Chantress Read Online Free PDF Page B

the confident answer. “Let me unhitch Aristotle, and then I’ll come in and tell you about it.”
    A moment later, I felt the cart drop beneath me. I flailed about for a handhold, but the straw slipped every which way, and I went with it. I hit the back of the barrels hard and slammed into the floor.
    Dazed, I brushed the straw from my eyes. A tall, fierce-eyed boy swam into view, a horrified look on his face. Beside him was an elderly graybeard whose spectacles shone like cat’s eyes in the dim lantern light.
    “Who is this?” the graybeard asked.
    “I’ve never seen her before,” the boy said.
    But I’ve seen you , I thought, gulping in dismay.
    He was the thief from the library.
    As the old man bolted the doors, I looked around for another way to escape. I could see none. The murky room—a stable, to judge from the manger and stall—was no more than two yards high and a few yards across, and its stone walls had no windows.
    The thief-boy drew a knife and hauled me up by my elbow. “How did you get into my cart?”
    Before I could answer, the old man flashed the lantern in my face. “Her eyes are normal.”
    “Not the Raven’s Own, then. But some kind of spy, I warrant.” The boy tightened his grip on me and brought the knife close. “Who are you? How long have you been following me?”
    I knew better than to say I’d seen him steal the book. “I haven’t been following you, and I mean you no harm. Let me go.”
    “Not on your life.” His grip was relentless. “You’re a spy. Confess it!”
    “I’m not. I swear I’m not.” I tried not to show how much his knife frightened me.
    The old man spoke, his voice quiet but firm. “Release her, Nat.”
    Nat bristled, but his grip slackened ever so slightly. “Is that wise, sir? If she’s a spy, she’s a danger to us.”
    “If she is one, yes. But there are other possibilities, and we must consider them. For the moment, allow her to tell her story in peace.”
    With a grimace, Nat let go of me. “Don’t think you can run,” he told me, his knife still at the ready. “I’ll be guarding the door. And there is no other way out.”
    Trying not to show how shaken I felt, I turned to the old man. His glasses caught the light and shimmered, then cleared, revealing a pair of thoughtful and observant eyes. “Let us begin again,” he said, his voice careful and slow. “You will tell us your name, please.”
    Despite his gentle manner, I was wary, especially as Nat continued to watch my every move. I selected a name from thin air. “I’m called Bess, sir.”
    “And how did you come to be in our donkey cart, Bess?”
    The silence stretched out uncomfortably as I tried to concoct a believable reply, one that avoided all mention of the library. “I’m a servant at”—what was the name of the place?—“Ravendon House, sir. But I was badly treated, and I wanted to leave, only I was afraid they would punish me if I tried. So this evening, when my duties were done, I slipped down to the stable yard, where I saw the cart waiting. No one was looking, so I climbed into it. And here I am.”
    “Her eyes shift when she speaks,” Nat observed from his corner by the door.
    “So they do,” the old man agreed. “But that may be mere nervousness. For now, let us give her the benefit of the doubt.” He nodded at me again. “Tell me, Bess, how long have you worked at Ravendon House?”
    “Er . . . two years, sir,” I said, doing my best to look steadily at him. “Or thereabouts.”
    “And where did you live before then?”
    Telling the truth was out of the question. “In London, sir.”
    “In which part?”
    I racked my brains for an acceptable answer. “By the river.”
    “On what street?”
    “River Street.” Surely there must be some such address.
    The old man rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I do not know this place. In what neighborhood is it?”
    I had no answer.
    The old man and Nat looked at each other.
    “Under your hand,” the old man