Kristen wasn’t listening. Glastonbury had impressed her from the first sight of the place; the dominating, imposing mound of the Tor, the small stone houses, old and weatherworn, which had mercifully resisted the temptation to become tourist attractions, the quietness of the place. The number of visitors to the area was strictly limited, and even Geraint had needed to pull strings to get them in. There were no police roadblocks, or anything so heavy-handed. It was just that no accommodation would be found for a visitor without the relevant documents, no shops would serve him, that sort of thing. Glastonbury valued its peacefulness. Power hung about the place like mist on a spring-morning river, and Serrin began to sense it even while they were still kilometers away.