She felt like a shipwrecked swimmer, far from
shore on a dark night: that the water around her was much too deep,
that she must rest, and wait for some beacon to lead her again to
solid ground.
But for all this, she could not help feeling drawn to the ancient
chest from which her mother had taken the hemlock. She told herself to
forget it, but could not.
That her mother practiced in the black arts was apparent; and a vague
feeling that perhaps through witchcraft she might reach the troubled
spirit of her beloved, drove her in the end to hard courage,
overriding all other considerations.
She went to the window and peered out, then moved to the door.
Stepping beyond it furtively, like a young rabbit outside the den, she
looked about her. The sun hung motionless almost exactly at the noon,
and the chill of night had passed. There was no sign of her mother,
nor any other creature save a solitary hawk, which soared watchful
high above.
She went inside again and rolled back the corner of the carpet, as in
quick glances she had seen her mother do.
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