Bellwitch Saints II

Clara did not sleep.

She tried.

She closed her eyes, pulled the blanket to her chin, and counted backward from one hundred. When that failed, she counted forward. When that failed, she attempted to remember every ingredient Mrs. Morlin used in her winter stew.

Potatoes.

Carrots.

Onions.

Turnips.

Something green Clara disliked.

None of it helped.

Every time she came close to sleep, she heard the bell again.

Dong.

Not with her ears.

In her memory.

That was somehow worse.

By dawn, the storm had moved east. Rain still dripped from the cottage roof, but the thunder was gone. Pale morning light pushed through the clouds and turned every puddle in Briar Glen silver.

Clara dressed quickly.

Her chime hung against her chest.

Cold again.

She had checked it at least twenty times during the night.

Nothing.

No warmth.

No movement.

No ringing.

“Of course,” Clara muttered. “Now you behave.”

She tucked it beneath her dress.

The kitchen smelled of bread and eggs.

Mrs. Morlin stood at the table kneading dough with considerably more violence than bread required.

Mr. Morlin sat beside the hearth drinking tea.

Neither looked surprised to see Clara.

“Morning,” Clara said.

“Morning,” Mr. Morlin answered.

Mrs. Morlin kept kneading.

Clara sat.

A plate appeared in front of her.

She looked at the eggs.

Then at Mrs. Morlin.

Then at Mr. Morlin.

Mr. Morlin suddenly became very interested in his tea.

Clara picked up her fork.

“Did either of you hear it?”

Mrs. Morlin stopped kneading.

There it was again.

That little pause.

Clara lowered the fork.

“You did.”

“No,” Mrs. Morlin said.

“That wasn’t convincing.”

“I wasn’t trying to convince you.”

“That’s generally what people say when they’re being unconvincing.”

Mr. Morlin coughed into his cup.

Mrs. Morlin gave him a look.

He stopped.

Clara leaned forward.

“Three times.”

“What?”

“The bell rang three times.”

Mrs. Morlin returned to the dough.

“It was a storm.”

“Storms don’t ring bells.”

“They can.”

“How?”

“Wind.”

“There was no wind when the third one rang.”

Mrs. Morlin’s hands stopped again.

Clara noticed.

Mr. Morlin noticed Clara noticing.

That seemed to make everything worse.

“Clara,” he said, “eat your breakfast.”

“I am investigating.”

“You’re staring at eggs.”

“They’re involved.”

“They usually are.”

Clara almost smiled.

Almost.

Then she remembered the voice.

Her name whispered beneath the sound of the bell.

She pushed the plate away.

“I’m going to the chapel.”

Mrs. Morlin turned.

“Why?”

“Because that’s where we keep our bell.”

“Clara.”

“If Mr. Vale rang it, then that’s the answer.”

“And if he didn’t?”

Clara looked at her.

“Then I find another answer.”

She stood.

Mrs. Morlin wiped flour from her hands.

“Some questions don’t improve when answered.”

Clara stared at her.

“That’s a very strange thing to say.”

“I’ve had a strange morning.”

“So have I.”

Neither moved.

Then Mr. Morlin sighed.

“Take your cloak. The road is mud.”

Clara smiled.

“Finally, useful advice.”

“Your gratitude overwhelms me.”

She grabbed her cloak and left.

Briar Glen looked as though someone had attempted to wash the entire village and abandoned the job halfway through.

Water ran along the road. Chickens stood beneath carts looking offended. A farmer farther down the lane was attempting to convince a pig that mud was not an invitation.

The pig disagreed.

Clara headed toward the chapel.

She stopped at the baker’s first.

Master Hobb was sweeping rainwater from his doorway.

“Morning, Clara.”

“Did you hear a bell last night?”

“No.”

She blinked.

He continued sweeping.

“You’re certain?”

“I generally notice bells.”

“Even during storms?”

“Especially during storms.”

Clara frowned.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She walked away.

Then stopped.

“Three bells?”

“No.”

“One?”

“No.”

“Anything?”

“Thunder.”

Clara continued.

She asked the blacksmith.

Nothing.

She asked two farmers unloading sacks.

Nothing.

She asked old Mistress Peake, who slept so little that Clara suspected she had declared war on unconsciousness.

Nothing.

By the time Clara reached the chapel, she had asked eleven people.

Nobody heard it.

That should have made her feel better.

It did not.

Mr. Vale stood inside the chapel beneath the bell rope.

He was nearly seventy, thin as a fence post, and possessed enough white eyebrow hair for three ordinary men.

“Clara.”

“Mr. Vale.”

“No.”

She stopped.

“I haven’t asked yet.”

“You’ve asked half the village.”

“People talk quickly.”

“You ask loudly.”

Clara stepped inside.

Morning light came through the narrow windows.

The chapel was small. Twelve benches, a stone altar, and a wooden staircase leading to the bell loft.

She looked upward.

“Did you ring it?”

“No.”

“Could the storm have moved it?”

“No.”

“Could lightning?”

“No.”

“Could someone else?”

“No.”

Clara folded her arms.

“You enjoy that word.”

“Efficient word.”

“I heard a bell.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Three times.”

Mr. Vale studied her.

For the first time that morning, someone didn’t smile or tell her she had imagined it.

“What did it sound like?”

Clara hesitated.

“Deep.”

“All bells are deep if they’re large enough.”

“This was different.”

“How?”

She searched for the right words.

“It felt like it was under everything.”

Mr. Vale’s expression changed.

Only slightly.

But Clara saw it.

Again.

Another look.

“Under what?”

“The thunder. The rain. Me.”

Mr. Vale glanced toward the chapel doors.

Clara stepped closer.

“You know something.”

“No.”

“You’re terrible at lying.”

“I’m seventy-one. I’ve had plenty of practice.”

“Apparently not.”

He sighed.

“Come.”

He climbed the stairs.

Clara followed.

The bell loft smelled of wet timber and pigeon droppings.

Mr. Vale’s bell hung from a thick wooden beam.

It was bronze, weathered, and entirely ordinary.

Clara approached it.

“Touch it,” Mr. Vale said.

“Why?”

“You came looking for answers.”

She placed her palm against the metal.

Cold.

Nothing happened.

Mr. Vale watched her.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You expected something.”

“No.”

“Another bad lie.”

Mr. Vale turned away.

Clara looked at the bell.

“Are there bells west of here?”

“No.”

“Ruins?”

“Plenty.”

“With bells?”

“Not anymore.”

“Not anymore?”

He faced her.

“Old places lose things.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means roofs collapse. Towers fall. Metal gets stolen.”

Clara stared.

“You’re all behaving strangely.”

“Everyone in this village behaves strangely.”

“Stranger than usual.”

That almost earned a smile.

Almost.

Clara reached beneath her dress and pulled out the chime.

Mr. Vale’s smile vanished completely.

She noticed.

“You’ve seen this.”

“No.”

“You just looked at it as though it bit you.”

“I’ve seen you wear it.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Mr. Vale stepped closer.

“Did it do anything last night?”

Clara considered lying.

She decided everyone else had already used the village’s supply.

“It rang.”

Mr. Vale stared at the chime.

“It can’t.”

“I know.”

“There’s no tongue.”

“Clapper.”

“What?”

“A bell has a clapper.”

“I know what a bell has.”

“You called it a tongue.”

“Because that’s what we called it when I was young.”

“That’s unnecessarily confusing.”

“Clara.”

His voice had changed.

She stopped.

“Did it ring before or after the bell?”

“After.”

“Each time?”

“No. Only the last time.”

Mr. Vale looked toward the western hills.

Clara followed his gaze.

From the bell loft, she could see beyond the village roofs.

Fields.

Forest.

Then the distant hills, dark beneath retreating storm clouds.

“What’s out there?” she asked.

“Nothing you need concern yourself with.”

“That answer guarantees concern.”

Mr. Vale turned toward the stairs.

“We’re done.”

“We are absolutely not done.”

“I have work.”

“You stand beside a bell.”

“It requires supervision.”

“From what?”

“Girls asking questions.”

He descended.

Clara remained.

She looked west again.

Her fingers closed around the chime.

Warm.

Clara froze.

“No.”

The metal warmed further.

She lifted it.

The tiny bell trembled.

“Don’t.”

It moved toward the west.

Not much.

Just enough for the cord to pull against her fingers.

Clara’s breath caught.

She turned slowly.

The chapel bell remained still.

The western hills sat beneath gray clouds.

Then she heard something.

Not the great toll from the night before.

A smaller sound.

A single clear note.

Somewhere outside.

Clara ran downstairs.

“Mr. Vale!”

She pushed through the chapel doors.

The road was busy now.

A wagon rolled past.

Two children chased each other through puddles.

Mrs. Peake argued with a chicken.

Everything was ordinary.

Clara looked left.

Then right.

Another note.

Ching.

Her chime answered beneath her fingers.

Ching.

Clara followed the sound.

Past the chapel.

Past the smithy.

Toward the northern road.

A horse stood there.

Black.

Tall.

Covered in rain.

A rider sat upon it wearing a long grey cloak.

Clara stopped.

The rider did not move.

The hood concealed the face completely.

People passed without speaking to the stranger.

Some deliberately crossed the road.

Clara’s chime became hot.

The rider raised one gloved hand.

Not waving.

Pointing.

At Clara.

The village seemed to grow quieter.

The stranger dismounted.

Grey robes showed beneath the cloak.

Clara knew those robes.

Everyone did.

Even villages at the end of forgotten roads knew them.

The Silent Sisters.

Witches who lived beyond the kingdoms.

Witches who served the Tower.

Witches who spoke only when their duty required it.

Clara’s mouth went dry.

The woman walked toward her.

People moved aside.

Mr. Vale appeared in the chapel doorway behind Clara.

She heard him whisper something.

Not loudly.

Not meant for her.

“Too late.”

Clara turned.

“What?”

He said nothing.

The Silent Sister stopped three steps away.

Rainwater dripped from the edge of her hood.

For several seconds, she simply looked at Clara.

Then her gaze lowered.

To the little chime in Clara’s hand.

The Sister went completely still.

Clara swallowed.

“Do I know you?”

The woman reached inside her cloak.

Clara took one step backward.

The Sister withdrew a black envelope.

A seal of dark red wax held it closed.

Pressed into that wax was the image of a bell surrounded by seven stars.

The Sister held it toward Clara.

Clara did not take it.

“What is that?”

The woman finally spoke.

Her voice was quiet.

Rough from disuse.

“A summons.”

Clara stared at the envelope.

“For who?”

The Sister looked directly into her eyes.

“You.”

Clara’s fingers tightened around the chime.

Behind her, the chapel bell moved.

Once.

It did not ring.

The Silent Sister looked up.

So did Mr. Vale.

So did Clara.

Nobody spoke.

Then the chime in Clara’s hand gave one soft, impossible note.

Ching.

The Sister lowered her gaze to Clara.

For the first time, Clara saw fear in the woman’s face.

“How long,” the Sister asked, “has that been ringing?”

Clara looked at the black envelope.

Then toward the western hills.

“Since last night.”

The Silent Sister closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, the fear remained.

“Then we have less time than I hoped.”