Shadow of the Raven by Tessa Harris Page B

proving particularly popular these days. And for the few who’d cross her palm with silver, for amusement or mere curiosity, she’d read her shew stones. Rolling them on the flat ground with a shake and a flick of her scrawny wrist, she’d study them carefully. Sucking at her gums, she’d either shake her head solemnly or twitch her lips into a smile and nod, depending on what she said she saw. A few people believed her. Many did not, but on this particular afternoon she hadn’t needed her powers to know something was amiss. Her fowl had told her, her chickens and turkeys. They’d clucked and squawked and gobbled, and above their din she had heard a horse whinnying. She’d been sitting by a hissing fire at the time. The logs were damp and the room was smoky. Using the last remnants of daylight, she’d been threading a chicken feather through the memory cord that hung by the door; each one marked a week since her husband passed. She’d not wanted to lose track of time, so every seven days she looped another feather into the yarn, just to remind her of her old Jack. She counted the quills. It had been thirty-six weeks since he’d died, choked by the Devil’s Breath, like so many others. The monstrous fog had scoured his lungs and caused him to cough blood. Soon she’d have to start a new cord.
    At the sound of her hens’ clamor, she’d craned her scraggy neck to look out of her window. It was then she heard the noise that caused her most alarm. It had split the peaceful air with a mighty crack, like lightning cleaves a sturdy oak. It was the blast of gunshot; of that she was certain. Her first thought was that the Raven and his men were abroad, out to prey on innocent travelers. She’d drawn her bolts, blown out her candle, and kept low. It was then, from her window, that she saw the bushes shake and the dark shapes of men race away from the thicket. There were three, or maybe four of them. She watched them charging down the track as if the very devil himself were in hot pursuit. She had a good idea who they were, so she was more curious than afraid.
    The next time she opened her door was on the following day. Three sidemen in Boughton livery dismounted on the dead leaves outside her cottage. They knocked and called her name. A gentleman had been murdered, they said. Had she seen or heard anything? they asked. She shook her head. She did not like this new breed at Boughton. They would have to break her old bones on a rack wheel before she’d tell their sort anything.
    â€œAn old woman like me lives in fear,” she cried, spittle flying from her gums. “There’s always footpads and highwaymen abroad.” She pulled her shawl over her baggy breasts as she spoke. “And there’s my hens. Not laid today, they haven’t,” she told them, even though, in truth, she hadn’t ventured out to look.
    One of the men, their leader, she guessed, built like a brick barn with not a hair on his head, barged past her and cast an eye around her room: the dried herbs hanging from the rafters, the kettle by the hearth, the filthy rags on the bed, the dark corners festooned with webs. “You heard no men? No gunshot?”
    Maggie shook her frizzy gray head. “I heard nothing,” she replied. She knew if she told them she’d seen a huddle of woodsmen up ahead fighting their way out of the thicket like things possessed, no matter what their purpose, they’d be hauled over the coals.

Chapter 11
    R eturning to Brandwick later in the afternoon, Thomas intended to go straight to the Three Tuns. He did not wish to be interrogated by Geech, or anyone else for that matter, on what he had found in Raven’s Wood. Circumstances, however, conspired against him. As he rode into town at the top of the High Street, he could see that a crowd of people had gathered ’round the square. He urged on his horse.
    â€œWhat goes on?” called