“We saw your man on the corner,” said Heather. “Harry, is it?”

The man nodded. “Don’t see many people around here this time of year.”

“You work out here by yourself?”

Harry Bozen-Smith shrugged. “Live out here, really, at the moment. Did you want to look at my work?”

Nikki nodded and stepped up to follow him, while Heather battled a sinking feeling—she’d been to enough final shows at art colleges to dread this sort of thing, but when he led them around the back of the caravan, she was pleasantly surprised. There was a small awning attached to the caravan, and underneath were a series of shapes and figures, all pieced together from junk or unidentifiable pieces of metal. She saw a great copper hare, his eye a shining bicycle light, and a crowd of bats, their tight formation held together by pieces of wire. The most striking piece was a great snarling wolf made of silver and black metal. Heather leaned down to look more closely, and caught sight of her reflection in its shining flank. I know what you are, and I think you do too. She looked away hurriedly.

Nikki knelt to examine a crow more closely—the black metal had been treated with oil somehow, so that its feathers shone rainbow-like even in the shadows.

“This is incredible,” she said. “You take your inspiration from the landscape?”

Harry beamed, his hands in his pockets. “I do. This place …” he looked away, across the field. “This place is full of strangeness.”

“We’re trying to find out more about it, actually,” said Heather. “Do you know much of the history of Fiddler’s Mill?” She tucked a stray bit of hair behind her ear; the wind was picking up, and the awning caught the flat sound of the first few drops of rain. “We met a chap yesterday who said there’s a haunted field around here somewhere.”

“There is, that’s true. I’ve been there. I didn’t see any ghosts …” Heather glanced at him, but couldn’t tell if he was joking. “Some powerful energies though. Very powerful.”

“And there was the hippy commune up at Fiddler’s Mill House. Did you hear about that?”

Harry straightened up. For the first time, Heather thought to wonder at his bare arms—it was hardly a warm day.

“You know that’s infamous around here.” He grinned. “I grew up in the little village down the road, and my mum used to talk about it with the neighbors when I were a lad. Enough scandal to keep them talking for decades.”

Nikki returned his smile. “Scandal? Do tell.”

“Oh, you know.” Harry shrugged. “Nothing especially scandalous to people from London, I’ll bet, but up here? Drugs and drinking and loose women. I always preferred my nana’s stories about Fiddler’s Mill—she was more about ghosts and that, fairies and witches, you know. I always …”

His words were lost in a gust of wind, and the pair of them shuffled further under the awning.

“Sorry?” Heather nodded encouragingly. “Please, local folklore is a special interest of mine.”