Isobelle squeaked, jumping back and flipping the book closed. She was quite certain that nobody was ever meant to see anything’s insides to such a degree, and if those sorts of things were lurking insideher, then she simply didn’t want to know.
Under any other circumstances she’d have absolutelyrelishedthe atmospheric adventure of exploring such a place, but tonight …
‘This is a witch’s cottage,’ she said, looking back over her shoulder to Gwen. Then, reflecting on the dead creatures in jars, on the books, ‘The sorceress’s, perhaps.But you’re right – why would they bring Tabitha here? The only way it makes sense …’
‘Is if they had some sort of connection to the sorceress,’ Gwen said.
The rest of it hung between them, unspoken: could Bingleton’s ridiculous stories have hit upon some version of the truth?Hadthe sorceress returned? Or was her lover out there, trying to resurrect her? Why else come to such a place?
By silent accord, they both began to move around the cottage carefully, touching little, but inspecting everything. A sudden sound made Isobelle startle and spin around – Gwen had found flint and was striking it to light a taper. She lifted it to a pair of candles in turn, and though each took a long time to catch, eventually their wicks surrendered to the little flame.
Isobelle walked over to claim one, and when she returned to her careful study of the room, the light made all the difference. One book stood out from the rest immediately – now she could see there was no dust on its cover, the leather gleaming in the candlelight. Also gleaming was the gold title on the front, in a particularly ornate script – no expense had been spared on the trailing bits or curlicues:On Necromancie.
Isobelle exhaled sharply and nearly dropped her candle. The flame quivering as her hand shook, she opened the book to where a thick ribbon lay between the pagesas a bookmark, and began to read. As she made her way through the two pages that now lay open – holding the last of her golden glow tightly against her, wrapping it around her heart to keep the darkness of this book at bay – she read snatches aloud to Gwen. ‘… the passage of time is no barrier to a resurrection, save in that a vessel of connection will be more difficult to find.’
And then, a moment later: ‘To raise the lost, the scales must be balanced – one must be given, for the one who is returned.’ And then: ‘If the body is no more, the body of the vessel will be inhabited, and in some cases transformed.’
She could hear that Gwen had stopped moving, as she finished. ‘The vessel must have some connection to the lost – the greater the connection, the better the chance of a return.’ Isobelle lowered her candle, mouth dry as she tried to swallow. ‘Do you think Tabitha being a witch would be enough of a connection?’
‘I think their connection was more than that,’ Gwen said, a note in her voice that made Isobelle turn.
At first, she couldn’t see what Gwen was holding. Then, she couldn’t understand why she was holding it. It was a child’s toy made of twisted wood – an old, thick vine stem, maybe. It was fastened to a short plank at each end, and in between it twisted and dipped and rose in loops and twirls, a couple of beads strung along it.
Isobelle had had one like it when she was small – the idea was for the child to push the bead along the lengthof the vine, hopefully taking quite a bit of time and concentration, during which they couldn’t get up to much trouble. Isobelle had found the whole circuitous process extremely aggravating, rather like court politics.
Then Gwen changed the angle of the thing, and Isobelle saw not random shapes but a word, in a looping, cursive script.
Tabitha.
Her brow furrowed. ‘I don’t …?’
‘Tabitha was a child here,’ Gwen said quietly.
Isobelle’s eyes widened. ‘But that would mean the witch who was her mother …’
‘Was the sorceress,’ Gwen replied, setting the toy down.
Isobelle’s breath escaped her in a gasp. ‘Oh, Tabitha! Do you think she knew?’
‘She thinks her mother was one of the sorceress’s victims,’ Gwen replied. ‘Or, at best, one of the witches rounded up by the paladins.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘I thought someone grabbed her to silence her, to stop her from outing whatever they’re doing here. But it’s worse.’
‘They want to use her as a vessel,’ Isobelle whispered. ‘To bring her mother back. Gwen, we have to save her!’
‘We will,’ Gwen replied, pushing to her feet. ‘Since Tabitha and her abductor aren’t here, they must have gone somewhere else – the tower? We’ll go get the horses and make for …’
But though Gwen turned for the door, Isobelle remained where she was. Resolve rose, firming within her. The fear was still there, absolutely – her stomach was in knots and the hand holding the candle was shaking, sending shadows scurrying across the walls. But at her core, there was a new certainty.
Tabitha had tried to help them. Now Tabitha was a prisoner, and they were the only ones who knew. Whatever came, they would face it. It was their only choice.
She gazed at the way the candle flame flickered over the woven quilt hung on the wall, and willed herself to think of a plan.
‘I don’t think we should storm the tower,’ she said, trying to steady the candle. ‘Towers like that are designed for defence, and …’
‘I don’t disagree,’ Gwen replied, pausing in the doorway. ‘But we’re short on options.’
The warm place within Isobelle, the golden glow that wrapped around her heart, seemed to be spreading out to warm her limbs, and she firmed her grip on the candle. Shadows danced over that wall covering, drawing her eye again.
They were moving a littletoomuch. Why?
