Grail of the Summer Stars (Aetherial Tales) by Freda Warrington Page A

or rearranging displays.
    Stevie had to admit that her life was, frankly, a bit sad.
    “Thank you. That wasn’t the big favor, though.” She gave an apologetic grin. “Please can I borrow your car?”
    “What?” Fin sounded more startled than horrified.
    “His mother lives in the wilds of Derbyshire. I could go by train and taxi, but that would take forever.”
    “Fine, but, er, do you actually possess a driving license?”
    “Yes, of course. Look.” She took her purse from under the counter and produced the document. “I live over the shop, and I can walk into town or take the tram, so there’s no point in me owning a car.”
    “I know.” Fin rolled her eyes. “And since my car’s an old banger, only fit to run my kids around in—”
    “Hey, I never suggested that.”
    “I’m stating a fact. Don’t expect leather luxury. Yes, fine, when do I refuse you anything? We’ll hold the fort.” Fin passed her the keys. “Ignore the chocolate wrappers and dog hairs. My insurance should cover you … I think  … just don’t put any dents in it, okay? Any more dents.”
    “You’re my fairy godmother,” said Stevie. “Make sure Alec pulls his weight. Don’t let him sit playing with his clock all day … er, you know what I mean.”
    “Sure, and please be back in time for me collect the children—five at the latest—if you don’t want to be turned into a pumpkin,” Fin retorted cheerfully.
    *   *   *
    Frances Manifold lived in a small village called Nethervale, deep in the countryside on the Leicestershire-Derbyshire border. The drive took Stevie only an hour. It was years since she’d passed along these narrow, hedge-lined roads, but as soon as she reached the village boundary, every detail was familiar, as if she’d never left.
    She turned off the main street into a side lane that curved between a mixture of farmland, cottages, and barns converted into smart modern dwellings. A stream ran along the left-hand side. The wide, grassy bank was lined with trees. Crows cawed, high above in their leafless crowns. Presently she reached a row of old houses, each one set back in its own grounds.
    Stevie pulled in at the side of the lane. Fog hung in the air and moisture dripped from the trees, soaking the grass and asphalt beneath. The lane was deserted, the air saturated with the wintry farm smells of wet grass and manure.
    The Manifold residence was a small Georgian-style manor, poised on an incline in a walled, wooded garden. As Stevie walked up the curve of the gravel driveway, the house, with its greyish white walls and unpretentious shabbiness, woke vivid memories of Daniel.
    His father had died when Daniel was nine. Lung cancer. That was all Stevie knew. She could only guess how hard his death had hit his wife and son, because they’d rarely talked about him. Frances Manifold was not one to show emotion.
    Which was harder, Stevie wondered, losing a parent or having no family in the first place? The ache of chronic absence versus the acute pain of loss—could they even be compared?
    Her feeling of dread rose as she approached the front door. She recalled Frances Manifold as a tallish, thin, acerbic woman, with copper hair cut in a short bob. Angular and tough, she was a paleontologist and looked the part in trousers and shirt of pale khaki. Her outdoorsy clothes and air of suppressed energy had made her seem always ready for action. She was a professor at a Midlands university, but Stevie suspected she was restless in lecture halls and yearned to be out digging up fossils in the wilds.
    At their first meeting, Frances had shaken her hand, her grip powerful and bony, her eyes like those of an eagle locked on to prey.
    Stevie had felt instant admiration for this strong, educated woman, and a desire for approval. Frances, unfortunately, had not reciprocated. The moment they met, Stevie felt she had been judged and found wanting.
    Perhaps she subjected all Daniel’s friends to the same caustic