Thank you for the music: Who owns the night?

Once again, this is a difficult entry to write. I've been living in the real, tangible world for so long (and "real" and "tangible" take on new meanings when you spend the evening singing songs over a half-pint in a candle-lit tavern rather than watching re-runs on television) that despite my previous experience^{1, 2} with the fey folk, I am having some difficulty incorporating the latest developments into my understanding of the world.

As part of the terms of my employment I am allowed to sleep on the premises, in Master Garrett's workshop on a small straw pallet over the lumber store and it was only days after starting here that I was awoken by a brilliant light shining into the lumber store. Of course, I thought I had overslept and was about to hear the Master's opinion of my work ethic, so as quickly as I could, I scrambled into doublet and hose but halfway down the ladder the light shifted and disappeared as if someone had passed by with a brilliant lantern. Of course, in the year of our Lord 1583 electric light is unknown, so I was puzzled and alarmed. I shinned back up the ladder and into my sleeping loft where I tried several times to strike a light with tinder and flint in hope of lighting a candle, but achieving flame from flint sparks is a tricky business at the best of times, and something I have never mastered.

Perhaps because of my nocturnal surprise I woke earlier than usual, and remembering what happened before I fell back asleep, I was out into the workshop as soon as possible to check that all was in order; none of the tools or workpieces were disturbed, and nothing taken, so after a breakfast of honeycakes and hazelnuts I stepped outside to look around the shop. What I found was three indentations pressed into the dirt almost four inches making a triangular pattern, and this in soil packed hard enough that even wagon wheels scarcely mark the surface unless there has been a good rain first.

Peter, the apprentice was the first to arrive for work and after taking a brief look at the impressions, crossed himself and looked at me: "Mark my words, this will not sit well with Master Garrett!".

Sure enough when Master Garrett arrived he gazed at the marks for a few minutes. "Have either of you stepped inside the triangle?"

Once he had satisfied himself that neither of us had done more than look from a safe distance, he ordered me to ask whether Doctor Dee would examine the site, and gave me directions to the Doctor's house. The door was answered by the Doctor's manservant who sent me back bearing the message that the Doctor was with a gentleman but would attend Master Garrett in the
first hour after noon.

After that, work in the shop proceeded with an uneasy quietness making the morning seem longer than ever, but as promised Doctor Dee arrived, with another professional-looking man, both of them wearing their black doctoral robes, and close-fitting black caps. The Doctor was immediately recognizable by his long, neatly brushed pointy beard and took Master Garrett first to examine the marks. After a while, Peter and I made excuses to step outside the workshop and Doctor Dee requested a pitcher of water.

Watching the Doctor pour a little water onto the ground between marks was one of the most surprising things I have ever seen: the water sat, forming a small puddle. A little more water a short way outside the pattern was quickly absorbed, making sticky mud of the dry soil. Without being able to stay and learn more I was dismissed inside, and a few minutes later was
joined once more by Peter but it was not until Master White, miller, came to arrange the fitting of new axles to one of his carts that Master Garrett joined us once more.