She stepped into a warm and inviting room. A long, polished oak bar ran almost the whole length of one wall, and the matching beam above it was decorated with horse brasses. A fire was burning in a huge fireplace at the far end. The girl with the wild blond hair was standing behind the bar, talking to the old man and a couple of young men in mud-spattered work overalls. The low murmur of conversation in Welsh ceased the moment the stranger was noticed.
“Can I help you, miss?” the girl asked in lilting English.
Emmy joined the men at the bar. “Sure. What beer do folks drink around here?”
“That would be Robinson’s,” the girl answered. “Although some like their Guinness or a Brains, even though it comes from South Wales. I don’t know why we stock it, personally.”
“Weak as water,” the old man muttered.
“Okay. I’ll take a half-pint of Robinson’s then.”
The barmaid glanced at the men. She was looking distinctly uncomfortable. “I’m sorry, but ladies usually drink in the lounge, if you don’t mind. Why don’t you go through and I’ll take your order.”
“Okay.” Emmy managed a smile. This wasn’t an occasion for making waves. “Would you mind directing me to the lounge?”
“It’s through that doorway.”
Emmy went through the open archway and found herself in a much colder room dotted with several polished wood tables and leather-upholstered chairs. There was a fireplace in this room too, but the fire wasn’t alight. Along one wall there was a long oak bar. Emmy was amused to realize it was the back of the same bar where the men were standing. The girl with the hair had turned to face her.
“Found it all right, did you then?”
“Is this some sort of law in Wales?” Emmy asked. “The women in one bar and the men in the other, I mean.”
“Oh, no,” the barmaid said. “Not the law exactly. It’s just the way it’s always been, isn’t it? And the men don’t feel they can chat properly when there are ladies present. They might use bad language or want to tell a joke.”
Emmy smiled at the quaintness. “So the ladies sit alone in here and discuss knitting patterns?”
“To tell you the truth, the ladies don’t come to the pub very often on their own. And if they’re with their man, why then they all sit together in the lounge.” She turned back to the elderly man leaning on the bar. “Isn’t that right, Charlie? I was saying that women don’t come to the pub much on their own.”
“They don’t come much at all,” Charlie replied, “seeing as we’re usually here around the time when they have to be home, cooking our dinners. Besides, most women don’t like the taste of beer. My Mair says she’d rather drink medicine.”
The barmaid had finished drawing the half-pint and put it in front of Emmy. “That will be one pound, miss, if you don’t mind.”
Emmy got out the coin and put it on the counter. “Thanks. Well, cheers then. How do you say ‘cheers’ in Welsh?”
“Iyched da,” Charlie and the other men said in chorus.
“Yacky dah?” Emmy tried it, stumbling over the pronunciation, and making them all laugh.
“We shouldn’t leave her all alone in that cold old lounge,” one of the young men suggested. “It wouldn’t do any harm to have her come and drink with us.”
Emmy noted the muscles bulging through the threadbare T-shirt and the unruly dark hair. Not bad, she decided. This assignment may have hidden perks.
“Harry wouldn’t like it,” the barmaid said firmly. “Besides, she wouldn’t want to hear the kind of language you use sometimes, Barry-the-Bucket—it would make her blush, the kind of things you say.”
“Me? When do I ever say something that makes you blush, Betsy fach?”
“Well, I’m used to it, aren’t I? I have to put up with you all the time.”
She turned back to Emmy with an apologetic smile. “Don’t mind him, miss.”
“What did you call him?” Emmy asked, fascinated.
“Barry-the-Bucket, on account of he drives the bulldozer with that big scooper thing in the front.”
“Barry-the-Bucket. I like that.”
The men were now all leaning on the bar, watching Emmy with interest as she took a long swig of her beer. She was tempted to drain the glass in one go, as she had learned to do in college, but it was important that she create the right image. She took one swig, put the glass down, and smiled at them. “It’s good,” she said. “Nice and full-bodied.”
“You like beer, then, do you?” Barry asked her. “Do they drink beer in America? It is America you come from, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. Pennsylvania. And we drink quite a bit of beer, although you’d probably find it too weak and cold.”
“That very pale stuff, fizzy like lemonade. I had some once. Bud—wasn’t it?”
Barry turned to his mate, who nodded agreement.
“Here on holiday, are you, miss?” Charlie asked.
Emmy noted with amusement that apparently it was okay if the men talked to her through the bar—rather like a convent with a grille, she decided. “Actually, I’m here to do research,” she said. “I’m a grad student at the University of Pennsylvania, doing a Ph.D. in psychology, and my thesis is on psychic ability.”
“Fancy!” The barmaid gave the men an impressed glance.
Emmy had worked on the speech long enough and now the words flowed out easily. He’d be pleased with how it was going so far. “I’m over here because Celts were famous for their psychic abilities. If there are any pure-blooded Celts left, it would have to be in an area like this. So I’m here to look for anyone with psychic power.”
“Like reading the tea leaves, that kind of thing, you mean?” The barmaid leaned forward, eagerly.
“Yeah, that kind of thing. Seeing the future, having prophetic dreams, sensing danger—the ancient Druids supposedly possessed all of those abilities.”
“Pity my old nain passed away a couple of years ago,” the barmaid said.
“Nine what?” Emmy was puzzled. She knew that nine was a significant number in Celtic mythology, but …
“Nain—oh sorry, I mean my grandmother. Nain’s how we say it in Welsh. I get mixed up sometimes.”
“So your grandma was psychic?”
“Oh, indeed she was, wasn’t she, Charlie?” Betsy turned to the older man. “She even saw the Derin Corff a couple of times, or was it the Cannwyll Corff?”
“What are they?” Emmy got out her notebook and started scribbling.
“Well, the Derin Corff is the bird of death and the Cannwyll Corff is the candle of death. They’re the same really—you see them when somebody’s about to die.”
“Fascinating,” Emmy said. “And your grandma saw them?”
“Oh, she did. I remember she came home late one night and she said to us, ‘Huw Lloyd won’t last the night. There was the Derin Corff perched on his shed roof.’”
“That was probably only the Lloyd’s old rooster,” Barry-the-Bucket commented, chuckling.
“You be quiet, Barry,” Betsy said and slapped his hand. “Whatever it was, she was right. Huw was gone by morning. And so was the thing she saw on the rooftop.” She shuddered. “It still gives me goose bumps to think of it. And she was a dab hand at reading the tea leaves too, was my nain.”
“Did she ever tell you that you’d go out with a good-looking bloke from the village this Saturday night?” Barry asked, leaning across the counter until his face was close to hers.
“Yes, but Constable Evans hasn’t asked me yet,” Betsy replied smoothly. “Even though I’ve given him enough hints.”
The older man chuckled. “She’s the match of you, boyo.”
“And she’s wasting her time mooning over Evan Evans,” Barry replied with a sniff.
“I don’t see why.” Betsy’s gaze was challenging.