A Spell of Swallows

by Sarah Harrison

  ‘Go!’ he gasped. ‘Now. Go, and never come back.’

  He didn’t understand, but then he was never supposed to. I wanted to go, and I didn’t care if I never saw Eadenford again. It had served its purpose.

  ‘Goodbye, Reverend,’ I said. He was already walking away from me, back into the ruins. ‘And good luck. Give my best to Mrs Mariner.’

  A shock went through him. It was as if he’d been struck by lightning. He checked for a split second and put his hand on the wall to steady himself.

  He didn’t turn round, though. And I left.

  A flock of swallows flew over my head as I walked up the hill. Like me, off to better things. At the top, I stopped and took that last look I’d promised myself. Eadenford wasn’t much of a place, but back in April I’d told myself, This’ll do, and I’d been right.

  I’d left my few things there, in the maid’s room. Someone was going to have to clear those out. I hoped they’d be careful when they made the bonfire, in my garden.

  I entered the woods whistling a tune. It was the one about Charlie Chaplin that we used to sing while we were marching, back in Mesopotamia.

  Copyright

  First published 2007 by Hodder & Stoughton

  This edition published 2015 by Bello

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan

  20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

  Basingstoke and Oxford

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.co.uk/bello

  ISBN–978-1-5098-0088-9

  ISBN–978-1-5098-0087-2

  ISBN–978-1-5098-0086-5

  Copyright © Sarah Harrison, 2007

  The right of Sarah Harrison to be identified as the

  author of this work has been asserted by her in

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