understand clarinet goes very well with the French horn.”
“It does, doesn’t it,” said Jassmine.
“And this is Merlin’s aunt Audrey,” said Susan. “Who was kind enough to drive us here.”
“Delighted to meet you, Jassmine,” said Audrey, without a trace of Cockney at all. She offered her hand, but it was not the bare right that Jassmine looked at, but the gloved left. She hadn’t noticed Merlin’s, because he was gripping his crutches and leaning forward.
“Oh,” she said faintly, stepping back. “You’re one of those booksellers. Like the one . . . the one . . .”
“No, not like Merrihew,” said Susan quickly, taking her mother’s arm. “Merrihew was a . . . a . . .”
“Traitor,” said Merlin bleakly. “And we will do everything we can to try to make amends for what she did.”
“I didn’t remember,” said Jassmine slowly. She had a faraway look in her eyes, but also seemed to Susan to have come more into herself, to be fully present, always a rare occurrence in the past. “I couldn’t remember . . . but a few days ago it started coming back. . . .”