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prepare their meal. "We'll be at your friend's house in a few hours. We won't starve before then."
    Dean looked at him curiously. "All to save the feelings of a man you've never met before in your life, and will likely never see again? That's more soft-hearted than practical."
    "So what's wrong with that? Aren't we supposed to treat people as we'd like to be treated?" Rob smiled and raised his mug. "And the ale is uncommonly good."
    Dean lifted his and clanked it against the other mug. "Even if the casks also date back to Elizabeth, and probably haven't been cleaned since." With a fatalistic shrug, he took a swallow. The ale smelted of plums and hay, and tasted like summer itself.

    "Damn. It is good, isn't it?"
    Mr. Wickett, carrying their plates, positively beamed at the overheard compliment.
    "Yes sir, yes sir, indeed! The technique is a secret, a secret passed down through the generations, or I'd tell
    you. I would tell you! May I bring you anything else, anything else at all?"
    "Thank you, this looks fine," Dean said. And it did, much to his surprise. The black-glazed earthenware plates were still damp from a vigorous scrubbing, the food arranged carefully, and even garnished with radishes cut into the shape of roses. He blinked as the landlord scurried back into the dark reaches of the inn. "I still wouldn't try the stew, though."
    They ate in a comfortable silence, broken only once when Mrs. Smart ran out of gin and screeched to be furnished with a second glass. When he had supplied her, Wickett returned to their table and inquired anxiously whether he could fetch them anything, anything at all.
    "Please, Mr. Wickett," Rob said, pulling out the chair next to him. "Sit down and talk to us."
    "I don't think I could, sir. No, I couldn't. So much to do before the supper crowd arrives, so much to do, sir."
    This was accompanied by such a hangdog look that Dean nearly laughed. "Surely you have time for a quick ale? We'll take another round, as long as you let us buy you one as well."
    "That was a brilliant ploy, brilliant ploy indeed, sir," Rob's impersonation of Wickett's speech made Dean smile as their host rushed to draw them more ale. "He can't afford not to join us."
    It was no great task to persuade Wickett to talk about the resident witch. "Mistress Ann's cottage was right on this spot, right on this spot, it was. The Red Lion was built on the very same foundation, back in 1407. They burned it, you see, the townspeople burned the cottage after she died. Hoping to lift the curse."
    "How did Mistress Ann die? Was she executed?" Rob's dark eyes danced with enjoyment.
    "I want to hear about the curse," Dean leaned forward, intrigued. "Something to do with food, isn't it?"
    "You'd be right. Oh, you'd be right, sir. And I can satisfy you both together, I can.
    They locked her up—no jail back then, didn't need such a thing as a jail back then. The world was a much better place."
    "Except for the witches, of course," Dean said soberly. "You don't see so many of those nowadays." A foot, coming from Rob's direction, nudged his in silent reproof under the table. Or, of course, it could have been a particularly bold rat.
    Rob, looking innocent, asked, "Locked her up where, then?"
    The publican waved a vague hand. "Shed. Dovecote. Yes, dovecote, it was, an empty dovecote about to be pulled down. They locked her in and wouldn't give her food nor drink, no food at all until she revealed the names of her coven. Thirteen of them, there would have been, thirteen dancing widdershins around the fires at Beltane, All Hallows. Midsummer and Solstice, too. Dancing merrily around the fire." He shook his head wistfully, and Dean was forced to wonder where the man's sympathies lay.
    "Did Mistress Ann starve, then?" Dean's eyes strayed to the crone at her table near the bar, tossing back another gulp of gin from the steadily-diminishing glass. One could fancy it was the witch herself, making up for the drink denied so long ago.
    "Oh, aye, she