Patti nods approvingly. ‘The weaving together of two substances to form a third,’ she says. ‘It’s a powerful magick.’ Melanie can hear the final ‘k’ in her intonation.

She twists the elder and oxeye daisies into the willow, knotting them individually round the base and winding them tight.

Pete makes a wand, choosing a rowan branch and stripping the leaves from its length.

Mel tests her crown on her head.

‘It’s good,’ says the woman plaiting hair. ‘Very natural.’

The afternoon is hot. Mel rolls up her sleeves to the shoulders and loosens the buttons at the top and bottom of her dress. Pete rolls his jeans to the calf. They lie on the grass. The rainbow girl, minus her jumper, in a white short-sleeved T-shirt, begins to strum a guitar.

The redhead now has a thick rope of hair coiled around her head, studded with grasses and barley and clouds of blue and white flowers.

They watch the line for the beer tent, which shows no sign of abating. Pete takes their cups and goes off to queue.

A side of Morris men has started up just past the hay bales, jumping in the air to clash batons and hit each other with bladders. It looks too energetic for the heat.

Turquoise Boy and Little Boy Blue stroll past, Little Boy Blue eating something from a paper bag.

The barman appears at the fireside. He’s taken off his pelt and jester’s hat, revealing collar-length fair hair turning to grey, and wears a garland of wild flowers over his motley. He is carrying an army kitbag and a metal stockpot.

‘Patti,’ he says.

‘Chris,’ says Patti.

He crouches down, takes a stick, checks it over and stokes the bonfire with it.

He rubs his hands and holds them to the heat.

He looks up at Mel. ‘It’s a good crown,’ he says. ‘Isn’t it, Patti?’

Mel straightens it on her head.

‘Oh yes,’ says Patti. ‘It’s a good ’un.’

‘Where’s that man of yours?’ he says to Mel.

‘Getting drinks.’

He lies down on his side and props his head on his hand. She notices his britches are inside out.

‘Gonna get that cauldron on, Chris?’ says Patti.

‘In good time,’ he says. Then, to the cross-legged plump woman, ‘Chuck us some willow, Becky.’

She does so, placidly, and he winds it into a crown, looking at Mel all the while.

‘Don’t fall asleep wearing that one,’ he says to her.

‘Why?’

He stretches out a hand and touches it.

‘Made of elder. The aos sí’ll have you.’ He looks up. ‘Hello mate.’

Pete puts a quart bottle of cider down on the ground. ‘Hello,’ he says.

Chris sits up.

‘Cider?’ says Pete. ‘Have you got a cup?’

Chris pulls a plastic one out of his kitbag. ‘Just a bit,’ he says, as Pete shares the bottle into thirds.

Pete lies on the ground beside Mel, propped on an elbow.