Free Whispers in the Mist by Lisa Alber

got her breathing and nerves under control. Now she recognized the vehicle. For two days it had been hugging an embankment about a quarter mile down the lane. Not that she gave a flying shite about that, because the whole thing beggared the question of why this girl and her companion had been cruising her lane in the first place.
    “Those wouldn’t happen to be your sleeping bags up in the cottage, would they?” she said.
    The girl nodded. Her mouth opened and closed while her hands jerked into a graceful dance.
    “Are you deaf?” Ellen said.
    With a huff of frustration, the girl shook her head.
    “Okay then, how about this. Are you here for the matchmaking festival but don’t have a hotel? That’s a nice chariot you have. I’m guessing that you’re not used to sleeping rough.”
    The girl nodded and stared at the ground.
    “Right then.” Ellen lowered the bat. “You can relax your guard. I’m not going to pummel you. Bloody Christ, strays everywhere, aren’t there?”
    The girl stepped forward, her expression intent. She had sharp features softened by large brown eyes that grabbed at Ellen with their expressiveness. The girl reached out a hand, oh so slowly, as if to calm an agitated dog.
    Intrigued, Ellen held her ground until she understood the girl’s intention. The girl lifted one of Ellen’s hands and pressed an index finger against her palm.
    “Go on then,” Ellen said.
    The girl wrote with her fingertip. After a shrug from Ellen, she repeated the gesture across Ellen’s palm, harder this time.
    “Right,” Ellen said. “I understand. Is that a ‘k’?”
    Exactly , the girl’s look seemed to say. She pressed on with the fingertip until Ellen understood. “Kittens?” she said.
    The girl pointed to Ellen’s house.
    “Ah, connection made then. Yes, the kittens are fine. I found them. But you have some explaining to do, young lady.”
    A nod, cautious like, along with a squint that Ellen took to mean, Oh, about what?
    “You and your friend about scared my son back into nappies, that’s what. That was you two walking down the lane a few days ago?”
    Again, the cautious nod.
    “The point is that my son thought your friend was Grey Man dragging you into his lair. Come along. I need to show him that there was nothing to fear. He’ll be home soon with my daughter.”
    After another minute of palm-writing wait , car, and brother , Ellen understood that the girl preferred to wait in the car for her friend, who was actually her brother.
    “I don’t think so. You need nutrients as much as those poor kittens. And don’t you want to check on them?” Ellen retraced her steps back to the Volvo with the girl following close behind. “We’ll leave your brother a note. You must have writing implements in here somewhere, am I right? What the devil is your name, anyhow?”
    The girl burrowed into a knapsack tucked behind the passenger’s seat. She pulled out the necessary tools and with a flourish wrote, Gemma . Then, No one talks to me that way—except my brother.
    “I don’t know what you mean. How else am I supposed to talk to you?”
    Most people talk to me like I’m soft in the head. Like I might break any second.
    Weariness sloshed over Ellen in tight waves. She must be an eejit for suggesting what she was about to suggest, but what could she do? Maybe she’d gather all the strays to her side in hopes she’d feel like less of one in her own life.
    “See here,” she said, “if your brother passes muster and if the children like you, you can lay your sleeping bags out in my daughter Beth’s room. It’s not so unusual during the festival. I’ve done it before.”
    And Danny hadn’t liked it then either. But it wasn’t like he had a say in whom she befriended. Especially now.
    Gemma signaled what Ellen interpreted as an, Oh no, we couldn’t .
    “Yes, you can.” On the car window, Ellen drew a broken heart in the condensation left by the fog. “Beth doesn’t live there