Prolly. But that just underscored the fact that so far, nothing she had seen or inferred about this witchery was bad.

Kinda looks like thet sign was th’ right one, she thought, reluctantly.

Down on her knees in the soft, fragrant earth, she soon got into the rhythm of things, and the gentle chickens scratched along beside her, making soothing, crooning noises and happily gobbling up whatever she tossed in their direction. It occurred to her in that moment that, here with Aunt Jinny, life was truly excellent. The chores she had been set, although they were not exactly fun, certainly had more about them that was pleasant than they had at home. She wasn’t breathing in smoke, she felt wonderful, and she was surrounded by growing things that were thriving instead of struggling to live. The chickens in particular were amusing; particularly desirable bugs elicited a competition that sometimes ended in the winner being pursued the length of a row of vegetables, at least until she swallowed her prize. It was peaceful down here, and if she could just shake the feeling of being homesick, it would be a little slice of Heaven.

But even with feeling homesick at this moment, the world around her was drowsy and quietly beautiful.

Then, between one moment and the next, everything changed.

The chickens suddenly alerted, heads all going up and swiveling toward the lane. And then, abruptly, they left. Not running, but not dawdling either, they moved quickly and with unnerving quiet in a tight group up to the cabin, as if they wanted to escape something that was coming.

Everything suddenly got brighter, and oddly, a little colder, a chill as if a goose had walked over her grave. And Anna felt a prickling between her shoulder blades, as if someone was watching her.

Something inside her told her to be very careful about what she did next.

There could be a bear behind her in the lane—but the Ravens had promised that there would be no bears near the cabin. There could be a wolf or even a panther, but neither of those would have brought cold and brightness with them, would they?

They might if they’s witchy-critters.

But it probably wasn’t something. It was probably someone. If there was someone there in the lane . . . it would be extremely rude to ignore them and keep weeding. But if that someone was witchy—which she suddenly suspected was the case, given how oddly the chickens had acted—she needed to think, and not act carelessly or impulsively.

And there was the chance that the person wasn’t merely witchy. It could be a devil. Aunt Jinny wasn’t devilish, but devils were attracted to witchery, and devils were always ready for a chance to trick you into a “bargain” that was no bargain at all, and wouldn’t a devil do his best to catch a budding witch? Seventeen Halloweens-worth of stories about devils and hants that she had absorbed sitting in the shadows at firesides and on porches warned her that if that was the case, she needed to be twice as careful as she would be with a witchy-human, and never show a lick of fear.