Then I saw the cloud.
Never had I seen a cloud so dark and dense before, and I stilled, watching it gather speed and size as it roared above me, all but filling the sky. Unnatural and black, it headed directly for me, coming from the direction of Coldthistle. And as it lowered itself, diving down, furious with sound and falling feathers, I realized it was not a cloud at all but a horrible mass of crows. The noise was unbearable, thousands of shrieking, cawing creatures swooping toward my head. They gained speed, making one pass and circling over the cottage, turning, making a wide circle as they prepared to dive at me from behind.
I ran again, just as hard this time, pelting toward the cottage, saying a desperate prayer under my breath, pleading with powers greater than beasts and birds for the strength to outrun this menace. Bits of black feather rained down on me as they took another pass, so near now that I felt the beating of their wings on my head as they dived. One pecked my hair, pulling out a few strands painfully. Another stabbed at my ear, and I screamed, throwing my arms over my head, sobbing, knowing their next attempt would be the last.
How would it feel to be killed by a thousand crows? Pecked and shredded to ribbons like carrion long dead on the road. . . .
They were coming back around, but now I was so close to the cottage. The sheep dispersed in an explosion of woolly bodies, their bleats suddenly panicked as I charged through the herd. The dog yapped excitedly at my heels, then disappeared. As I careered toward the cottage door, I heard the beast turn and bark furiously at the birds.
I slammed hard into the door. It was made of sturdy wood, but it creaked from the impact. Locked. My fists pounded and pounded, sweat pouring down my neck and forehead as I glanced behind one last time to see the crows descending, flattening into a black, murderous spear.
“Let me in!”
They were coming, so close, so focused . . .
“Please, I beg of you! Let me in!”
I braced, knowing the rip and tear of a hundred hungry beaks would be upon me. The sheep had scattered. The dog placed itself in front of me as if to take the blow. Then I was soaring backward, tumbling into something soft and warm before the door slammed shut, protecting me.
The sound that came next was awful. I shook, listening to the birds not quick enough to change course crash into the wood. Some stuck like arrows in a target; others screamed before falling dead to the dirt.
“Not your birds, I reckon?”
Slowly, I picked myself up from the floor, still trembling and breathless. A snowy-haired man and a young woman watched me from the safety of a fire, their dog sniffing the door and then me curiously.
“N-No, not mine. You saved my life,” I whispered. “Thank you.”
“Oh no, thank you, my dear. Our pot will be full with those meaty buggers for a week,” the old man said with a dark laugh. “Now sit, why don’t you, and have a spot of ale. Yes, you’ll sit and you’ll tell us who you are and what business you have bringing ill omens to our door.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
The ale was strong and bitter and fortifying as it went down. I gulped it, perhaps greedily, both hands clamped tightly around the earthenware cup. All the while, I drew deeper inside myself, feeling crushed by the weight of their staring.
“I’m so sorry to trouble you.” It was the third time in as many minutes that I had offered an apology. “I don’t . . . I don’t know how such a thing can happen.”
Already I had told them my name but without telling them about the horrors of Coldthistle House, I could not tell them the truth and still expect to receive anything resembling hospitality.
“Strange occurrences all the time ’round here,” the old man said. He hadn’t given his own name, but there was something in his voice and his demeanor that made me want to trust him; he looked the way a kindly grandfather ought to, round-faced and soft, with wrinkled eyelids from smiling often. And I could hardly think ill of a person who saved me from a dreadful fate. It was then, with his face lit in yellows and golds by the fire, that I could see the film over his eyes. Blind. The speckled, furry Shetland sheepdog had gone to sit at his master’s feet, and the man kept one hand always on the hound’s head as if for guidance.
“Once the entire west field lay covered in those blasted crows. Couldn’t sleep for the bloody racket they made. Next morning there was only a circle of them left, and not a one of them living.”
“He says you grow accustomed to it,” the girl said with a shrug. “But I don’t think I ever will.”
Her name was Joanna. She had given me the ale and a moistened cloth to clean the blood off my ear from where the bird had pierced the skin. She now sat next to the old man—who I assumed was her father or grandfather—dressed in sensible flannels, a long skirt, and worn boots. A chunky shawl the color of porridge was draped around her narrow shoulders. Her straw-blonde hair was plaited neatly in one braid over her shoulder.
“You’ve seen things like that before?” My ale was nearly gone, and I slowed down to savor the last few sips.
The old man nodded. He was dressed in typical shepherd’s fashion, with a soft brimmed cap worn low over his eyes. “Strange omens, though we seem to get on all—”
“They say the Devil himself lives at Coldthistle House!” Joanna blurted out. She shrank when the old man snorted. “What? Swinton to Wykeham they say it. Circles of crows in the west field, serpents bubbling up under your feet in the vegetable garden, and last autumn half the pasture was naught but nightshade!”
The blind shepherd cleared his throat, turning his head toward the girl, and she fell quiet, looking down at her hands in her lap. “I only say it to warn her, Father. For no other reason.”
“I know it, child, but she is already frightened enough. We aren’t yet acquainted, are we? Perhaps she is not in need of a warning.”
“Oh . . . Oh, indeed, I see what you mean. Did you come from there?” Joanna hopped up, hurrying to the pantry and fetching the carafe of ale. She filled my cup and then poured one for herself, sitting closer. She didn’t seem to heed the little grunts of dissatisfaction her father gave. She propped her chin on her palm and leaned in, whispering, “Did you see him?”
Him. The Devil. She of course meant Mr. Morningside. The ale did not go down so easily on my next swallow. Surely, I had seen him, but could he really be called the Devil? And given all his evil and strangeness, would I want to risk associating myself with him in front of my hosts? I managed a queasy smile, swirling the ale in my cup.
“It’s . . . true I came from there, but I had no dealings with the proprietor.” What to say? And how much? “I went to take up employment as a maid, but I found the conditions untenable.”