Read Online Prospero's Children by Jan Siegel - Free Book Online

calling her in to lunch, and she was standing on a barren slope talking to a rock.
    “Who am I?” The mischief faded; what was left of his smile grew ghostly. “That is a short question with a long answer, and we haven’t the leisure now. Who do you think I am?”
    Fern shrugged, striving to sound flippant. “A Watcher—a wizard—a trickster—a tramp.”
    “Mainly just a tramp. You can call me Ragginbone, if you need a name. They called me that a long while back, when all this—” he indicated his dilapidated garb “—was merely a disguise. Now, it’s my only self. And how should I call you?”
    “Fernanda,” she said. “Fern will do. I thought you would know that already.” There was a shade of disappointment in her tone.
    “I read your mind, not your birth certificate,” he retorted. “You’d better go now, Fernanda. Your lunch is waiting, and you should change into dry clothes. I’ll be here tomorrow. Or the next day. Remember: find the key. You must . . . find the key . . .”
    The wind snatched at her hat and as she turned to recapture it the rain seemed to swirl around her, blurring the landscape, and when she looked back up the path there was only a rock—she could see it was a rock—shaped like a seated man with his hood pulled forward over his face. She ran on down the hill toward the house.
    For the time being, Fern said nothing to Will about her encounter with Ragginbone. It was not that she expected disbelief: on the contrary, Will was only too prone to believe in the improbable or even the impossible, while dismissing probabilities as too dull to merit his faith. But Fern needed a while to assimilate her own reactions and come to terms with what she had learned. In any case Will, she told herself, was still very young, obviously imprudent, easily carried away by over-enthusiasm; oblivious to real danger, he would see this shadowy world into which they had strayed as merely an adventurous game. And she was sure there
was
danger, lying in wait, a little way ahead of her: she could sense it even as the hunter senses the tiger in the thicket.
    Will had struck up an unlikely friendship with the vicar and over the next few days, when not rummaging in the attic, he accompanied Gus on leisurely rambles up on the moors, identifying wildlife and listening to local folklore. Fern declined to go with them, beginning a methodical search for keys, turning out drawers and emptying cupboards to no avail. “He’ll have put them in a safe place,” opined Mrs. Wicklow. Fern, who had done that herself on occasion, was not encouraged. She wanted another talk with Ragginbone but the hillside was bare again, leaving her oddly bereft, and it was small consolation that no snuffling disturbed her slumber. The most disquieting incident was when the blackvisored motorcyclist passed her and Will on the road one evening, cutting in so close that they had to leap for the verge. But this, surely, could only be an act of mindless bravado, a young tough out to terrify and impress; it could have no connection with the mystery of Dale House.
    On Friday morning, Robin telephoned. There was a lot of background noise and although Fern could hear him he didn’t seem to be able to hear her very clearly. He said he was at the airport, about to emplane for New York: an urgent business trip, Alison Redmond had given him some contacts, an American historian working on witch-trials, all very exciting. He might be gone some time. “But, Daddy—!” Anyway, she wasn’t to worry. He’d arranged everything. Alison would come and stay with them, take care of things, help fix up the house: she had a real flair for interior design. He knew Fern would get on with her. (Robin always knew Fern would get on with his various girlfriends.) Over the phone she heard the tuneless tinkle that precedes an announcement over the tannoy. “Must go, darling. I’m awfully late—” and then the line went dead and Fern was left clutching a silent