If the Holy Grail really was buried somewhere inside Glastonbury Tor, Sarah Mack couldn't feel it. She didn't expect to, but it would have been so cool if she could.
The Night of Echoes, when the magic had come back to the world, was only sixteen years in the past, nearly all of her life. Some geezer in the States, right there where it happened, had worked a spell almost immediately, they said. Before the magic had spread, before anybody else in the world even could. Now he was the Grandmaster of the Wizard's Union. She used to think he was a lucky bastard.
Years later, when the magic was strong enough, the creatures started coming back, and she stopped thinking he was so lucky. One of her earliest memories was watching a pixie invasion of Buckingham Palace on the telly, laughing. Mr. Tom told her to shut it, and together they watched as the wizards expelled the little flying buggers from the Palace and set up a shield to keep them out.
That worked, for a while, but over time larger creatures would appear, and they'd have to redo the shield. Yesterday a griffin the size of a four-banger was seen running up the A1, unable to fly. And if the magic wasn't strong enough yet to get a griffin off the ground, you could bet it wasn't strong enough to wake up the Grail. If it was even there.
So it was a good thing she wasn't there for the Grail.
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