“We are going to be so busy.” Maggie rubbed her forehead. “The twenty-first is going to be a nightmare day. Where are we on the running order for that?” She looked at Star, who put down the loupe she’d been using to date a gold mourning ring—complete with a lock of the deceased’s hair visible beneath a cabochon crystal—and picked up her phone.
“Do you actually know what you’re doing with that thing?” Maggie asked, motioning to the loupe, which Star had taken to wearing permanently around her neck.
“As a matter of fact, I do.” She touched the loupe, smiling. “It’s easy once you know how. Duncan is a very good teacher.”
“It’s not that easy at all,” Duncan interjected. “She’s being modest. I’ve never known anyone to pick it all up so quickly! I show her how to do something once and she’s got it.” His expression was one of a man well and truly smitten.
“Oh my god, these two.” Simone gave Maggie a pained look. “It’s like being in an episode of The Brady Bunch. They’re nice to each other all day long.”
“Maybe some of it will rub off on you.” Star poked her tongue out at her sister, who poked hers right back.
“Star’s a natural,” Duncan continued, clearly not finished gushing. “She has a great eye for antiques. I’m serious, Sotheby’s would snap her up.”
“Patience North would be proud,” said Simone. “Genuinely,” she added for clarification.
“Forget Patience—I’m proud,” added Maggie.
Star flushed a deep pink and concentrated on her phone. “Okay.” She cleared her throat and read from the screen. “Everyone to assemble in the garden at four p.m. for bonfire lighting. I think we need professionals for this; you know, safety and whatnot. Then over to the marquee at four thirtyish. Allow two to three hours for the banquet. Then the procession with some wassailing around the trees and a bit of a singsong, which ends up in the pubs and we all get pissed and go to bed.”
“Good call. Simone?”
“On it.” Simone tapped something into her spreadsheet. “On my way to get the posters printed I’ll drop in and ask Betty if she knows anyone who’s good with fire; there must be at least one qualified pyromaniac in the village.”
Maggie nodded. “If we’re going to have a proper bonfire to dance around, we really ought to start collecting things we can burn; otherwise we’ll be cavorting around a wastepaper bin.”
“I’ll add it to the spreadsheet.” Simone began tapping away at her keyboard again.
“So, I was thinking, how great would it be if we booked a folk band for the evening? Someone who knows all the old songs?” said Star.
“Oh my gosh, that would be perfect!” Maggie was beginning to picture how all this would look. A folk band with fiddles and tambourines would definitely fit with what she had in mind. “But I’m not sure we can afford to hire a band.”
“I used to date a guy in a traveling folk band,” said Star.
“Of course you did,” butted in Simone, but she was smiling.
Star didn’t skip a beat. “They were really good. I was thinking, if I could track him down, maybe we could ask the band to play at the festival.” At his desk, Duncan winced ever so slightly. “When I knew them, they pretty much played for food and drinks.”
“Now that we can do.” Maggie smiled. “We’ll be feeding the five thousand anyway; a few more mouths won’t make a dent.”
“Great, I’ll get right on it.” Star smiled and scribbled on a notepad.
“I don’t want to jinx it, but it’s starting to sound like we have a plan!” said Simone.
Maggie rubbed her head again and let out a puff of breath. “There’s still a hell of a lot to organize until the get-pissed-and-go-to-bed part.”
“It’ll be fine.” Star waved a flippant hand.
“Can I ask, what exactly is wassailing?” asked Duncan, looking up from the ledger. “It sounds like we’ll be doing a lot of it; I just what want to be clear on what I’m getting into. If wassail is like mulled cider, is wassailing just the act of glugging it back?”
“I’ll hand you over to our resident hippie,” Simone said, without making it sound at all like an insult.
Star picked up the mantle and began explaining.
“So, traditionally people wassailed—sang and danced—around orchards to frighten off the bad spirits who caused bad harvests and to entice the good ones, who bring protection and plentiful crops. Kind of like a blessing ceremony with hot alcohol. For some communities, wassailing was more like caroling, going from door to door and singing and toasting the neighbors. But I think because Rowan Thorp was always a rural community, our ancestors probably did the former, to ensure a plentiful harvest.”
Simone lifted one eyebrow as though marginally impressed.
“I can see how that would make sense,” said Duncan. “It’s like hedging your bets.”
“Exactly,” agreed Star. “And you can get drunk while you’re doing it, so it’s a win-win. And also, why wouldn’t you? I mean, in the days before electricity when the winter nights must have seemed interminable, it would have been lovely to have a big party with singing and dancing and booze.”
“As a historian of sorts, I am very much looking forward to being immersed in my first pagan ritual.” Duncan looked genuinely excited.
“I’d be looking forward to it a lot more if we weren’t organizing it,” said Maggie glibly.
“Give us a list, and Star and I will go to the cash and carry and get a head start on provisions,” Simone said. It was evident that Maggie was beginning to spiral. “You go back to work and leave this with us.”
“Are you sure?”
“Maggie, there’s no point in us being here if you’re just going to keep doing everything by yourself.”
“Simone’s right. We’re not juggling jobs and kids and sexy grocers.” Star gave a wink. “Let us help you.”
* * *
Two hours later, having tapped Vanessa up for a chunk of cash from the solstice kitty, Star and Simone emerged from the sliding doors of the cash and carry pushing a flatbed trolley loaded with enough birdseed to feed all the robins in southeast England and enough mixed nuts to satisfy all the vegetarians in the same catchment.
When the boot was fully loaded, they started back toward Rowan Thorp.
“Evette called me to ask if I was serious about being a surrogate,” Star said.
“Did she? When?”
“Last night. She was worried that I was being flippant with your feelings.”
“Sorry. She can be overprotective.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’m glad she is. It means she’s looking out for you and that makes me happy.”
“Who looks out for you?”
“Oh, I look out for myself. I am quite self-sufficient.”
They were tootling along behind a tractor they’d encountered almost as soon as they’d left the main roads. Simone was keeping her distance after a stone had flicked up out of one of its huge wheels and chipped the corner of her windscreen.