"I recognize this," I breathe, running my fingers along a few pieces of furniture and pottery. It's the style that Darby likes—comprised of a mysterious vocabulary of circles, spirals and other curved shapes, interwoven designs of recognizable animals and framed with interlace, key-pattern or scrollwork.
The eidolons beckon and I follow, rounding the enclosed courtyard. Unlike the others, this one is a hodge-podge of naturescaped flowers and vines intermingled with herbs and fruit and vegetable bearing plants, water features and baths, and what looks like simple birdfeeders.
Also very much the kind of garden that Darby cultivates.
On the far side of the building, in the cardinal direction most favored by smiths familiar with the Celtic goddess, Brigid, I find the smithy. The air through the open door is warmest here and the place is occupied by a black-haired man, dressed and groomed in an Asian style. By build and facial features, it's clear he's not native to this area.
