After stowing the raven in her pocket until she could find a safe hiding place for it, Mae looped the rope around the pigpen gate and tied the knot exactly as Gelbane had taught her, daring it to come undone. She glanced at the flower-eating sow. She should’ve taken Leif up on his offer to help catch the remaining pigs. The sow winked and grinned as if reading Mae’s mind. Mae shook her head; first Gelbane’s fangs, now a winking pig—her eyes must be playing tricks on her today.
“My breakfast, NOW!” Gelbane shrieked from the house. “Or you’ll get the whip just for my amusement!”
As fast as she could, Mae scampered across the farmyard.
Chapter Three
Stars shone in the deep velvet sky as Mae lay back in the hay. It had been a long day. Window washing, floor scrubbing, stall mucking, sock darning. The work was never-ending. And then Gelbane had made Mae choose between supper and the new letter that had come in the post from her mother. Mae’s stomach churned and gurgled. It really wasn’t a choice.
A piglet nestled against Mae and snuffled in her ear, its breath warm and damp. She patted his bristly back. “I’m glad to be snuggling with you, too, pig-pig.”
Being in the barn was almost better than sleeping in the house with Gelbane, but she yearned for her cozy dreaming nook. And she missed tucking the frayed ends of her old blanket under her chin. At least the pigs didn’t snore.
Pulling the newest letter from her pocket, Mae unfolded the stiff paper. The letters were scrawled across the page in a loose calligraphy.
My Dearest One,
I dream of you at night, and your father, who I am still searching for. The search has been in vain, I fear, but I will not give up, as I hope you will not give up on me returning to you. Be good for Gelbane, do as you are bid. You must be getting so grown up now. Until I find the time to write again,
Your Mother
Mae thought of Mabel, Mother Underknoll’s newly born, as she let the letter fall from her fingers. Would Mabel grow up wishing for her momma the way Mae did? At least Mabel still had her father and not just a lock of his hair. Mae only had memories of her parents to cling to. She was six when her momma left, too young to understand why Momma was leaving. But after she went away, odd things started happening at Mae’s house. Pumpkins growing with jack-o’-lantern faces, knots untying themselves, and now chickens laying purple eggs. Mae couldn’t explain any of it. Or why it was happening far too often nowadays.
The piglet gave Mae a sidelong glance when her belly grumbled again. “Sorry. I can skip breakfast, but it’s torture to miss noon meal, high tea, supper, and midnight nibble. I spent all day doing chores or trying to catch you piglets.”
Mae rubbed her sore backside, trying to forget the paddling she’d received. A few piglets were worth much more to Gelbane than an abandoned hapenny.
The pigs settled into the hay, and Mae gazed out through the window high above. The full moon lit the inside of the barn like a table full of blazing candles. She pulled her flute from her apron pocket and rubbed the smooth finish with her thumb. How she wished she could remember all the songs her mother used to play. But she only remembered one.
Putting her fingers to the flute, Mae filled the barn with a sleepy tune. It was the lullaby every hapenny mother sang to comfort her little ones. The one she was going to try on Gelbane, if she ever got the chance. Mae knew every word and every note. She could almost hear her mother’s lilting voice singing in harmony.
Soft sleep, my little hapenny
Outside, “Goodnight,” the owls call
I’ll tuck you safely in your bed
Protector of the Wedge watches over all
His magick watches over all.
The wind will sing a lullaby
Nod, oh nod, your head
While stars are slowly drifting by
Dream sweetly in your bed
Dream sweetly in your bed.
Soft sleep, my little hapenny
Outside, “Goodnight,” the owls call
I’ll tuck you safely in your bed
Protector of the Wedge watches over all
His magick watches over all
His magick watches over all.
Spotting a spider web clinging to the rafters, Mae dropped the flute on her chest and reached to trace the shining strands with a finger. It was too high to actually touch, but she pretended. Each time she pointed to an anchor strand, it sparkled brightly.
Halfway through the tracing of the spider’s complicated design a black bird flapped through the window. It had a long, curving beak and feathers that stuck out haphazardly on its chest. It settled on a wooden beam, cocking its head back and forth, as if trying to get a good look at her.
“Hello,” Mae said. Her voice trembled a little. Her ears pressed flat against her head. The black gaze of a raven could be a bit frightening. “Hello, my mighty friend.”
The bird shifted his feet on the beam. “Hello, Maewyn.”
Mae sat upright. The flute rolled into the hay. Her heart pounded in her ears. She stared open-mouthed. “You can talk?”
Mae had heard tales of birds that could talk, but she’d never met one. Before the Great Troll Invasion, hapennies had welcomed the occasional visit from a traveling minstrel, and she remembered hearing stories of high adventure on the sea, adventures hapennies would never dare. In the stories, the great men kept birds as pets, and taught them to speak, and sent them off to scout for land when supplies were low.
The raven glided to where Mae sat and folded his wings against his body. He looked like the carving Leif had given her this morning. She felt her pocket. The carving was still there. As she reached out with a shaking hand to touch the silky feathers, she wondered if he was one of the birds from the Burrbridge’s cornfield. He pressed his head against her palm and then hopped back, gesturing with his wing. “Come, Maewyn.”
“Come?” It was strange enough that the bird was talking, but now he wanted her to follow him? Mae narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips. “Come where?”
“Come.” The raven flapped back up to the rafters and then to the sill of the open window high above.
Mae had so many questions. How did this raven learn to talk? How did he know her name? How could she ignore him?
There was light from a full moon, and Mae knew the Wedge like she knew the skin of an apple. She would make sure she was back before dawn, before Gelbane had a reason to check on her. The raven took flight, heading for the forest. Mae jumped up, ran to the door, and pushed it open to the chill night air.
She paused to look back at the piglets, all snuggled together. What if she didn’t return before the sun rose? Would Gelbane take her anger out on the pigs? Would she use the whip instead of her hand on Mae’s backside next time, or shackle Mae as she’d threatened before? Mae swallowed, indecision swirling in her mind. “It couldn’t be any worse than today, right, pig-pig?”
The piglet snuffled, rubbing its snout against the warm hay she’d left behind.
“Right. I’ll be back in two flicks of a goat’s ear!” Mae scampered across the yard and onto the trail that led through the field at the edge of the forest. Few had traveled this road since the disappearance of those in the Great Expedition.
Her feet pattered against the dirt path, and Mae hesitated as she arrived at the far reaches of her village, known as the Wedge. The only bridge leading from the mainland to the hapenny island arched over the rushing river that separated the two. The protective runes on the pillars held shadows in the moonlight. Mae shivered at the sight of the tall stones looming on the riverbank. The stones were trolls that had tried to cross the bridge. The rune magick had turned them into lumpy granite sentinels. The Wedge’s Protector must have left the stone trolls there as a warning to other invaders; perhaps it was a warning for adventurous hapennies as well.
“Come, Maewyn!” the raven called.
Mae shifted from foot to foot with indecision. She was safe in the Wedge—safe from trolls. Those hairy, drooling bea
sts liked to eat hapennies. Her nose twitched with nervousness. Her ears swiveled, listening for strange sounds in the night. The closest she’d ever come to crossing the bridge was fishing beside it with Leif and Reed. On the other hand, a bird had never talked to her before. Mae dashed across the planks before she could change her mind.
Bright eyes peered at her over swells in the land. She hoped the eyes belonged to owls or opossums and not to something more frightening. She scurried over fallen trees, hands brushing across soft moss. A shiver ran through her, and she wrapped her arms around herself. She’d never been alone in the forest at night. Every once in a while, the trees would thin, and she could see the moon shining at the top of the world, like the round, weighted end of a clock pendulum. Mae picked up her pace and sprinted across a meadow glittering with dew.
When the hem of her skirt was sodden and heavy, Mae stopped, plopped onto a tree stump, and rubbed her chilled, wet toes. She’d come so far from the Wedge. Would she be able to find her way back?
The raven alighted on a nearby boulder.
“We’ve traveled so far already,” Mae said. “What is it you want me to see?”
The bird flew off once again, calling for her to follow.
Mae slouched and crossed her arms over her chest. “Why should I?”
A cool breeze wound through the trees and a twig cracked somewhere nearby. Mae jumped from her perch, forgetting about her chilled toes, and sprinted after the raven. She didn’t dare look back.
The air was heavy with the fragrance of wet leaves and pine needles. Mae stumbled over tree roots, and her apron snagged on the thorns of budding raspberry bushes. The stars had traveled halfway across the sky when Mae found herself near a babbling creek.
She knelt to drink from the dark water, not even bothering to cup her hand, but slurping straight from the current. She had followed the raven too far. She should turn around now, even though there was no hope of being home before Gelbane discovered her missing. Mae strengthened her resolve to face the fact that she would get more than just a few chilly nights in the barn and a hungry belly. She would lose hide from her backside, of that she was sure. And for what? A midnight stroll in the forest with a bossy bird.
Lifting her head to wipe the dribbles of water from her face, Mae saw a path made of stones, going through the creek. The wet faces of the rocks glistened. She followed the path with her eyes.
Chapter Four
Just beyond the creek, a cozy cabin nestled within a grove of oaks. It wasn’t the dwelling of a hapenny, of that Mae was sure. Hapennies always built their homes under something: hills, bridges, stones, or ancient trees. A thin tendril of smoke, like dragon’s breath, curled over the thatched roof.
The raven settled on the cabin’s stone chimney. Uneven granite stairs led to a small covered porch. Under the single front window, a long planting box overflowed with night-blooming flowers. The pale petals basked in the glow of the yellow moon. The door to the cottage was open, and Mae saw a man at the hearth.
She crossed the creek and crept closer.
The man in the cottage was tall, with a long, ginger beard. His garments were not rich, but they were clean and serviceable. His breeches were the color of plums, his linen shirt a spinach green. Shiny buttons connected his suspenders to his waistband.
“Maewyn, come,” the raven called.
The bird glided from the chimney, went through the open door, and landed on the rounded back of an overstuffed chair. Ducking behind a tree for cover, Mae wondered why the raven had led her here. A woodsman’s cottage!
The man approached the raven, his leather-clad feet shushing across the wood plank floor. “Where have you been, my friend?”
Mae saw affection in his face as the woodsman scratched under the raven’s beak. To treat a bird like that, he had to be better than Gelbane. Perhaps he wasn’t a woodsman after all. Maybe he was the Wedge’s Protector. A wizard would have a talking bird as sure as a hapenny would have a lavender honey muffin recipe. Perhaps he could explain the odd things happening at the farm. Mae stepped out from behind the tree.
The raven cocked his head. The man followed the bird’s gaze. “Maewyn,” the bird called. It felt like an introduction.
Hesitantly, Mae gathered her skirts, her foot lifting to find the first stair. Soft light from the fire fell on her face. The mouth-watering smell of fowl and roasting vegetables teased her nose. The juices from the roast sizzled on the hot coals. Something bubbled in a pot over the fire. Mae hadn’t eaten since supper the day before. Her stomach called out for nourishment.
Mae lifted her eyes to the man. The end of his beard was braided like a pack pony’s tail, with a thin red ribbon holding it together. The nose that protruded over the beard was broad and squashed at the tip. What should she say? She wound the corner of her apron around her thumb.
“Please, sir, I have walked all night.” Mae pointed to the raven perched on the chair and her belly grumbled again. “That bird led me here.”
The man chuckled, and Mae felt embarrassment crawl up her neck like a tomato vine growing up a fence post. She was foolish to think a human would ever believe that a bird led her through the forest. Foolish to think a human would be better than the worst-tempered hapenny. Foolish to think this man could possibly be the Protector of the Wedge.
Hugging herself, Mae turned from the door and the fire. She would find her way back through the forest. Back to the dishes and the scrubbing of floors. Back to the feeding of chickens. Back to Gelbane.
“Maewyn.”
Mae started at the man’s deep voice.
“Come back.” Laughter filled the space between them. “Come back, Maewyn. I wasn’t laughing at you. I forgot hapennies always take things so close to heart. I was just… wasn’t expecting a…hap—well, just wasn’t expecting you. That’s all.” He held out his hand. “It is nice to meet you, Maewyn.”
Mae reached for the long fingers. The man’s grasp was warm as it closed around her hand.
Skin the color of brewed tea crinkled around hazel eyes. Freckles tiptoed across the wide bridge of his nose. In the brim of the man’s hat, a small furry creature was curled, asleep. “Are you the Protector of the Wedge?”
“Some call me that.”
“What do the others call you?”
The man chuckled softly. “Callum. The others call me Callum, and so can you.” He let her hand fall from his. “I have a lovely partridge roast and some vegetable soup, but it needs a few more minutes to simmer. Would you like some fresh bread?”
Mae nodded. She had always just accepted what was given; never had Gelbane asked what she would like.
Callum gestured for Mae to follow as he loped down the steps with an easy gait. She had to run to keep up with his long stride. Callum pointed to a meadow behind the cottage. “Do you see the wheat stalks?”
Mae nodded. They looked like pale shafts of moonlight rising from the earth. But this wasn’t the right time for wheat!
Callum gathered ripe kernels from the stalks, took Mae’s hand, and turned it over in his grasp. He placed the kernels in her open palm. She ran her thumb over their rough surface while Callum strolled to the creek. To make bread you had to have flour, and flour came from grinding wheat kernels into powder. She’d learned that much from Mrs. Birchbeam, the village baker. But how were they going to make bread in time for supper? It needed time to rise.
Returning with a handful of water, Callum dribbled it on the grains. Mae swallowed hard as the kernels grew warm in her hand. Her heart pittered against her ribs. She wasn’t sure what to expect.
Using the braided end of his beard like a wand, Callum swirled it above the wheat kernels. “A sweetened loaf is the prize. Grains of flour, quickly rise!”
The kernels wiggled and danced. Water swirled and steamed. Mae’s nose twitched with the smell of fresh bread. She watched in awe as the kernels expanded, the hard hulls falling away. Soon Mae held a small, browned loaf of bread. Her mouth watered as a pat of butter app
eared and melted over the crusty surface.
“Go on, eat it,” Callum said with a wave of his hand. He turned and strolled back to the fire-lit cottage.
Mae pulled off the end of the loaf and stuffed it into her mouth. The bite was warm and soft, and it didn’t hurt her teeth like the stale barley bread she’d always had to eat. “Thank you, sir,” she mumbled through a mouthful.
“It was the least I could do after you’ve come so far,” Callum said. “Are you coming in or not?”
Mae skipped back up to the cottage. By the time she reached the first step, the loaf was nearly gone. When she reached the threshold, she swallowed the last bite. As she entered the cottage, her curiosity grew bigger than her hunger.
Chapter Five
Books were stacked everywhere, with titles on the spines like Badabing’s Cache of Spells, Pognut’s Potions and Brews, and Ahem’s Book of Proper Grammar for Spell Casting.
Mae’s mother had owned a lot of books, too. Gelbane had used most for kindling, but Mae was able to sneak a few away and hide them in the rafters of the barn. She’d read those few stories over and over again, until she could nearly recite them by heart. The only book Gelbane had kept was The Hapenny Farmer’s Guide to Pig Wifery and Husbanding. It was a large tome explaining the finer points of swine breeding. Gelbane had recited the first rule: “Never breed a pig during a full moon.” Leif’s dad, Farmer Burrbridge, said that full-moon piglets would turn feral and grow tusks. Mae wasn’t sure if he was teasing her when he told her that, but Mae never touched the book without Gelbane’s permission, and then only to wipe the soot from its cover, so she hadn’t had a chance to read the truth.
A red, oversized chair stuffed full to bursting sat close to the hearth, with an oval-shaped rug on the floor in front of it made from loops of colorful fabric. Mae was pretty sure she saw a fancy-dressed critter scurry under a tall cabinet in the corner. She dropped to her knees and peeked under, but only caught sight of little footprints in the dust. “What was that?”
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