Free Sons of the Wolf by Barbara Michaels Page A

chatting. Ada's bright head was dazzling in the sunlight and her black-clad figure was as slim as a child's against the soft gray stone and green grass. Julian was sprawled at her feet, like an effigy of a young knight on a tombstone. He is a graceful creature and his profile-I had not noticed it before-has the true Wolfson look, long-nosed and clean-cut.
    As I joined them Julian was in the middle of a description of one of the young ladies at the house where he had been staying. It was malicious but witty; he "did" the simpering young miss, flirting as hard as she dares, to perfection. Ada laughed as much as I did. On the way back Julian showed off. He cleared a wall with such fine form that even Ada was impressed.
    May 30
    I am so angry I can hardly think, let alone write. But I must compose myself, and I have found this fat old diary a useful means to that end. Of all the stupid, unforgivable, malicious . . . !
    I have found out what the mysterious dried plant is. It is St.-John's-wort-Hypericum. I remember it now from a course in botany Ada and I once pursued. It is a common-enough plant, though I have not chanced to see any hereabouts. And it is used—
    I am still angry! The very thought of it makes my hand unsteady. Let me start from the beginning.
    I went down to the kitchens this morning to tell Mrs. Bennett about some change in the menu. Ada had expressed a desire for another apple tart, and f had forgotten to tell the cook earlier. I have a blister on my heel from my exploring yesterday, so I was wearing soft-soled slippers. The kitchen door, at the end of a long flagstoned corridor, stood open for coolness after the morning baking. Inside they were talking as hard as they could-Mrs. Bennett, Elspeth and Mary, one of the other maids. They did not hear me approaching. I was just outside the door when I caught a phrase that held me transfixed. My subsequent eavesdropping, though in poor taste, was unavoidable; I literally could not move for astonishment.
    The phrase was:
    "He killed one of Abel's sheep last night."
    "He," mind you-not "it." I never for a moment thought that they were speaking of an animal.
    The voice was Elspeth's. Mrs. Bennett replied (I translate from the broad Yorkshire, which I have come to understand better):
    "Aye, it was th' full moon last night."
    "It was Abel's telling un that he couldna coom for th' sowing till Moonday."
    "Abel should know better," said Mrs. Bennett crisply. "He only-sends th' dogs when summat vexes un."
    "Sends the dogs?" It was not a question so much as a sardonic denial.
    Mrs. Bennett replied quickly, "Thee's got no call to give way to heathen superstitions. Th' preacher told thee-"
    "Ah, the preacher!"
    "He's a good mun, is Mr. Ablewhite."
    "A foreigner! If he'd been born and bred here, nigh to the wolf's brood-"
    There was a little squeak of breath from Elspeth, and another sharp reproof from Mrs. Bennett.
    " 'T was Abel's own feyther that lamed un," the older maid Mary persisted, but in a lower voice. "He shot th' hound when it joomped at him-shot it in th' hindquarters. He heerd it howl an' saw it drag itself awa'. ..."
    "Aye, I know th' tale. A foolish tale! Hoo could th' beast move, so hurt?"
    "Th' dog wa'n't harmed. Next day it was well as e'er. But he-"
    "Heathen talk!" The older woman's voice was rock-hard, but I seemed to hear a quiver of marshy doubt under the stone.
    "Thee shalt not suffer a witch to live! That's Scripture, that is!"
    "Witch. But-"
    "Wizard, then." The maid's voice sank to a reedy whisper. "Shape-changers, skin-turners. Old Grannie Price, nigh Ripon-all know she hangs th' hareskin behind her door; didna they almost catch her last Midsummer Day, but for the preacher? If the Wolf-"
    I pushed the kitchen door wide open and walked in.
    It was the most dramatic entrance I have ever made, I will say that-despite the softness of my movements and the stillness of my face. The three women were stock-still, frozen in the last convulsive movement they