Chantress Read Free

insistently, “You know I would never hurt you—”
    “Not on your own, no.” Norrie shook her head. “But you didn’t even know you were humming, child. What else might you do if the singing got hold of you? Have you thought of that?”
    I hadn’t, not until then. But as she spoke, I remembered how those wild notes had pierced me to the core, and how desperately I’d longed to sing them back.
    What else might I do? The truth was, I didn’t quite know. Not for certain, not anymore. It was as if everything I knew about myself were no longer rock, but shifting sand. I looked at the battered door behind Norrie, suddenly glad that it stood between me and the wind.
    “Very well,” I said. “You go. I’ll stay.”
    “Good girl.” Norrie wrapped herself in her cloak. “Mind you prepare the hearth exactly as I’ve told you. And whatever you do, keep your stone close and don’t open the door. There’s great danger at hand.”
    “What kind of danger?” I asked again in frustration. “Why won’t you tell me?”
    But Norrie offered no explanations before she clumped out the door.
    † † †
    After Norrie left, I stared at the black hearth. With the afternoon almost over and the fire in cinders, the room was cold as death, and nearly as dark. I shivered in spite of myself. Why had I heard the singing when Norrie hadn’t? And what was I to do about the fact that some contrary part of me was still longing to hear it again, even if it might lead to disaster?
    Well, the answer to the last question was clear enough. For seven years now, Norrie had been instructing me in the rituals of Allhallows’ Eve. To keep myself safe, I needed only to follow her instructions to the letter.
    Moving sure and fast, I took up the poker and scattered the last embers of the fire. After that, I covered the hearth with lavender and rue and rosemary, herbs of protection that Norrie had picked that morning from our garden. By Norrie’s own edict, the new fire could not be lit until the sun set, so there was nothing more to be done there.
    I moved on to the sweeping, making quick work of the task. Now and again, however, I stopped to gaze through the kitchen’s hatched windowpane, taking care not to disturb Norrie’s potted bay tree on the sill. The tiny tree was Norrie’s most cherished plant, the only one she never allowed me to touch. A single shiny leaf was enough to shield a person from every kind of wickedness, or so she always said.
    Craning my head around the glossy leaves, I saw no sign of Norrie. Of course, it took a while to get down to the cove and back, and Norrie was not exactly fleet-footed. But the wind was rising, and the way it shook the windows made me uneasy. Was Norrie as invulnerable as she believed herself to be?
    To quiet my mind and combat the shadows, I lit a bayberry candle.
    Rattle went the window, and rattle again. I put the broom back in the corner and set the candlestick on the table that hulked in the middle of the room.
    Rattle, rattle . . . SMASH!
    I whirled around. The wind had battered the window open, and the shattered pane hung crookedly from its hinges. Beneath it lay Norrie’s bay tree, a mass of shards and broken leaves.
    I stooped down in dismay. Was it chance that it had fallen? Or was it an omen—for Norrie, for me, for us both?
    There was no time to contemplate the question, for the window was hanging open and the wind was rushing through. Heart racing, I stuffed it shut with the thick woolen blanket I’d brought out for Norrie. It sealed the wind out, but at a cost: The room became still darker.
    I turned back in distress to the scattered debris of the bay tree itself. I scooped up some fragments of clay pot, then stopped as something odd caught my eye. Matted in the tangle of roots was a small, flat box.
    I teased it away and took it over to the candle. Slender and no larger than my hand, it shone like silver in spots. Most of it, however, was a rusty black, and the corners were eaten