“Stop what you are doing at once!” said Auld Nancy, waving her broom at the lovely woman. “Let the girl be.” The old woman shook her head. “Enchantress,” she muttered. “Can’t put it aside for a minute.”
The woman pulled her cloak tighter about her and asked Auld Nancy, “Was it you who summoned me? And why?” Her voice was deep and a little rough, like iron cart wheels on a rutted road. Grayling started in surprise; she had expected music.
“’Twas this girl who called.” Auld Nancy sat back and waited for Grayling to tell the story, but Grayling yet sat open-mouthed and gawking. Auld Nancy huffed and began. “Something evil, something with stealth and power, has discomfited our fellows, taken their spell books, fired their dwellings. We think it be the spell books the evil force wants. I be Auld Nancy, and I can call sunshine or rain, but I was spared, likely because I have no grimoire.” Popping a bit of bread into her mouth, Auld Nancy went on. “Nor do you, I suspect, for you are here.”
The woman sat down. “I am called Desdemona Cork, and ’tis true I have no grimoire. Other enchanters have such—books of charms and spells to attract and enchant—but I have no need.” She twitched, and the aromas of fresh bread and warm wine, spring breezes and summer flowers, filled Grayling’s nose. Her head spun.
Auld Nancy waved the sweet odors away and said, “Then you may be the only one of your kind left unfettered.”
“’Tis true? It seems most unlikely. Who are you that I should believe what you say?”
“Misdoubt me, if you will. Go on your way. But consider if I tell the truth, if there is such a force abroad, and it claims the rest of us. Imagine your feet growing into the ground, and bark, thick and rough, moving up from your ankles, over your body, slowly but relentlessly turning you into a tree.”
Pansy squealed. With a squirm and a tug, Desdemona Cork pulled her cloak still closer, and said, “Again I ask, why was I summoned? What do you want with me?”
“We few here,” said Auld Nancy, “unskilled and reluctant as we may be, must discover what is afoot, and why, and who is responsible. We will have to work together.”
“I do not work together,” said Desdemona Cork. “I have never had the need.”
Auld Nancy turned red with temper, and Grayling spoke up. “You must help. Everyone must help. I have seen the horror of my mother, bark to her knees, rooted to the ground, helpless.”
“Roots. Bark. Horror. This sounds dangersome,” said Desdemona Cork as she helped herself to a pork rib. “I like it not and will have no part of it.”
Auld Nancy slammed her hand on the table, and mead sloshed from their cups. “Go, then,” she said, “but leave the rib!” And she yanked the meat from Desdemona Cork’s hand.
The enchantress stood, then stopped still as the room grew dark and cold. A wind rose outside that rattled the windows and set the inn sign creaking. It whistled down the chimney, shooting flames from the fireplace like an angry dragon in an ancient story. Wisps of smoke writhed and coiled through the room.
Grayling shivered.
Auld Nancy wheezed.
Pansy whimpered.
And Desdemona Cork sat down again. “It seems that something is amiss indeed. What do you propose we do about it?”
“I expect,” said Auld Nancy “that the spell or conjuration we need to defeat this evil force can be found in a grimoire.” She paused for a sip from her mead cup. “But how to find the grimoires?”
Grayling looked at the others. Auld Nancy shrugged and stared at the table. Desdemona Cork jingled the bracelets on her arm. Pansy took the last sausage, biting it so fiercely that grease shot out like sparks from a bonfire.
Oh, rats and rabbit droppings! It will have to be me. Grayling gritted her teeth. “We can find my mother’s grimoire,” she said at last. “She has a song she sings, and her grimoire will sing back, if it is not too far away and no water stands between them.”
“A discovery song,” said Auld Nancy, and she nodded. “Trust Hannah Strong to have such. But she is not here.”
Grayling shook her head. “Nay, she cannot leave, rooted as she is, but she taught me the song. ’Tis not an easy song to sing or to hear, but I will try to teach it to you. You can follow it to her grimoire, and I can go home.”
She sang, and the grimoire sang back to her. Grayling heard the song, not through her ears but with every part of her. It was in the air—she could hear it without hearing it. She could see it, taste it, feel it. “Do you hear it?”
“Hear what?” the three asked in unison.
Grayling’s hopes sagged. She sang again. “Can you sing it?”
They could not. The others could neither sing the song nor hear the grimoire singing back.
Auld Nancy shook her head. “The song and the grimoire belong to you.”
“Nay, they are my mother’s.”
“Can you sing the song?”
Grayling nodded.
“Does the grimoire sing back?”
Grayling nodded again.