Peter and James immediately got to work in the garden, pretending they were expert fire-starters with dramatic flair. They built the fire structure—kindling arranged just so, larger logs stacked carefully. James squinted like he was performing surgery. After the first attempt failed, Peter waved his hands and declared solemnly, "This fire pit is cursed. Definitely cursed. We've offended a fire fairy."

James crouched down and looked at the structure seriously. "Nay. It's Welsh in protest. That's why it won't light. It's being stubborn on principle."

They tried again. The kindling caught briefly, then fizzled. Peter's uncle laughed from the sidelines. "You two are hopeless," he called.

"Absolutely hopeless," Peter agreed.

Eventually, with the help of a well-placed tea towel, some gentle coaxing, and possibly some prayers whispered to whatever fire gods existed, the flames took. They caught and held, growing from small and orange to bigger and golden. Smoke curled gently into the dusk, carrying the scent of applewood and evening.

In the corner of the garden, near the plum tree, the fairy door glowed faintly gold in the dimming light—a remnant from last summer when Peter had secretly built it into the base of the tree as a surprise for the children. Tima had left offerings there ever since: buttons, bits of shiny foil, small treasures that mattered to her.

Tima showed Eira the fairy door like she was sharing the greatest secret in the world... for the fourty seconds time. They crouched down together, their heads bent close, creating a small cwtch of safety with their bodies curved around the magic. They placed a smooth stone inside—one Tima had found on the forest path, shaped like a heart. Tima whispered her wish loud, unselfconscious: "More toast! And... more Eira!"

Eira's wish was whispered so quietly it barely existed, a prayer meant only for the fairies themselves. But Papa, watching from a respectful distance, saw Eira's lips move around the shape of "cutch", a safe place, a hug, a belonging, and he understood.

---

Dinner was a delicious muddle of tradition and improvisation: leek soup in enamel bowls, the green of the cennin the leeks, visible and real, soft and sacred on St David's Day, this day when they were honored in every kitchen in Wales; charred lamb skewers with rosemary that filled the air with its ancient, herbal scent; bara brith cut thick and spread with salted butter that melted into the dense spiced cake, the dried fruit plump from hours soaking in tea; fresh bread from the morning. The fire threw light and shadow across everyone's faces. Everything was Welsh in its own way, connected to tradition and place.