By the time they reached Mam Eira’s cottage, Edison had to confess to himself he was glad of Gavril’s help. They’d walked the length of the village, then up a steep hillside track to find the cottage with its thatched roof looking like a natural extension of the land itself.
The fence was made of mismatched branches of wood that had obviously been found and not hewn from a living tree. The garden was a mix of flowers and herbs and the trees and shrubs lining the path were strewn with charms and wind chimes. It was exquisitely rustic, even to the roses growing to form an arch over the doorway and the horseshoes nailed into it.
But along with a surprising, if vague, sense of familiarity, Edison couldn’t shake the feeling that everything he could see, even the pretty charms, served a practi
