Free The Widow and the King by John Dickinson Page A

looked at the white stones he had laid around him. A frown gathered on her face.
    ‘There used to be more than this,’ she said gently.
    ‘I lost some,’ he said.
    He had spilled them several times, especially on that first day when he had had so many to carry, and had run and run without daring to stop and search for any hedropped. And then later he had been so tired, and hungry. It had been hard to count them all, and know how many he had.
    ‘It doesn't matter,’ he added again. ‘They keep him away.’
    He was trying to sound brave. He wanted to reassure her, and himself, that it would all be all right. He had been horribly afraid, but now he had got here. So it would be all right.
    He knew, of course, that eight stones were not very many at all – not enough to protect Aunt Evalia, or Uncle Adam, or Vinney, or anyone else but him if the Things came. But he didn't know what the answer to that was. He was exhausted, hurt, and hungry. It was difficult to think.
    All at once Aunt Evalia knelt and put her face within inches of his own. Her hands were on his shoulders.
    ‘Ambrose,’ she said.
    Her voice was level. But her fingers gripped him tightly.
    ‘These pebbles may help. They can keep his creatures away. We must pray that they will. But remember that he is very subtle. Murder is the least of what he does. If he is your enemy – and he is – then there are many ways he can attack you. And whatever else diverts him, he will not forget about you. You must not forget, either. You must watch for him, all the time. And remember that he is often very hard to see. Do you understand?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Watch all the time, Ambrose. It's important.’
    ‘Yes – I know – yes.’ He didn't want to think about it. He had watched, or tried to watch, all the long journey.He thought he had barely slept. Now he was here. He wanted to rest, and eat, and rest. And she wasn't letting him. He covered his face with his hands.
    Aunt Evalia put her arms around him and gave him a squeeze.
    ‘Maybe we should not say any more until you're stronger,’ she said. ‘You're here, and we can help you. Remember that. And we'll be having supper soon. See if you can sleep a little now.’
    He drew a long, shaky breath, and nodded. Then he bent down in his chair and began to rearrange the stones around him. He moved one a few inches to the left, adjusted another, looked at them, and put the first one back almost where it had been. So he went on around the ring. When he got back to the first one he started again. This time he did not finish. He shifted in the big wooden chair and pillowed his head on his arm. It was all so much more warm and comfortable than the rocks on which he had lain for a fortnight. The wine was stealing on his brain, and he was feeling sleepy.
    He slept all that night, and most of the next day, lying huddled among his stones on a makeshift pallet by the fire. They roused him to eat, and murmured to him, and he fed and lay down again without ever having woken properly. Someone came and bandaged his feet, which brought back the pain. He protested sleepily, and people murmured to him again. When they had finished they went away. The fire was warm, and his pillow soft, and he lay for hours, feeling as weak as a sack of bones, and did not stir.
    Once, when he lifted his head from his pillow, he sawAunt Evalia standing on the far side of the room, before the wooden chest that the house used as an altar. On the wall above the chest was a hanging cloth, with four great faces embroidered in it, like people, but with flaming hair, halos and staring eyes that pierced into the room to see everything that happened in the house. They were the Angels: Michael the Warrior, Raphael and Gabriel, and Umbriel with the book in which all things were written. Aunt Evalia's hands were open as she stood before them. She seemed to be praying. Watching her reminded him of his mother, and the way she had prayed at home.
    They had not asked what