Free Tales From The Wyrd Museum 2: The Raven's Knot by Robin Jarvis Page B

child—look you've made our sister go and remember. It's better if she doesn't, Ursula always says so. How could you be so hateful?’
    But Edie wasn't listening to her any longer. Drawing near to the armchair, she brought her face close to the heavily painted eyes which peered over the back and smiled persuasively.
    ‘It was years later,’ Miss Veronica continued, ‘on a night of calm. Ursula was roaming under that part of the tree which was still untouched by poison when, in the rustling of the leaves, she heard a whispering voice.’
    ‘Stop her someone!’ Miss Celandine squeaked, hopping from her place by the hearth and clapping her hands over her ears. ‘I had nothing to do with it, I swear. I didn't make her remember, I didn't, I didn't. It was that disobedient girl. Why, I wasn't even here—I was downstairs. I'm not here now—I'm down there, that's what. I'll tell her that too if she asks.’
    Miss Veronica watched her spring about the cramped room, and gazed dumbly at the folds of faded velvet which thrashed madly about her sister's wizened form, making a sound like great flapping wings. With a start, the old woman gripped her walking cane.
    ‘The ravens!’ she cried abruptly. ‘Thought—Thought and Memory! That's what they were called!’
    Miss Celandine stumbled to a standstill and shuddered, before letting out a shrill squeal as she pointed at Edie in fear.
    ‘You've done it now!’ she scolded. ‘Oh, you've done it now!’

Chapter 6 - The Crow Doll

    Along the curiously named Coursing Batch, that stretch of main road which cuts across the lower slopes of Glastonbury Tor, a plump figure with a mass of curling, carrot-coloured hair, strained at the pedals of her bicycle.
    Lauren Humphries scrunched up her face as yet another heavy lorry thundered by, and wobbled unsteadily in the buffeting draught of its passing.
    ‘Thank you!’ she growled through gritted teeth, her cheeks spattered with dirty water thrown up from the wet road. The lorry roared away and the girl gently squeezed her brakes, stopping beside the narrow pavement to wipe herself clean.
    Although she was now seventeen, she had lost none of the chubbiness that had made her childhood so miserable. There were just so many unkind names for idiots to choose from when shouting abuse, it was like a sport that anybody could play. Lauren had grown used to it, from an early age she had taught herself to ignore the cruel taunting, but that did not make it hurt any less. No matter how hard she tried, sometimes the insults hit their mark and stung her.
    Mopping a handkerchief about her freckle-covered features, she glowered at the receding, rumbling lorry, her hazel eyes lost amid the fleshy expanse of her round, pink face.
    It was a treacherous road—so much for escaping the traffic and pollution of the city, this was almost as bad.
    Pulling away from the kerb, she set off once more. Past the gates of the large boarding houses whose rooftops screened off the view of the Tor, to where Coursing Batch seamlessly became the Edgerly Road.
    Here, only the hedgerow separated her from the great green bulk of the strangely shaped hill which rose high upon her left.
    Glastonbury Tor, with the solitary tower dedicated to Saint Michael spiking up from its summit, was a singular, stately sight.
    A holy place, venerated down the ages by countless pilgrims seeking for truth and enlightenment, it rose from the Somerset levels like an enchanted, enduring symbol of faith. Deep were the foundations of Glastonbury's magical appeal and like a magnet it attracted things esoteric and occult from all over the globe. Obscure sects of enigmatic religions founded temples there, people sought healing from its ever-flowing springs and legends both Christian and pagan abounded.
    Nowhere else was quite like this small town, it was a special, haunting place and the powerful vision of the Tor presided over all.
    Lauren hated it.
    She had only lived there for four months but