The Wizard's Map (11 page)

“Then what's she doing here?”

“That's what I do not ken, Jennifer,” said Gran, shaking her head. “There haven't been Picts in Scotland for a thousand years or more.”

The Pictish girl had obviously gotten tired of waiting to be given the stone, and she made a rush at Jennifer to take it. But Jennifer was older and—if not quicker than the girl—at least a lot taller. She held the stone high over her head and the girl could not get at it, much as she screamed and spat. She aimed a kick at Jennifer's knee, which—if it had landed—might have done some damage, but Jennifer quickly jumped aside. Her karate lessons hadn't been in vain, then, she thought with satisfaction.

“Mind your manners!” Jennifer told the girl, which was something Mom often said to them.

Suddenly the dog began to howl again. It was a terrible sound, high and keening, that raised the little hairs on the back of Jennifer's neck.

“Dark!” he howled. “Dark, dark, dark.”

Gran's simultaneous intake of breath made Jennifer turn around.

Behind her, under the tree, the dark grey haar had returned, and the noise as well. It didn't take a witch—-or a rocket scientist—to know that what was forming was not something good.

“Out!” shouted Gran, pointing to the gate they had come in. “Molly, Jennifer—out of this place right now!”

The dog needed no telling. Tail still firmly between his legs, he galloped through the gate.

Jennifer whirled, grabbed Molly by the hand, and raced after him.

Huffing, Gran followed.

“The gate!” Gran said as soon as she had gotten through it. “Pull the gate closed. Cold iron will keep it in—whatever it is. Fey things cannot stand cold iron.” She placed both hands on the gate and began to pull.

Jennifer helped and the gate, again protesting with a high squeal, began to swing shut slowly.

At the very last minute, the dark girl slipped past the gate as well, running just ahead of the dark mist. Screaming something none of them could understand, she put her own hands on the gate and pulled along with them.

With one last protesting squeak, the gate closed.

Behind it the dark formless mist swirled but could not get through.

“That was close,” said Jennifer.

“Much
too close,” Gran agreed.

But then they heard someone sobbing. Turning, they saw it was the Pictish girl, her hands held up in front of her as if in some kind of supplication.

“Gran, she's burned her hands,” cried Molly. “How did she get burned?”

But Jennifer knew without being told, because the burns cutting across the dark girl's hands were the same shape as the bars on the gate.

“Iron,” she said to Molly. “Cold iron burned her, but she didn't let go.”

“She helped save us all,” added Gran grimly. “Blessed be.”

Blessed be, indeed,
Jennifer thought.

“Can I have my talisman now?” asked Molly, holding out her hand.

Wordlessly Jennifer handed the stone over, her thoughts at that moment not at all charitable toward her little sister.

But then Molly did something that surprised them all.

“Here,” she said, “this is really yours.” And she handed the talisman to th e Pictish girl, who closed her poor, burned right hand over it and held fast.