"...of course the word 'petrichor' means the song of the stone. I think that is a word that is underused in these times. So much of the language of Shakespeare has been lost. Mind you, I only met him once, when he was drunk..."

Elaine and Steve exchanged glances. As the elfen lord carried on with his pedantic monologue, Steve whispered, “He's got it wrong, you know. It means 'blood of the stone'. I looked it up once. It's all the same with the older elfen. They get odder with age. The trouble is that as the elfen get older they also get more and more powerful. I'm just grateful that they get a bit more caught up in the old stories."

Elaine looked around the room. It had radiators but no central heating. There was a television in one corner but it was surrounded by what looked like a lattice of hawthorn twigs. What looked like a silk cloth was neatly folded over the top of the television. Over the fireplace was an empty frame where a mirror would normally hang and the wallpaper, while new, was a pattern that hadn't been current for fifty years or more. "So that's why we couldn't bring in anything made of iron."

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Steve nodded. "And why we have some clothes inside out. It's a sort of protection."

"...of course nowadays the language changes so quickly. That is why I watch my television, through a scry glass of course, and I am quite concerned about some of the things I see. I noticed a programme on Tinkerbell, for one serious example..."

As the old elfen droned on, Elaine looked with concern at Steve. "But he wants us to buy what without iron!?"