FicWad

9.

To be perfectly honest, it came as no surprise to me when I woke up in that hotel room in Brest alone. On the table I found paperwork informing me that I'd been booked to join a group tour to Plougastel-Daoulas that left not long after checkout.

What I did not find was a receipt for the hotel room. John had cut and run again without settling the bill -- consider it his version of a sentimental gesture. In the realm of small favors, at least I wasn't being rousted from bed by the police this time.

As for the tour, it was filled by an Australian singles club -- not one of them under the age of fifty-five. Once again I had reason to silently curse my benefactor: I found myself uncomfortably popular with the male members of our expedition. That is, until I acquired a pair of short, bustling bodyguards. The Mrs. Benton and McDonal took it upon themselves to adopt and defend my overly-patted derrière for the afternoon.

"They're all beasts, of course," Mrs. McDonal informed me placidly.

"Husband couldn't make it, dearie?" Mrs. Benton asked me sympathetically.

"What?" That was when I realized that I was still wearing that damned ring of his. "No," I told them, "he had to skip town in a hurry." Mrs. McDonal nodded wisely, and Mrs. Benton looked confused. I didn't bother to expand on that.

As for Plougastel-Daoulas, it has another spectacular example of the sort of calvary monuments that we'd seen in each of those walled enclosures, hence the sightseeing jaunt. With over one hundred and eighty figures and even more elements, it was worth a special trip. I assumed that was why he'd left me the ticket.

But I couldn't help thinking about the one that had gotten away -- the calvary under that tarp in Trogabr that I hadn't gotten to see. I wondered what it must look like. And that, in turn, brought forcibly back to mind the additional weight in my purse. So I hadn't really been listening to our guide's indifferent, droning lecture when Mrs. Benton beside me muttered, "My word, that's not pretty, is it?"

"Quite nasty," Mrs. McDonal agreed with her serenely. "No doubt it was made by a man."

"What is?" I asked them, blinking. As one, they pointed to one particular group of figures. I stared at it, confused, then it dawned on me what I was looking at: another rendition of /Catell-Gollet/, which I'd last seen on the Guimiliau monument. Here was Catherine being towed into a hellmouth again.

So that ticket had been another kind salute to my favorite era after all. I vowed to come up with a suitable, artistic revenge.

I found an open seat on an international flight that had stopped over for refueling, and I headed back for Munich that evening. There were other towns I would have loved to have visited, and I knew that no one was expecting me back yet. I wasn't sure why the allure of sightseeing had dimmed; normally, I'm happy enough to be a single tourist without anyone else's complaints and demands to distract me.

No one around me was awake, no one noticed when I took off the ring and dropped it into my purse.