Celtic Fire. Alex Archer

these places over the years to know there were two poles they veered between; there were those where the staff were just a little too keen, and others where surly staff viewed visitors as an intrusion sent to ruin their shift. There didn’t seem to be anything in between.

      She saw a youngish girl behind the desk in the main room, probably a volunteer from the nearest university looking to add some summer credits. Behind her there was a display of books with faded jackets, and souvenir racks filled with postcards and faux-Roman trinkets. She smiled and the girl said, “Hello,” but that was all.

      Another woman polished the glass of the new display case, Annja realized as she circulated around the room.

      She came up beside the woman and said, “What happened?” looking down at the obvious emptiness where something had been on display up until yesterday.

      “Oh, hello,” the woman said, almost dropping her duster in surprise. She seemed to recognize Annja. “Sorry we couldn’t let you in yesterday. We had a little trouble, I’m afraid.”

      “Nothing serious, I hope.”

      “Anything that keeps us closed for a day is serious for us. We might not charge an entrance fee, but the money we take in for books and stuff makes all the difference in the world when it comes to what we are able to do. School parties, all of that, it keeps us afloat. That someone stole from us hurts because we’re all part of the same small community, but it’s these other losses that really hurt.”

      Annja looked into the case and saw that there was a stash of small coins nestling in a terra-cotta pot. “What did they take?”

      “Well, between you and me, that’s the strange thing. They left all these coins—not that they’re worth much, really—and took a grindstone.”

      “A grindstone?”

      The woman shrugged as if to say, Who knows? “I know. What on earth would a thief want with an old Roman grindstone? It’s essentially worthless outside the educational value, even to a collector. Next to the grindstone those coins are worth a king’s ransom.”

      “Kids? Maybe the whole thing was about breaking in rather than taking any particular relic?”

      “Maybe. The ridiculous thing is we were about to put it in storage, anyway. We’ve got limited space and much more interesting exhibits to take its place, but that’s life.”

      Annja couldn’t understand why anyone looking for the thrill would steal something as heavy as a grindstone. It didn’t make sense when there were so many other more portable—and resalable—things close to hand, including the slew of coins in the same case, the collection of pins and brooches in the case beside it, even the “cool factor” of the old sword in the display case in the center of the room. It really didn’t compute at all, even if it was about the thrill. Maybe it was a dare? Break-in and escape with one of the heaviest treasures to prove their manliness or something? And yet one of the memorial stones or the stone sarcophagus would have been more difficult to remove....

      There were plenty of items of interest—some large, some small—but what Annja loved about places like this was that each and every one of them had a story to tell. It was even more special when one considered they’d all been found locally, either in the town or nearby in Usk. Together they offered a fascinating insight into the people who’d lived and died in this area. She could almost hear the ghosts of the Roman legion marching down the street toward the amphitheater, a few good men so far from their own homeland. That was why she loved what she did.

      The sound of her cell phone broke the silence of the room.

      Both members of staff turned toward her, both smiling as she shrugged sorry.

      The screen displayed Garin’s name. She hit the refuse button to end the call before it began. He could leave a message and she’d return his call—assuming it was anything worth returning—when she was done.

      No sooner had the phone fallen silent than he called again.

      She killed it on the first ring only for him to call back again.

      “Someone really wants to talk to you,” the woman said.

      Annja answered. “Persistent, aren’t you?” she whispered, heading back outside. “Twice in two days? Should I be worried or flattered?”

      “You should be moving. Fast.”

      “Should I now? Why might that be? Thinking of paying a visit, after all?”

      “It’s Roux. He needs us.”

      That changed things.

      “What’s wrong?”

      “We’ve got to get to a place called St. Davids yesterday. I’m picking the old man up. We’ll be there by lunchtime.” His voice sounded strange and there was a noise in the background she knew should have been familiar.

      “What’s going on?” She still found it slightly ironic that a man who was more than five hundred years old could call anyone else an old man.

      “No idea, but something has really upset him. And you know what he’s like. He doesn’t upset easy. See you soon.” The call ended, leaving Annja with a growing sense of unease. Garin was right; Roux wasn’t rattled easily, so if something had got to him it had to be serious. It was equally unnerving that he’d used Garin as a messenger boy. What kind of trouble was Roux in?