Behind Farrell, Julie said sharply, “Turn right here.” Farrell nodded to the black man and cut past a movie theater whose marquee advertised a Rhonda Fleming retrospective, gunning the motorcycle uphill into darkness again.

“That’s more like it,” he said happily over his shoulder. “Prester John of Africa and India, the one whose cook was a king and whose chamberlain was an archbishop. That’s where the Fountain of Youth was, in Prester John’s country.” Julie said nothing, and he went on thoughtfully. “Aiffe of Scotland. I almost know her, too—sounds like someone in an old ballad.” What the name actually brought back to him was the warm, prickly sourness of the swimming pool and Crof Grant nattering on about a girl he was afraid of. He said, “This town always did have the most erudite loonies.”

“He’s not a loony. Don’t you call him that.” Julie’s voice was hard and low.

“I’m sorry,” Farrell said. “I didn’t know you were friends. I’m sorry, Jewel.”

“We’re friends. His name is Rodney Micah Willows.”

Farrell opened the BSA up a bit, heading into the hills toward Barton Park. Julie’s hood blew back, and her hair snapped along his cheek. She tucked herself closer against him, murmuring the witch-poem once more:

They entered the park at the south end, on the opposite side from the zoo. The main road spiraled upward around a shaggy, bulging foothill, widening occasionally into shaved areas where redwood tables, benches, washrooms, and see-saws flourished under the redwoods. Beneath a tarnished silver sky, the picnic structures all stood up like great slabs of granite, appointed to guide an extinct mathematics and uphold a faith, with thin, shallow rills to lead the blood away. California Stonehenge. They’ll think we used the whole park for predicting earthquakes.

Smaller paths ran away from the camping areas down to baseball fields and cinder tracks or up and in through groves silted ankle-deep with redwood mold, smelling like cool, powdered armpits. Julie directed Farrell onto one of the steep grades, and he followed it slowly down a black arcade of trees with a mandarin moon brooding in their top branches, until he came out suddenly into a meadow and saw lights jigging far ahead.

“We’ll walk from here,” Julie said as the cars and motorcycles began to drift into shape on both sides of the path. Farrell cut the engine and heard owls. He also heard Gervaise‘ basse-dance La Volunté being played by crumhorns and a rebec. The tune twinkled across the meadow, cold as coins, tiny and shining and sharp as new nails.

“Be damned,” he said softly. He parked the BSA near a Norton and told them to play nicely. Julie and he walked on toward the lights. She linked her arm in his, letting her fingers lie along the inside of his wrist.

“Pick a name,” she said. La Volunté ended to the sound of laughter. There was a dark tent, floating at its base like a distant mountain.

“Lester Young. No, Tom a’Bedlam.” She stopped walking and stared. “You know. With a host of furious fancies, whereof I am commander—”

“Be serious,” she said with surprising fierceness. “Names mean something here, Joe. Pick a good name, quickly, I’ll tell you why later.”

But the music had made him pleasantly frisky, rocking him gently in the sweet air. He said, “All right, Solomon Daisy. Malagigi the Dwarf Enchanter. Splendid name.” The consort began to play another Gervaise piece, a pavane, giving it the slow, gracious lilt that makes a pavane something more than procession. “How about John Amend-All? Big Jon and Sparkie? You could be Sparkie.” The music sounded no closer as they approached the pavilion in the meadow. An owl was overhead, moving like a great ray flying in the deep sea. Farrell put his arm around Julie’s shoulders and said, “Sorry. You choose a good name for me, please.”

Before she could answer him, a plumed shadow stood up before them, as sudden as the owl. “Who goes?” It was a low voice, hardly louder than the little scream of steel on iron that accompanied it.

Farrrell laughed in disbelief, but Julie stepped in front of him. “My lord Garth, it is Julie Tanikawa and a friend.” Her own voice was clear and buoyant, and close to singing. The sword whined back into its scabbard, and the sentinel came toward them, squinting through the darkness, his gait something between a mince and a prowl.

“The Lady Murasaki?” His tone heaved itself up into Elizabethan heartiness. “Now in Jesu’s name, give you thrice good den, shield-may. We had not looked to see you soon at these our revels.”

Julie dropped him a quick curtsy, a movement altogether marvelous and warning to Farrell. She said, “In truth, my lord, I’d no mind to come dancing this night, but it pleased my fancy to show my friend how we of the fellowship do disport ourselves at whiles.” She took hold of Farrell’s arm and drew him beside her.

The sentinel bowed slightly to Farrell. He had a narrow, knuckly, intelligent face beneath a feathered cap, and he wore a stiff crewelworked doublet that, with its huge shoulders and waistless line, made him look a good deal like a jack of diamonds. The tips of his stringy mustache were each waxed and curled into a full circle, so that he seemed to have fixed a pair of steel-rimmed pince-nez upside down on his upper lip. It was the only thing about him that Farrell liked at all. He said, “I am called the Lord Seneschal Garth de Montfaucon.”

Heeding Julie’s glance, Farrell groped randomly through a pale litter of paladins, wizards, and Canterbury pilgrims; then fell back on the Celtic twilight. “Good sir, there is a geas upon me. A taboo.” Garth nodded, looking nearly as offended by the footnote as Farrell could have wished. Farrell said carefully, “I am forbidden to reveal my name between moonrise and dawn, save to a king’s daughter. Pardon me, therefore, till we meet by daylight, if you will.” He thought it was a very good geas, considering the short notice.

Beyond Garth de Montfaucon, other cloaked and kirtled figures were passing in and out of the dark pavilion’s shadow, or standing still in torchlight. Garth said slowly, “A king’s daughter.”

“Aye, and a maiden.” What the hell, if you’re going to have a geas, have a geas.

“Say you so?” Garth frowned down his nose, seemingly sighting myopically in on Farrell through the foolish mustache. Farrell said, “In sooth,” and Julie giggled. “And not until we two—we twain—have danced a galliard together.” Garth looked away to hail another arriving couple, and Julie drew Farrell quickly past him toward the trees and the music. Farrell could see the musicians now, four men and a woman standing together on a low wooden dais. The men all wore the ruffled white shirts and overstuffed breeches of Rembrandt burghers; but the woman, who tapped strongly with her fingers on a small drum, wore a plain, almost colorless gown that made her look like a chess queen. Farrell stood still to watch them playing the old music for dancers he could not see.

“Be welcome, then.” The bleak little voice of the Lord Seneschal carried clearly after them from the meadow. “Dance well, Lady Murasaki, with your nameless follower.” Julie blew out her breath softly and showed her teeth.

“His name is Darrell Sloat,” she said evenly. “He teaches remedial reading at Hiram Johnson Junior High School. I say it to myself whenever he manages to make me angry.”

A huge man in Tudor dress, all crimson velvet, gold chains, and great slabs of pinkish-yellow jowl, pushed between them like a wave of meat, wheezing winy apologies, the basket hilt of his sword bruising Farrell’s ribs. Farrell said grandly, “Nay, doth he bug you, sweet chuck? I’fackins, I’ll sock him right in the eye. No, I’ll challenge him, by God, I’ll call him out.” He stopped, because Julie was gripping his wrist tightly, and her hand was cold.