Free The Guardian Stones by Eric Reed

seemed clear. Edwin learned that it was unlucky to kill a bat and that local farm laborers, on hearing the first cuckoo of spring, celebrated by taking the day off and still tried to do so, even in wartime.
    He also recorded more tales about the Guardians, including the belief that on certain midnights they danced in a circle, but since the dates appeared to be unknown, nobody had actually seen this happen. Village children were warned, however, never to be within the circle after sunset. There was, to his delight, a children’s rhyme, or so Martha said.
    Time stands still
On Guardians Hill
Circle round
Unholy ground
The Guardians dwell
In deepest hell
Don’t go alone
Inside the stones
That surmount still
Guardians Hill
    Despite being fascinated, Edwin glanced frequently at his watch. It was now well toward midnight and he was worried about Grace.
    Finally Edwin looked up from his notebook to see that Martha had fallen asleep, her head against the back of the chair, halo of white hair spread out over the antimacassar, sparrow’s beak of a nose pointed toward the ceiling.
    His gaze fell on the photograph of Grace’s mother, so like her daughter. Taken around the same age, he guessed. Early twenties. Why was she absent? Had she died? Asking Grace would be rude. It was none of his business. He didn’t see any photo of Grace’s father.
    The front door opened and Grace stepped into the room.
    She looked haggard and distressed.
    â€œWhat is it?” Edwin asked.
    â€œWe’ve been out searching again. It’s Reggie Cox this time. The crippled boy who’s staying with Susannah Radbone. Now he’s vanished, too.”

Chapter Twelve
    Sunday June 15, 1941
    If Reggie Cox was limping along a road or railway line on his way back to Birmingham, he would be very damp and cold on this Sunday morning, thought Reverend Timothy Wilson. Grace had arrived early, while Wilson was lighting the lamps, to tell him about the crippled boy’s disappearance.
    A heavy fog clung to Noddweir, swirling against windows and concealing the forest. His parishioners shook moisture off their hats as they entered the Church of Saint Winnoc. If Reggie had any sense he would have taken refuge in a barn until the sun came out. Then again, if he had any sense he wouldn’t have even thought about fleeing on foot with one leg in a metal brace.
    Wilson brought out extra lamps. Their flickering light animated the stained glass window behind the altar—Saint Winnoc grinding corn in a hand mill. Grey daylight struggled in through the remaining windows. The altar flowers he had hurriedly arranged without Issy’s assistance this week looked washed out in the dull light, but their scent was strong. The stone-flagged floor chilled the air. Despite the miserable weather, the church was unusually full.
    Under the circumstances, was it surprising?
    He surveyed his congregation.
    Susannah Radbone sat with a pale and dazed Emily Miller near the front. He guessed Susannah, a notorious skeptic, was present as a kind gesture to Emily. She had once told him bluntly that she did not expect to see the inside of his church until her funeral, and only then in a metaphorical sense. Wilson could not imagine she had come to seek divine aid on behalf of Emily or her own vanished evacuee lodger, let alone to seek solace for herself.
    Then again, he had observed soldiers who, after an artillery barrage, found God amid the scattered remains of their colleagues.
    And there was Joe Haywood, a broad-shouldered presence huddled in a great-coat, who had not set foot in church either. He sat alone at the far end of a back pew. No one wanted to be seen with him, at least not in church. Who could he be here for, except himself?
    The Wainmans, also largely absent from services, sat in front of Haywood. Louisa’s plain, weathered face wore an angry expression and rubicund Harry looked apprehensive. Marriage trouble, or losing three young farm