The Hawkweed Prophecy by Irena Brignull Page B

mother like an offering to a god.
    â€œNot near the bird,” Raven complained, and Sorrel quickly moved it. Her mother didn’t stop working while she talked, her hands and mouth both plucking away. “Where’s Ember?”
    Pluck.
    â€œWith Charlock.”
    â€œNo, she’s not.”
    Pluck.
    â€œShe told me she was baking bread with her mother today.”
    â€œOh, she told you, did she?”
    Pluck. Sorrel’s skin began to smart.
    â€œAnd what has she been telling you these last three weeks?”
    â€œShe’s been unwell. Charlock kept her inside.”
    Pluck. Pluck. Pluck.
    Sorrel looked at her arm and saw the red pores emerge. “Mother!”
    Raven stopped and looked at Sorrel. “You said you would follow her.”
    â€œShe didn’t go anywhere.” Sorrel could hear her voice whining.
    â€œHow would you know? You weren’t following her.”
    â€œWhat was I supposed to do? Sit outside her caravan all day?”
    Before Sorrel had a chance to regret taking such an indignant tone, Raven had flung the featherless bird down. Its long neck, loose and limp, flopped heavily to the ground. Sorrel looked into its pink, glassy eye with a feeling of empathy as her mother rose roughly from her stool.
    â€œThat’s exactly what you were supposed to do. Do I have to stop all my work and trail the girl myself? What do you think your aunt would think about that?”
    Sorrel wanted to argue—what about lessons, what about food, what about me?! But she hung her head and said nothing.
    â€œGet some calendula for your arms,” her mother ordered.
    That was typical of Raven, first doling out the injury, then the salve. Realizing she was dismissed, Sorrel stomped away, swearing she wouldn’t eat a mouthful of that goose. But by dinner, the smell of it roasting was wafting in the air, and she couldn’t resist just a taste, then a second helping.

    Ember sidled onto the end of the bench and put her bowl down on the table. The coven tried to eat together whenever the weather allowed. Ember remembered brushing the snow off the bench last winter and eating with frostbitten fingers, her spoon hardly finding her mouth past her scarf. Tonight was mild for this time of year, though. A golden autumn day, where the ambers and bronzes of the trees blazed in the light. The powder-blue sky had darkened now; lamps hung from the lower branches of the trees and the tables were lit with candles. Tomorrow the frost would fall, promised the elders. Today, it was agreed, was a last encore of summer’s show before winter took the stage.
    â€œDid you have a good bake, then, Ember?”
    Ember looked to her left and saw her cousin’s sharp features cutting into view. “I did, cousin.” She started to eat, hoping that might be the end of the conversation. It wasn’t like Sorrel to address her at these gatherings. Her cousin rarely even sat near her if she could help it.
    Sorrel cracked open a bread roll and fished out the middle, dipping it into her sauce before plopping it into her mouth and chewing audibly. “Mm-nn. What is it I can taste? What did you put in this one, Ember?”
    Ember felt a rising panic. She forced herself to carry on with her meal as if unaffected. “I’m not sure which batch you are trying from,” she replied, rather proud of herself.
    â€œI think it is the taste of truth. That’s what it is. Honesty and truth. Delicious.”
    Ember willed her hand to stop trembling. She stared at Sorrel fearfully.
    â€œEat up, little cousin. Your goose is getting cold.”
    The meat stuck to Ember’s tongue, clogging in her throat and making it hard for her to breathe. She gulped down some water to help her swallow, but with Sorrel’s eyes on her, she had to lift her fork to her mouth once more and begin to chew again. She must do nothing to cause suspicion. For that afternoon Ember had broken the greatest of