Free The Architect of Song (Haunted Hearts Legacy Book 1) by A. G. Howard Page A

me as I tried to concentrate on her pruned mouth.
    “My vurma you followed. The straightway made crooked. Little rhubarb … cheat an old woman of her sumadji. Black-hearted trot.”
    Hawk relayed the strange, senseless words. I struggled against her grasp, stopping when she jabbed the knife at my neck. Hawk’s swift appearance at my side offered little comfort as my pulse throbbed against the blade’s tip.
    “Don’t struggle, Juliet. She thinks you followed her trail in the trees to steal her stash. We must reason with her to get you out of this.”
    Trail in the trees? Stash? When did she say that ?
    “Vurma,” he answered without pause. “It means a trail; and sumadji is a treasured heirloom.”
    Before I could even respond, my captor nudged the knife against the book beneath my coat. Her neck veins strained in a shout. “What ye hide give back, rhubarb!”
    In spite of my noodling legs, I wouldn’t surrender. We needed this book; judging from Hawk’s knowledge of the gypsy tongue, he could decipher the pages. To think that all along the songs he’d been singing were Romani …
    Hawk hadn’t budged from his place at my side, but there was little he could do. I had to save myself.
    Taking shallow breaths to prevent the knife from sinking deeper into the journal, I looked the woman square on and hoped she would understand English. “I’ve been visited by the one whose grave you keep. I seek the truth about the Rat King .”
    “Mulo …?” The old woman’s face paled and she dropped the knife. “O Bengh!” She clutched her chest. Her eyes lolled into their sockets and she fainted, knocking the back of her head on the branch behind her.

Chapter 7
    A bar of iron continually ground becomes a needle.
Chinese Proverb
     
    I sat next to the fireplace and sipped the spiced cider Enya had warmed. She watched from her place at the table, preparing a mud poultice for our untimely guest. I didn’t wish to give an explanation yet. Not when I would have to repeat it upon my uncle’s return.
    I couldn’t have left the gypsy bleeding and groggy. She might very well be Hawk’s family. I hadn’t even considered the possibility that he might be of another race. A foolish oversight, considering his mastery of a foreign tongue and his exotic features. But with his opacity, I never had a clear glimpse of his coloring. And his English attire offered another contradiction.
    On the way home, Hawk had deciphered the gypsy’s last words. She’d said something about a masculine spirit before fainting dead away. The Romanies obviously knew more of the afterlife than the English did.
    Small though she was, it had been no easy feat to drag the woman along the path through the forest and back to the cemetery. Hawk had instructed me on crafting a stretcher with some branches and one of the gypsy’s skirts. The carriage’s boot was low enough to the ground that I managed to push her motionless form into Uncle’s cab.
    If not for Hawk’s help, I would never have slipped the woman past Naldi and out of the tent in the first place. The wolf tried once to attack me until a shove from Hawk sent her sprawling on her back. After that, he stood between us and she dared not cross him again. Yet the loyal pet stayed with us, not letting her mistress out of her sight, even following behind the rig.
    Upon our arrival home, Enya helped me carry our guest across the threshold. We stretched her out in the sitting room upon a velvet settee, draping the woolen throw up to her chin. When last I looked in on them, Naldi lay on the floor beside her, powerful muzzle cradled between delicate front paws.
    I reached the bottom of my cider where the cloves overpowered the juice, leaving my tongue numb. Even without looking over my shoulder, I sensed Enya’s angry glare.
    Earlier, when Uncle had noticed the absence of his cab-fronted gig and saw my window lagging open, he had left to follow the wheel tracks. He went on foot—despite his gimp back. For