“Oh, you’re just a couple hundred meters down Springs Lane from Fosse.”
That was news to her. With the circles she’d run in, she could have been halfway to Oxford for all she knew.
Crossing under the two yew trees (still no sign saying, “Speak, friend, and enter”), she fit the key into the curiously modern lock. A skeleton key on a leather thong would be more appropriate. But the lock clicked easily and she was in.
The cottage was unfurnished. The floor was dark hardwood and softly uneven with centuries of wear. She’d been right, the corner turret was barely big enough for a small table to hold a bouquet of flowers, but it flooded the room with light. The main room had a massive stone fireplace. The lighting fixtures were tastelessly too modern and the kitchen and other amenities too an
