Free A Half Forgotten Song by Katherine Webb Page A

wondering how much Hannah knew of Dimity Hatcher’s claim to fame.
    “Why indeed?” she asked, raising one eyebrow. She had dark eyes to match her hair, a narrow face tanned from the summer sun. It was hard to tell her age, because an outdoor life had put fine lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth, and yet she exuded a vitality that was almost unnerving. The hand that had clasped his briefly had been hard, dry, and tiny. Zach hazarded a guess at late thirties.
    “I don’t think I bothered her. She seemed quite happy. She made me tea,” he said, smiling mischievously.
    “Tea?” Hannah echoed skeptically.
    “Tea,” Zach repeated. She studied him for a while, and he sensed a little of her hostility give way to curiosity.
    “Well,” she said eventually. “You are honored.”
    “I am?”
    “It took me near enough six months to get a cup of tea out of her, and that was even after I . . . Well. Never mind. So, what did you want to see her about?”
    “You’re her next-door neighbor. Which makes this . . . what? Extreme curtain-twitching?” said Zach. She gazed at him steadily for a moment, and then had the good grace to smile briefly.
    “Miss Hatcher is a . . . special case. I wonder if you know how special?”
    “I wonder if you do?” Zach retorted.
    “Well, this is getting us nowhere.” Hannah sighed. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m looking out for her. And I won’t put up with her being . . . harassed. Okay by you?” She turned on her heel and started to cross towards a group of people at the far end of the bar.
    “She invited me back again. She even set me an errand,” Zach called after her. Hannah glanced back over her shoulder at him and now her frown was puzzled, not hostile. With an impatient roll of her eyes, she turned her back, and Zach chuckled.
    W hen the tall young man had gone, Dimity stood for a long time at the foot of the stairs, listening. Now there was silence from above, apart from all the normal sounds of The Watch. The scuffles of mice in the thatch; the wind in the chimney breast; water dripping onto metal somewhere, striking with a musical note. But there had been a sound; they had both heard it. The first one in a long time, and her heart had leaped at it. Hesitant, bewildered, she began to climb the stairs. In the hallway mirror behind her, Valentina waved a finger, wagged her chin mockingly. Dimity ignored her, but when she got to the top step her heart was thumping painfully. The small landing was gloomy and smelled damp, where the rain was finally coming in through the thatch and soaking the ceiling plaster. A bloom of concentric, tea-colored rings marked the spot. To the left was her bedroom, the door open, a window over the sea letting in a bluish light. To the right a closed door. She stood still again, and listened. She felt herself watched from above; reflected in the clustered eyes of incurious spiders. Slowly, she crossed to the closed door, pressed a cautious hand to the wood. A nervous song hummed in her throat, unbidden. In her hand she had posies, her cheeks were like roses . . .
    “Are you there?” she said, but it came out a croak, and the words sounded all wrong to her own ears. The spiders watched and there was no reply, no sound at all. She waited a little longer, uncertain. The silence behind the door was like a cold, dark well, and the sadness rising from it threatened to consume her. She fought it, pushed it back. Let herself believe again. The ginger cat appeared behind her from her bedroom and wound itself around her shins, and in its loud purr she heard Valentina chuckling.
    V alentina Hatcher, Dimity’s mother, had always said that her ancestors were Romany, and had traveled the length and breadth of Europe curing ills and casting fortunes. Odd then that Valentina should choose to make her hair yellow, but then, it wasn’t a glossy Gypsy brunette when left natural. It was a sad-looking mousy brown. That smell was one of the