‘Have you heard her yet?’ Jimmy’s head, mop of dark curls topping a hopeful expression, appeared around the door of Wayland’s smithy, just as it had every morning since the start of February. ‘Not yet, lad,’ Wayland replied, just as he had also done every morning, ‘You’ll know when we do.’ Jimmy’s expression fell. ‘But … More Laughing Betsy and the Village Wassail