“You know very well why. You let Bronwen Price get a hold on him, didn’t you? You’ll not shake him loose from her now.”
“We’ll have to see about that, won’t we?” Betsy smoothed down her tight sweater. “I’m going to get my chance someday, and then I’ll show him what he’s been missing—even if I do have to push Bronwen-Bloody-Price off a mountain first!”
The men laughed and so did Betsy. Then she seemed to remember Emmy standing alone at the other bar and turned back to her. “Sorry, miss. Don’t mind them. Always teasing me, they are, because I’ve got my heart set on our local policeman.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Emmy said. “So tell me about your grandma seeing the future, Betsy. That is your name, isn’t it?”
“That’s right, miss. Betsy Edwards.”
“Hi, Betsy, I’m Emmy.” She held out her hand and Betsy took it awkwardly. “So go on about your grandma.”
“Well, she was well known in the village for having the sight, wasn’t she, Charlie?”
“She was,” Charlie agreed. “If she dreamed something was going to happen, then it did.”
“Wonderful.” Emmy beamed at them. “You haven’t inherited her talent by any chance?”
“Me?” Betsy blushed. “Oh no, I don’t think so. Although …”
“Yes?”
“I do sometimes know the phone’s about to ring just before it does. Stuff like that.”
“There you are. You probably have the psychic ability but you’ve never tried to use your powers yet.”
“Her ‘powers.’” Barry-the-Bucket nudged his mate.
“You be quiet, Barry,” Betsy said. “We’re having a serious conversation here. So you think I might have inherited my granny’s gift of the sight, do you?”
“It often goes in families,” Emmy said. “Through the female line. You’re not a seventh child, by any chance, are you?”
“No, I’m an only child. And my mother was an only child too.”
“Perfect,” Emmy said. “That’s the strongest connection of all. Only daughter to only daughter. Couldn’t be better.”
“You really think?” Betsy stammered. “My, but that would be wonderful, wouldn’t it? Imagine if I could really see the future!”
“You could let your dad know what horse was going to win in the two-thirty at Doncaster.” Barry dug his silent mate in the side again.
“If you have powers like that, you have to use them for good,” Betsy said solemnly. “Not for winning horse races.”
Emmy was flicking the pages of her notebook. “Look, let me take your name and phone number, okay? I’d like to get together with you and do some testing, if you’re willing.”
“Testing?” Betsy looked at Charlie uneasily.
“We have to test psychic ability in a controlled environment … .”
“I wouldn’t want to go to any hospital,” Betsy said.
“Oh, nothing like that.” Emmy smiled. “I’m going to be working at a place called the Sacred Grove. Do you know it?”
“I can’t say that I do,” Betsy said. “Is it in Wales?”
“That big place on the coast near Porthmadog, isn’t it?” Charlie interrupted.
“Used to be a private estate, built by that crazy English lord. Tiggy, or something, isn’t that the name?” Barry asked.
“It’s Bland-Tyghe,” Charlie said, “and it’s pronounced ‘tie,’ you ignorant burke.”
Barry grinned. “They’re all round the bend, aren’t they? Didn’t the old man used to walk through the village in his pajamas, spouting poetry?”
“Didn’t I read that his daughter has turned it into some kind of hospital or sanitarium?” Charlie said.
“Loony bin, more likely,” Barry commented. “You want to watch out, Betsy. If they take you in there, they might never let you out again.”
“I’m not going to any loony bin,” Betsy said anxiously.
“No, you’ve got it all wrong,” Emmy interrupted hastily. “It’s a New Age center.”
“New age center?” Charlie asked. “Like an old folks home, you mean?”
“New Age,” Emmy repeated. Really, these people were just perfect. Totally clueless. “They’re into all kinds of cool stuff—alternative healing, psychic research. That kind of thing. I haven’t been there yet, but I’ve been in contact with them and they sound like they’ve got great facilities and staff.” She smiled hopefully at Betsy. “I’ve only just arrived in the area. I need to get settled in and then maybe you and I can go take a look down there. See if it’s the kind of thing you’d like to do, okay?”
“Okay,” Betsy said. “I don’t mind going to take a look.”
“I’d better get going,” Emmy said. “I’ve got a lot to do. I need to scout out all the other villages for people with psychic ability, and I need to find myself a place to stay. The hotel’s too expensive. You don’t know of any good b-and-bs that don’t charge an arm and a leg, do you?”
“We don’t go in for tourism too much up here,” Charlie said. “There’s the holiday cottages up on what used to be Morgan’s farm, but they’re not cheap, I hear.”
“I’d rather just find a room somewhere, and someone to cook me breakfast,” Emmy said. “I imagine I’ll be working pretty hard.”
“I know a room that’s going to be empty,” Betsy said suddenly. She gave the men an excited glance. “Well, there is, isn’t there? If Evan Evans moves into that cottage, Mrs. Williams will have a room free.”
“Has he really decided to move out?” Charlie asked. “I know he was thinking about it, but he might change his mind at the last moment, seeing as how Mrs. Williams looked after him so well.”
“If he says he’s going to do it, he will,” Betsy said firmly. “Anyway, we’ll ask him next time he comes in.”
“Fantastic,” Emmy said. “I’ve got your phone number, so I’ll call back and see. That would be so convenient if I could get a room in Llanfair.” She pronounced it Lan-fair.
The other occupants of the bar smiled.
“What?” Emmy demanded.
“It’s called Chlan-veyer,” Betsy said. “That’s how we say it. But don’t worry about it,” she added. “No foreigners can get it right.”
“Chlan-veyer,” Emmy repeated. “I’ll get it right next time. You’ll have to clue me in, Betsy.”
“Okay, miss.”
“Call me Emmy.” She gave another warm smile. “I’ll be in touch, Betsy.”
She had just come through the archway into the main bar when the door opened and the butcher came in, now without his blood-spattered apron. He looked around the room and his gaze fastened on Emmy. As he let out a torrent in Welsh, Emmy moved hastily out of the way. She had forgotten about this cleaver-wielding maniac, who might make living in this village hazardous.
Betsy answered him back in Welsh and he relaxed as he came up to the bar.
“Sorry, miss,” Betsy said, “but Evans-the-Meat is a little out of sorts this morning. A little matter of a bet we had over the football match last night. He was betting on Manchester United but Liverpool won, like I said it would.”
“A football match?” Emmy couldn’t help smiling.
“Mr. Evans thought the ref was unfair. He gave their best player a red card when it wasn’t a foul,” Betsy said. “But now he’s going to pay up like the gentleman he is.”
Evans-the-Meat gave a sheepish smile. “It breaks my heart to see a quality team like Manchester United beaten by a load of louts like Liverpool, that’s all. Oh, well, nothing we can do about it now, is there? So you’d better make it a pint of Robinsons then, Betsy fach.”
Emmy slipped out of the pub as Betsy poured the beer. She hurried up the village street, past the rows of identical gray cottages, each with a brightly painted front door, shining brass letter box, and white scrubbed front step. Some had boxes of spring flowers growing outside—splashes of yellow daffodils and blue hyacinths against the gray stone. All very nice and bright and quaint, she thought. Cut off from the real world. Wouldn’t he laugh when she told him they hadn’t even heard of New Age!