thumb to her lower lip. The bird was warning her. It was a spy, true, but it sounded like it was also a slave.
It was cursed. Like everything else around her, it seemed. And as Sarah knew from her books, curses could be broken. Curses were designed to be broken. All it took was passing tests, she knew that. Tests of courage, of love, of wit, of faith. She frowned. How was she supposed to know what to do if she had no idea how any of this worked in the first place? There were mysteries here in this castle, in the forest, and secrets that no one was going to tell her willingly.
The thing with secrets was that they didnât want to stay secrets, Sarah mused. Someone always knew more than they should. It took the right leverage, the right pressure, and people told their hidden truths. And if that didnât work, then there was always snooping, which seemed to be the logical route in all the adventure books she loved.
Kids in stories are always going where they shouldnât and discovering hidden treasure and evil plots and unmasking villains. And so what if that isnât real life? Sarah looked down from the castle window to the darkling forest, its whispering shadowy treetops. Nothing about this feels like real life .
Whatever secrets were waiting to be dug up, they had something to do with Nanna. Weirdness was gathered around herâthe raven, the ruined castle all alone in the strange forest.
A new feeling crept up Sarahâs back, ticking along her spine and spreading out through her shoulders. Determination. It made her feel more solid. She was going to get to the bottom of the mystery of her family. Of the curse, and what had happened to her parents.
And why.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Sarah did not get lost going down the stairs. The path she was meant to walk had been lit for her with the stubs of fat yellow-white candles in dim glass cases. The rest of the castle was dark and smelled of mouse droppings and dripping water and moldy straw, so she had no desire to stray from the lit way. Maybe tomorrow sheâd have a better look in the daylight; perhaps it wouldnât seem so creepy.
She rushed down the last set of stairs, and the slap of her sneakers against the stone echoed through the hallways. Sarahâs last meal had been the ham sandwich her father made for her, and a bag of chips and a soda from a gas station. She was hungry enough that she could have put up with a great deal just to fill her stomach. And the smells coming from the hall that the lights led her to were making her mouth water. Whatever Nanna might be, she could cookâthat much seemed certain. Witches could cook, Sarah thought. Well, they could brew potions, which seemed more or less the same thing.
The large hall was as gloomy as the rest of the neglected castle, but at least here the flagstones had been swept clean. Mice rustled in the cracks in the walls. At least, Sarah hoped it was nothing more unusual than mice. A few striped and ragged cats prowled the edges of the hall, their eyes stabs of pale green fire. Every now and then, one would hunch, tail whipping, then pounce on some flutter in the shadowy edges of the room.
Yesâmice. Sarah shuddered and picked her way to the large round table, where two places were set out. There were several chairs, all of them mismatched. Steaming bowls had been set before one grand chair of polished black, with threadbare red velvet cushioning, and another, smaller one, with a seat of striped blue and gold. The material was worn, and the stuffing was sighing out of the rips. Sarah supposed this smaller one was hers.
There was no sign of her grandmother, but the raven was on the table, pacing between the dishes. âSit,â it said, and Sarah slipped into her seat.
The cushion had a tacky, squishy feel to it that made her wish she could hover above it rather than sit. âWhere is she?â she whispered to the raven.
âBehind you,â said Nanna. âThere
It was cursed. Like everything else around her, it seemed. And as Sarah knew from her books, curses could be broken. Curses were designed to be broken. All it took was passing tests, she knew that. Tests of courage, of love, of wit, of faith. She frowned. How was she supposed to know what to do if she had no idea how any of this worked in the first place? There were mysteries here in this castle, in the forest, and secrets that no one was going to tell her willingly.
The thing with secrets was that they didnât want to stay secrets, Sarah mused. Someone always knew more than they should. It took the right leverage, the right pressure, and people told their hidden truths. And if that didnât work, then there was always snooping, which seemed to be the logical route in all the adventure books she loved.
Kids in stories are always going where they shouldnât and discovering hidden treasure and evil plots and unmasking villains. And so what if that isnât real life? Sarah looked down from the castle window to the darkling forest, its whispering shadowy treetops. Nothing about this feels like real life .
Whatever secrets were waiting to be dug up, they had something to do with Nanna. Weirdness was gathered around herâthe raven, the ruined castle all alone in the strange forest.
A new feeling crept up Sarahâs back, ticking along her spine and spreading out through her shoulders. Determination. It made her feel more solid. She was going to get to the bottom of the mystery of her family. Of the curse, and what had happened to her parents.
And why.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Sarah did not get lost going down the stairs. The path she was meant to walk had been lit for her with the stubs of fat yellow-white candles in dim glass cases. The rest of the castle was dark and smelled of mouse droppings and dripping water and moldy straw, so she had no desire to stray from the lit way. Maybe tomorrow sheâd have a better look in the daylight; perhaps it wouldnât seem so creepy.
She rushed down the last set of stairs, and the slap of her sneakers against the stone echoed through the hallways. Sarahâs last meal had been the ham sandwich her father made for her, and a bag of chips and a soda from a gas station. She was hungry enough that she could have put up with a great deal just to fill her stomach. And the smells coming from the hall that the lights led her to were making her mouth water. Whatever Nanna might be, she could cookâthat much seemed certain. Witches could cook, Sarah thought. Well, they could brew potions, which seemed more or less the same thing.
The large hall was as gloomy as the rest of the neglected castle, but at least here the flagstones had been swept clean. Mice rustled in the cracks in the walls. At least, Sarah hoped it was nothing more unusual than mice. A few striped and ragged cats prowled the edges of the hall, their eyes stabs of pale green fire. Every now and then, one would hunch, tail whipping, then pounce on some flutter in the shadowy edges of the room.
Yesâmice. Sarah shuddered and picked her way to the large round table, where two places were set out. There were several chairs, all of them mismatched. Steaming bowls had been set before one grand chair of polished black, with threadbare red velvet cushioning, and another, smaller one, with a seat of striped blue and gold. The material was worn, and the stuffing was sighing out of the rips. Sarah supposed this smaller one was hers.
There was no sign of her grandmother, but the raven was on the table, pacing between the dishes. âSit,â it said, and Sarah slipped into her seat.
The cushion had a tacky, squishy feel to it that made her wish she could hover above it rather than sit. âWhere is she?â she whispered to the raven.
âBehind you,â said Nanna. âThere
Similar Books
