Free Circle of Stones by Catherine Fisher

sunset the wind was almost a gale. Banks of dark cloud were building up on the horizon; as I packed the equipment I watched them anxiously. “We should go. There will be a storm.”
    â€œSoon, Zac.” He was scrabbling in the mud with a small trowel.
    I wrapped my arms about me & began to pace to & fro, my feet frozen to numbness. Then I crossed to the smaller circle. It was certainly easier to see its shape & the avenue that led to it. Nine or ten vast stones remained, & I climbed up on the fallen one, feeling the gritty surface splotched with its powdery lichens. A tree grew next to it, a great oak tree, huge and strong. The gale was sending its leaves down in showers of copper & bronze. I picked up an acorn from the ground & held it in my gloved hand, wondering at the extraordinary way each tree has its own shape, its own design.
    â€œMusing on time, Zac?” Forrest was watching me, his steady eyes calm.
    I tossed the acorn & put it in my pocket. “Only on the time when we’ll get something to eat.”
    He nodded, a little sadly. “Ah yes. I’m sorry. I get caught up in the excitement of such places. And it is so apt for this tree to be here, because the oak is the druids’ holy tree, did you know that? But it’s raining, & you’re very wet. Come on. The inn’s delights await us.”
    I trudged after him. More extraordinary than the acorn is a man who can find stones in a muddy field a place of excitement. As I shouldered the bag of tools I let the ache of self-pity come over me—a thing I try to avoid usually, because it has no purpose. And yet there is a sort of pleasure in it. I thought of home, my mother’s room, with the warm fire & my two sisters sitting beside it, probably reading or sewing or doing all the useless things girls do.
    And in the study along the corridor my father would be standing by the window gazing out on the rainy park, perhaps with a glass of wine in his hand, sighing over his sold paintings & his auctioned racehorses. And his son who must learn a trade.
    A son shouldn’t despise his father. And perhaps I love him still. But like Forrest, my disappointment is still bitter, & I do not have his crazy dreams of the perfect city to help me forget.
    The inn was another tragedy. I had expected at least a posting house, with some bustle & coaches, but it was a slipshod pig-poke of a place, the thatch sliding from its eaves, & only a bare room inside with a few settles, stinking of ale & worse things. But the fire roared, & I went straight to it.
    Forrest warmed his hands too, pulling off gloves and coat. Then he called, “Mistress? Your guests are hungry.”
    The woman who came out of the kitchen was as ample as I had ever seen. Greasy as she was from the spit, she flung her arms around him with a scream of joy that embarrassed him mightily.
    â€œMaster Forrest! So hale you look! And this—is this your son, sir? The picture of you.”
    I don’t which of us was more offended. Me, probably, because Forrest just laughed. “No, Luce, this is not my son. Jack is abroad, studying architecture in Italy. This is Master Stoke, my assistant.”
    I bowed. She gave me a straight look. “A fine gennleman to be sure.”
    Forrest smiled. “We’d like a room, Luce, & something hot. Just for tonight.” He took her aside, speaking quietly.
    I turned, glowering into the fire. It was barely possible to understand the speech of these people, but I had seen enough. I was a stranger & would always be a stranger. Well, I could live with that.
    I went up to the room to wash & found it an attic under the eaves, with three beds, but I prayed only Forrest & I would have to share it. Another snoring oaf would be too much. But who else would visit here? I poured out a little cold water & got the worst of the mud from my hands & face, then changed my shirt & coat. I wished I had other boots, but these would have to do. By the