Chapter 12: Squares and Maypoles“All set for Saturday?” Zachary was leaning against the scarred turquoise benchtop in the café. Where the hell was John? It was almost opening time—Jen had grudgingly let him in when she’d seen him waiting. She hadn’t looked as disappointed this time, though.
“It’s always the nettles that worry me.” She wiped her hands on the apron and smiled over at Luke, who had put away his tablet in favour of eating some breakfast.
“Who’s picking them?” Zachary’s mother had often picked nettles for the Walpurgis celebrations; whether she still did, he didn’t know. So far, he’d managed not to run into either of his parents, but that miracle wouldn’t last long.
“That’s what worries me. Many have said they’ll see what they can do, but no one has said for certain they’ll
