Witching Tree (Alice Gray Book 1)

15

My heart jumped into my throat at a clatter of pots from the kitchen.

I quickly placed the volume back where I had found it. A shiver ran through my body, and the air of foreboding lifted.

I didn't believe in coincidences. That book was connected to my silver tree, and Anne was going to tell me how, whether she wanted to or not.

My stomach gurgled appreciatively at the warm, savoury aroma that drifted towards me as I pushed open the door. She stood with her back to me stirring a large pot on the top of an old Aga, singing softly to herself as she worked. As I followed the melody up and down, my questions floating away as my body relaxed into the warmth of the large kitchen's welcoming atmosphere.

The lyrics swelled and contracted creating a soothing rhythm. But the words, they were off somehow, like a long forgotten old-English poem or prayer:

Open, open heaven door keys,
Shut, shut hell door.
Let christened child
Go to its mother mild.
What is yonder that casts a light so farrandly?
Mine own dear son that's nailed to the tree.

I was reluctant to interrupt, but that song, something about it spoke to me.

"I think I've heard that before, what is it?"

Anne jumped. She didn't turn, so I placed my hand on her shoulder. A fizzle of energy transferred between us. The jolt was accompanied by a burst of emotions. Joy mixed with trepidation shot through with a healthy dose of impatience.

Where the hell did that come from?

"It's just an old family lullaby. Supper's nearly ready. I hope you like tomato soup, I grew them myself. Why don't you set the table, there's some bread in that container," Anne pointed to an old farmhouse style dresser, words coming out hurried, tripping over one-another.

She still didn't turn towards me, but the tension in her shoulders told me that she'd felt whatever had just passed between us too.

"Okay," I said slowly. So we were avoiding the topic.

Maybe I could ease her into it.

"That garden must take a lot of work, and how did you manage tomatoes in November? I didn't notice a greenhouse."

"We've always been self-sufficient at the cottage, and it makes me feel close to gran to follow the old family recipes," Anne smiled, her face reflecting the warmth of her memories.

I understood the sentiment. I often re-read my mother's letters for the same reason.

I ate a couple of mouthfuls of soup, relaxing more as my belly was soothed by the wholesome food. Then it struck me. Maybe if I shared, Anne would too.

"At the bar. That guy, Stephen, he's my ex," I started awkwardly, "well, I thought he was, but that's a long and confusing story."

"We've got all night," Anne said, eyes brightening at the thought of intrigue.

After explaining about the abrupt end of our four year-long "relationship", I got to the part about moving to the priory. When I described the break-in and my missing pendant, Anne's eyes shot to mine eager and bright but she didn't interrupt.

I laughed about the fiction that Emily had spun to keep me on the hook. It was all bravado. When I explained that Stephen had never really been my boyfriend, that heavy pain returned and I couldn't stop the tear from escaping.

I really didn't want to look weak and pathetic, but there was no help for it. I had let them fool me and control my life. I was an idiot.

Anne cleared the remnants of our meal, giving me a little privacy. She handed me a cup of herbal tea. When I took a sip, my spirits began to lift. This stuff was way better than camomile.