17. Death of a WitchFer watched nervously as Johnny plucked at his guitar. He was holding it close to his ear, tuning its six strings.
“It's not very loud,” said Fer.
“It's an electric guitar. Not a lot of opportunity for massive amplification on top of a hill in Somerset.”
“So will it work?”
“Did last time. I can still play. Just quietly.”
“And you're sure this is the right spot?”
“I'm sure. Look at it. It's like Avalon down there.”
She didn't recognize the name, but she thought she understood what he meant. A sea of early-morning mist, delicate as a dream, washed over the flat, green land all around them. Here and there, the tops of round hills or the peaks of spires peeped through. The sun, rising in the east, touched everything to gold. They stood with their backs to a stone kee
