The Ice King (A Witch Ways Whisper) Read Online Free PDF

clever clogs. Shall we go for the bus?” she managed a sham smile. Lachlan shrugged.
    “I said…if you went in to see the fortune teller…we’d have to walk home.”
    “What?”
    “I’ve no more money, Liv. No bus fare.”
    The furious scream she let out silenced all the fairground clatter and, at the nearby Hook a Duck stall, killed one prize goldfish of a particularly nervous disposition.
    She flounced off and, Lachlan realised, he was rather relieved. He stood for a few moments watching her stride through the stalls, pushing small children out of her path. At the far end of the Goose Fair he could see Doug Kittredge trying his luck at the shooting gallery and Olivia was very careful indeed to barge into him. Doug Kittredge had a motorcycle.
    Lachlan, suddenly, did not want to wander home. He needed to clear his head and so a further round of the Goose Fair seemed a good option. His plan was to look nonchalant and carefree but leave by the far gate near the fortune teller’s tent. This route meant he could cut across the field at Five Bar Farm and avoid the road and any chance of Doug Kittredge’s motorcycle buzzing past him with Olivia riding pillion. Was he hiding? Was he skulking? Yes, Lachlan admitted it to himself. Elsewhere, that was where he needed to be.
    The fortune teller was sitting outside her tent smoking a cheroot. The aromatic smoke curled across Lachlan’s path. She was ordinary looking, dressed in old black clothes, a long skirt and a jumper riddled with holes. Her only concession to classical fortune telling attire seemed to be a black linen scarf that sparkled with beads. Lachlan was aware that she was watching him as he approached. He nodded greeting because she was staring so hard.
    Lachlan put a foot onto the bottom of the five bar gate, his hand reaching, ready to lift himself up and over to freedom.
    “John of Gaunt.” the fortune teller said. Lachlan halted his ascent, one foot on the gate the other still in the Goose Fair. He looked around. The fortune teller puffed out cheroot smoke.
    “John of Gaunt…” she repeated and waited for a response. Lachlan was not much of a historian, his studies had been mathematics, physics, chemistry.
    “I’m sorry?”
    “The tent. It didn’t belong to Richard the Lionheart…” she spoke in a matter of fact voice, pinched out the cheroot before putting it into her skirt pocket. “You were wrong…it belonged to John of Gaunt.” she paused, then ducked back into the raggedy tent. Lachlan Laidlaw stood by the gate for several minutes, his hand on the crossbar, his foot perched, ready to go. He could not go. He stepped back from the gate, his mind replaying the fortune teller’s comments and after about five minutes he turned and looked at the tent, the pennant cracked a little in the rising wind. A black wolf. A white ground. Beyond him the fairground music was whiny and discordant.
    Inside, the tent was cosy, a small table dressed with a green damask cloth and two neat fold up chairs. There was a small woodburner chugging out warmth, a kettle sat on the top and the fortune teller was stirring tea in a small, slightly chipped, brown earthenware pot.
    “Are you going to read the tea leaves?” Lachlan asked, lashing out a little in defence of his own unease.
    “No. I’m going to drink the tea.” the fortune teller said and poured two cups, she pushed one across the table to Lachlan. “Take the weight off…” she suggested. Lachlan’s stubborn resolve kept him standing for a few more minutes,
    “Tea’s getting cold.” she advised with a glance to the untouched cup.
    “Is that a prophecy?” Lachlan said. The fortune teller sniffed and reached for a small leather duffle bag. She dug around and retrieved a rather battered parcel of sandwiches. She offered him one.
    “Hungry?” she asked. Lachlan’s stomach betrayed him, growling greedily at the scent of the ham and mustard and possibly, yes, a slice of cheese in there. Lachlan,