Page 10 of A Rare Find

“Elf,” muttered Georgie.

“Is the name derived from her appearance? She looks supremely elf-like.”

“How’s that?” Georgie snorted. “She looks…”

Dark eyes that could drown the sun. Elf always seemed on the verge of a frown. It was the shape of her lips. They had a downward turn. Coaxing them into a new shape would make for a challenge. One might start with a featherlight touch. Trace their outline with a fingertip. And then—

“She looks…” prompted Anne.

“She looks like she looks,” finished Georgie, with a scowl. “Her name is Elfreda. Hence Elf. I say it to annoy her. No one else calls her that.”

“I see,” murmured Anne. “A pet name. Something just between the two of you.”

Georgie examined Anne’s profile suspiciously. A dimple dented her cheek. “It’s not like that.”

“Of course not.”

“She’s not like us.”

“Of course not,” said Anne. And then: “How can you be sure?”

“I’m sure.” Georgie wasn’t sure. It was maddening. “I’m sure. And it doesn’t matter. She hates me.”

“She seemed to.”

“I hate her.”

“Mm.”

They’d reached the part of the lane enclosed by hedges.

“Is that where we came in?” asked Anne, pointing to a gap. “I squeeze through there, get back to that boulder, and then I’ll see the path to the pond?”

“Why are you asking me?”

Anne swung around and caught Georgie by the biceps. They stood like that, face-to-face. Anne wore a tiny smile.

“Because I don’t want to wander in circles while you convince your elfin queen to forgive you.”

“Ha,” said Georgie.

Anne let go. “I’m sure you’ll succeed. You usually do.”

Georgie gave a groan and half turned, looking down the lane. Back and forth, again, and for what?

The hedges rustled with country birds. And with Anne, slipping away, leaving Georgie alone with their thoughts.

4

Elfreda was halfway home when she spied Papa striding through the park.

“Look what Clutterbuck gave me!” He gesticulated wildly as she approached, something tiny pinched between his fingers. “A halved penny struck in the name of Empress Matilda. The pompous arse discovered a buried pot packed with coins from the Anarchy, near Watford. He wanted to rub it in that I wasn’t invited to the Watford excavation, or to Llangollen.”

“Perhaps he gave it to you because of Matilda,” suggested Elfreda, trotting to keep up.

“Matilda?” Papa stopped short, thunder on his brow.

“Your daughter. Matilda. He is the twins’ godfather, after all. Perhaps he meant it for her.”