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Back The Whistling Save as PDF
Chapters (52)
  1. COVER
  2. About the Author
  3. DEDICATION
  4. EPIGRAPH
  5. Part One
  6. 1
  7. 2
  8. 3
  9. 4
  10. 5
  11. 6
  12. 7
  13. 8
  14. 9
  15. 10
  16. 11
  17. 12
  18. 13
  19. 14
  20. 15
  21. 16
  22. 17
  23. 18
  24. 19
  25. 20
  26. Part Two
  27. 21
  28. 22
  29. 23
  30. 24
  31. 25
  32. 26
  33. 27
  34. 28
  35. 29
  36. 30
  37. 31
  38. 32
  39. 33
  40. 34
  41. 35
  42. Part Three
  43. 36
  44. 37
  45. 38
  46. 39
  47. 40
  48. 41
  49. 42
  50. 43
  51. Acknowledgements
  52. THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

She looked away then. ‘And in truth, I did not get to know William very well when he came here. Hettie took care of the children and when she left, I had Greer. Apart from lessons the contact was not so much.’

‘And when people told you what he and Hettie did?’

‘I ignored it,’ she said simply. ‘I chose not to believe what I heard, but after Hettie had gone I found the evidence of it myself.’

I looked down to hide how much that appalled me. I wanted to ask her what she had discovered but I held back. What I had learned already was distasteful enough.

‘And Greer was not able to steer him right?’

She looked up at me, something steely in her eyes, and I read the answer there.

I climbed the stairs with heavy legs, pausing for a moment outside Mary’s chamber. I opened the door and looked at her sleeping face. I felt horror at Miss Gillies’ negligence and the damage it had caused. Clara’s bangle, which she had refused to remove at bedtime, circled her wrist. I imagined Hettie, whispering spells into her ear – slim fingers winding hair about a pebble. As I looked upon her slight form, that fear that I had felt for her at the graveyard came again pressing on my chest.

In my room, I undressed quickly and climbed beneath the covers. Above me the weight of Hettie’s room drifted downwards on the air. A woman who experimented with witchcraft – I did not believe in such things, that the world could be twisted on a set of words or an object, even the death of an animal. I wanted to laugh at the idea, but the thought writhed in my stomach like a piece of paper caught in fire. I imagined her then in some room in an American city with red-cheeked children lying asleep just along the corridor. I imagined all the wickedness behind those lovely eyes and all the poison that she would let fall from her tongue, and shuddered.

I saw in my head the bird that hung from William’s headstone – its wings twisted like a macabre brooch. I pulled the covers closer and felt something hard at my neck. Reaching in, I plucked it from the pillow and lit a candle.

And there, lying on my white palm, was a new pebble, round and dark – a childish figure drawn on its surface and bound, as if in chains, by hair.

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