And so, growing wary of the witch's return, she lifted it
quickly and moved to the bed. There she slid it beneath her mattress,
then returned to the chest, which she closed and bound as before. She
had only just rolled back the carpet when she heard, muffled but
distinct, the cry of the hawk high above. And she knew, somehow she
knew, that her mother was coming back up the path.
She undressed again quickly, down to the slip, and was careful to set
the dress back on the chair as it had lain before. Climbing back into
the bed she was acutely aware of two sensations: the lump at the small
of her back made by the book, and the pounding of her heart.
The door-latch was lifted, the hinges creaked, and her mother stepped
into the room. She looked exhausted and grim, and seemed to take no
notice as her daughter sat up in the bed and addressed her.
"I'm feeling much better," she said, trying to sound bright and happy.
She could not quite pull it off, but thankfully, the old woman's mind
was elsewhere.
"It is done," she mumbled in reply, as much to herself as to the girl.
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