Tales From The Wyrd Museum 2: The Raven's Knot Read Online Free PDF

the museum. This is no place for her, the... the musty atmosphere is injurious to her. You know that neither of you are allowed down here, I shall lock the doorway behind me next time.’
    It appeared to Edie that Miss Celandine was on the verge of retaliating with some choice words of her own, but she must have thought better of it for she turned and helped the weeping Miss Veronica to hobble out through the gateway.
    ‘It was her,’ Miss Veronica's blubbering voice sniffed and warbled. ‘She made me do it. I didn't want to come... I didn't want any of this.’
    Rigid and wintry, Miss Ursula watched them depart.
    ‘An unhappy family have you joined, Edith,’ she said keeping her voice level, hoping she betrayed nothing of the turmoil which boiled beneath her stern exterior. ‘My two poor sisters are wasting away in mind as well as body. Their lives and mine are bound closely to that of Nirinel—as it fades so, too, do we.’
    Edie eyed her shrewdly. ‘And mine?’ she demanded.
    ‘The young will not perish as swiftly as the aged,’ came the unhelpful reply. ‘I do not foresee what is to come for the loom is damaged and the web was never completed, but I believe you shall be our salvation—in one way or another.’
    The child looked down at her feet. Then she asked, ‘What happened to the ice giants? Did they kill the World Tree?’
    ‘The lords of the ice and dark?’ Miss Ursula paused. ‘The rest of that tale must wait. You have learned much this night, but now I am obliged to go and make certain that Veronica is settled. Let us return to the museum, I too find this environment disturbing. I have recounted all I care to for the time being and you must be patient.’
    Edie jumped from the dais and took hold of Miss Ursula's proffered hand, but the woman's palm was cold and clammy. The girl knew that Miss Veronica's words had shaken her more than she dared to admit and she could not help but wonder why.

Chapter 3 - Thought and Memory

    Far above the subterranean caverns within The Wyrd Museum, all was at peace. Only fine, floating dust moved through the collections, the same invisible clouds of powdery neglect that had flowed from room to room since the day the smaller, original building was founded.
    Night crawled by and the museum settled contentedly into the heavy shadows that its own irregular, forbidding bulk created.
    In the small bedroom he shared with Josh, Neil Chapman's fears were cast aside with the old clothes he had brought from the past and the eleven-year-old boy was steeped in a mercifully dreamless slumber. Beside him, his brother snored softly, while in the room beyond, their father was stretched upon the couch—a half drunk cup of tea teetering upon the padded arm.
    Outside the museum, in the grim murk of the sinking, clouded moon, a black shape—darker than the deepest shadow, moved silently through the deserted alleyway, disturbing the nocturnal calm.
    Into Well Lane the solitary figure stole, traversing the empty, gloom-filled street before he turned, causing the ample folds of his great black cloak to trail and drag across the pavement.
    Swathed and hidden beneath the dank, midnight robe, his face lost under a heavy cowl, the stranger raised his unseen eyes to stare up at the blank windows of the spire-crowned building before him.
    From the hood's profound shade there came a weary and laboured breath as a cloud of grey vapour rose into the winter night.
    ‘The hour is at hand,’ a faint, mellifluous whisper drifted up with the curling steam. ‘The time of The Cessation is come, for I have returned.’
    The voice fell silent as the figure raised its arms and the long sleeves fell back, revealing two pale and wizened hands. In the freezing air the arthritic fingers drew a curious sign and, from the hood, there began a low, restrained chanting.
    ‘Harken to me!’ droned the murmuring voice.
    ‘My faithful, devoted ones—know who speaks. Your Master has arisen from His cold, cursed