Strange Attractors - Kim Falconer [30]
The wind gusted through the barn and he found a thick rug for his horse, buckling it into place. Where was the rest of the livestock? Jarrod’s red mare, Wren, and the mountain ponies were nowhere in sight, nor were the goats and house cow. She couldn’t have taken them all with her through the portal but how’d she expect them to survive winter without care? He checked the loft. There was a full store of hay and grain. What was going on?
The mystery solved itself when he opened the back door. The animals had been pastured in the adjoining southern paddock, the gate to the overhang tied open so they could get to shelter and the outside mangers. Hay bales had been stacked in the chute—as they were eaten, another dropped down to replace it. Clever. She’d even re-tied them with thick rope so there was no chance of the animals ingesting the twine that normally held them fast. She must have planned on being away for some time.
What could she be doing? Searching the corridors for An’ Lawrence, or rearing her child in some other world? His child? He shook his head as he returned to the cottage. Maybe she’d left a note. In any case, he had to get warm. He couldn’t think in the cold.
He pushed the garden gate open, again cracking ice from the hinges. The string of tiny bells that chimed in the summer was soundless, their clappers frozen solid. He waded through the powdery snow, a layer of drift rising in the wind. Frost covered the front door knob and he had to crack it loose to turn it, or was that a spell? In either case, he entered the cottage and it welcomed him. Even without a fire it felt warm and it smelled sweetly of cedar wood and apples.
Leaving his boots by the door, he hung his fur cloak on the rack and started a fire. She hadn’t been gone as long as he’d thought. He could tell by the smell of wet charcoal and the thin layer of ash that the down draught had blown over the tiles; a few paw prints marked Drayco’s presence.
‘So it was you two,’ he said aloud. ‘Not Maka’ra or Hotha’s scout who was here last.’
They had left in the afternoon, he guessed, when the fire was cold. He stared up the chimney, checking the flue. Was it yesterday? Perhaps they were only out foraging. Collecting snow root? Or was it the day before? I should have come sooner.
While the kettle was set to boil, he rummaged for tea and honey. There were plenty of supplies in the cupboards and hard cheese, soy milk, flour and butter in the cool box. He found his favourite cup and laid the table, mixing up a batch of pan bread to fry. The little chores gave him comfort and kept the waves of worry from crashing. Where could she have gone this time?
The star chart on the table caught his eye and he looked at the date. She’d been here two weeks ago, that was obvious. He frowned. Unless the chart had been set for a time in the future, or the past. She did that often—looked ahead or behind. She said hindsight and foresight were brothers and she was well acquainted with them both. He didn’t know enough star lore to understand astrology in the way she did, but he knew enough about Rosette’s nature to realise that this chart had not been left haphazardly. All her other papers and notes were tucked away, but here was a clue, a message perhaps, for those who could read it. He folded the chart in quarters and put it in his pocket. Kreshkali would know what it meant. He would save it for her.
He frowned. ‘But she’s off looking for the Sword Master as well.’ Had they found him yet? ‘What were you thinking, Rosette?’ he asked the walls. As if in answer, he spotted her diary by the bedside. He sucked in his breath. ‘Dare I?’
He didn’t. Whatever reason she had for going off into the freezing wilderness and many-worlds beyond, he would not discover it that way. A witch’s bedside writing was a private matter. He’d learned that the hard way. His fingertips