Nightmares…
Maybe this bird isn’t a familiar. Maybe it’s…a dream thing. They can take the form of animals, or of smoke or shadow or drops of rain blown into an open window. It’s one of the reasons they’re so dangerous, the way they can hide in plain sight.
“Declan’s father seems like an honest man,” Clara says, warming me again. “But you’re right. He could be lying to protect Declan. I doubt there’s anything he wouldn’t do for his son. But there’s another possibility. One we should at least consider.”
The raven’s gargle becomes a grumble. “Not a chance. No, Glove. No witch I’ve ever heard tale of would give her babe away or let a human take it. She would have spelled the man dead on the spot, buried him in an unmarked grave, and summoned dark spirits to haunt his rest. A daughter is a sacred gift, to be protected at all costs. Never known a witch to have a son, but it would surely be the same.”
Clara’s shoulders hunch and her chin drops; she looks so burdened that I wonder again what happened between her and her mother. If witches consider daughters such a gift, why did her mother leave her alone in a world that’s dangerous, even deadly, for someone who looks like her daughter?
Is it because Clara is half human?
Or did something—
“What if she died?” Clara asks, quieting the questions that swarm through my head. She stands, stroking the small shadow in her palm as she paces away from the tree. “What if Declan’s da is telling the truth about that part? Maybe she passed away and he found Declan in the woods or something?”
“Or killed her himself,” the bird counters, making my blood boil even hotter.
My da is the kindest man in the world. I’ve rarely heard him speak so much as a harsh word, even when disciplining scrappers who more than deserve it. He struggles to kill a fish or a chicken for supper. A person? Out of the question.
But witches aren’t people, are they? And weren’t you just fretting over what Da might do to Clara if he learned the truth about her?
My stomach balls even tighter.
I press a hand to it, willing it stay quiet. I can’t be discovered now, not when I’ve learned so much, but not nearly enough.
“I can’t imagine his father hurting someone, let alone killing them.” Clara lifts her gaze to the sky, where the stars spin without a care for what happens on earth. “But, say he did kill Declan’s mother for being a witch. Why let Declan go free? Why raise him as his own son? Witch hunters won’t suffer a witch to live, even a half witch. Even a child.”
The raven’s feathers puff out until its silhouette looks like kindling tossed into a pile. “I don’t know! And I don’t care. It doesn’t matter, Glove. We have our path, and the boy has his. We must fly. He must return to his cursed island. That’s that and all there is to it!”
“About that…” Clara lifts the mouse to her face. It nuzzles her cheek before hopping onto her shoulder and snuggling against her neck. Once it’s settled, she turns back to the bird, standing up taller as she says, “I’m not going to fly, Poke. One way or another, I’m finished with this. I refuse to ruin another man with my magic. Never again. Not after what I saw tonight.”
The bird squawks loud enough that I flinch, rustling the dry grass of my hiding place. Clara shushes the raven before spinning to look over her shoulder, searching the darkness.
“You’re mad. Mad woman! Mad!” the bird caws, raw voice echoing through the darkness as it takes to the air with a flurry of its wings. “You’ll bring the sky down on all of us. The sky falling down! Just wait and see!”
“Poke, wait! Come back,” Clara calls. When it doesn’t, she lets out her breath in a rush—then stops, listening, and peers again in my direction. “Hello? Is someone there?”
Heart racing, I sink lower behind the grass, holding my breath as her attention skims across my hiding place.
If I’m caught now…what on earth will I say?
What will Clara do when she realizes I’ve learned her secret?
Clara isn’t a halfling.
Clara is…the Night Witch.
She’s the nightmare I’ve been running from my entire life, and I’ve gone and invited her in through the front door.
Chapter Thirteen
Foxglove
I wake to sunlight scratching at my swollen eyes and toss an arm over my face with a groan.
What a night. What a vile night.
I received no answers from Poke, nor any reason to hope. And poor Wig was so frightened that he shifted into an earthworm and buried himself in the dirt, refusing to come out, even when I swore to him that everything was going to be all right.