Free Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters by Winter Woodlark

Fred’s tone was final. There was no arguing
with it.
    When their father left, Nettle and Bram both started
picking up Jazz’s torn clothes and broken shoes. Nettle cradled
a ripped
hockey jacket and cakes of mashed make-up. While Bram totally
believed the talking rats were behind the whirlwind of destruction,
she pondered why their father so readily believed them both. He was
right, he hadn’t raised liars, but he was well aware that at times
both of them had bent the truth somewhat and weren’t exactly
angels. There was something very odd going on here at the cottage
and her father was behaving very strangely.
    Jazz
snatched the armful from Nettle, not caring when one of her
bracelets fell to the floor, diamonds scattering. “Just go,” she
said stonily to Nettle. “I don’t need help from the likes of you
two.”
    “Come
on, Jazz,” Nettle began, trying to appease her cousin. “I know you
don’t believe we had nothing to do with this. But we want to
help.”
    Jazz
jabbed a finger into the soft spot on her shoulder. “Hey,” cried
Nettle, wincing.
    Jazz
drove her back with the tip of her finger. “I don’t care what Uncle
Fred says, you’re both liars.”
    “We
didn’t do this,” Bram protested.
    Jazz
spun around, her nostrils flaring and glared daggers at her little
cousin. “Get out NOW!”
    Bram
gave her a fierce stare, his blue eyes big behind the thick lenses
of his glasses. He dumped his armful of snapped heels and broken
sling-backs on the ground with a scattered thump and marched
out.
    Unable to do
anything else, Nettle followed. Jazz slammed the door shut behind
her so forcefully it made her jump with fright. She rubbed her
tender shoulder and found Bram leaning against the hallway wall
with his ear pressed against it. He still wore a dark scowl from
Jazz’s accusations as he listened intently.
    “ What are you doing?”
    Bram
quickly held a finger to his lips demanding silence. Nettle
immediately complied - when he was in one of these moods, Nettle
dared not speak nor move. After a while, with nothing heard, Bram
stealthily moved into his bedroom.
    Nettle
quietly followed, curious. She sat on the rocking chair in his
nursery watching him go from wall to wall. He shot her a little
glare when the rocking chair squeaked beneath her weight. Nettle
stopped rocking, holding the chair still with her
calves.
    He leaned, listening, not moving for what seemed an age.
Nettle sat so still her muscles started to ache. Come on Bram, hurry
up. She was
anxious to learn if he’d heard anything, and what on earth was he
up to? Finally Bram relaxed. He turned with an appreciative smile.
“Thanks. Thought I heard them.”
    “ Heard who?”
    “The
rats. I’m sick of Jazz blaming us. I’m going to catch them and
prove to her that we’ve had nothing to do with her stupid earrings
and her stupid bedroom.”
    The image that
sprang to Nettle’s mind of an enraged Jazz and walls drawn with
crude pictures enticed a case of the giggles. “It really was
funny,” she laughed.
    “Stoopid
Jazz,” added Bram slumping to the floor chortling. It was some time
before the guffaws subsided. Though they gasped deep breaths, their
faces sore from laughing, it felt so good.
    Nettle r ose assisting Bram to his feet. “Why don’t we go up to the
attic, we may find something there that could help.” Nettle didn’t
think talking rats, let alone average non-talking rats had anything
to do with Jazz’s destroyed possessions and vandalised bedroom
walls. But as to who, or what, could have caused the chaos, she was
at a loss. Still, rummaging around in the attic would be an
interesting way to while away the day and fill in Bram’s
time.

CHAPTER NINE
    An
Unwanted Gift
     
     
    When the siblings climbed the ladder into the attic, they
found someone else had been up here before them. Footprints had
been scuffed into the dusty floor and a few storage boxes had been
dragged out and rifled through. Dad, surmised Nettle. He’d