THE AX HOVERED briefly in the air, poised for the drop, its blade glinting in the lantern light. With a thunderclap and a simultaneous flash of lightning, it flew down, cracking the log in two. Drew returned the ax to its bracket on the barn wall, picked up all the firewood from the floor, and set off back to the farmhouse through the sleeting rain.
Once his father and Trent had left, the day had been one of the most miserable Drew had ever experienced. The storm had been relentless, windowpanes rattling and shutters clapping as rain and wind battered the farm. The yard was a quagmire of mud and water, great dirty pools clogging the ground underfoot. He could hear sheep bleating from their shelter beyond the barn, where he’d moved the flock earlier in the day.
Hoping his bad luck with the animals was behind him, Drew had been disappointed to find the hex still firmly over his head. The sheep had proved skittish and unpredictable, almost impossible to herd when he took them to the field. A week earlier the flock had come to him when he called, happily gathering around him. Now they were different animals, the arrival of this invisible predator leaving them edgy and out of sorts. After trying to coax and cajole them for an hour, he had eventually turned to shouting to scare them into obeying his commands, something he’d never needed to do before. All the while he’d watched over his shoulder for any clues as to what was out there. By now there was no doubt in his mind that, whatever it was, it was something to be afraid of.
A day alone with his thoughts had not been the best remedy for Drew’s mood, which was darker than ever. Whatever had upset the sheep had also played havoc with Drew, leaving him sick and fevered, and unable to eat his supper earlier. Elbowing open the front door, he stumbled into the hall, shaking the wet cloak from his shoulders and hopping about on one foot then the other, kicking off his boots. Barefoot and shivering, he trotted into the living room, where his mother sat knitting in the armchair by the dying embers of the fire. He tipped his armful of kindling and wood into the scuttle on the hearth with a noisy clatter, placing a couple of pieces on the coals of the fire. Crouched on his haunches, Drew remained at his mother’s feet, hands held out toward the fire.
“How are you feeling, son?” asked his mother, putting down the needles and wool. She leaned forward, stroking his damp hair affectionately. She laid the back of her hand against his forehead, checking his temperature. He knew it was up.
“Not too bad, Ma,” he lied, fighting back the cramps that rolled and shot through his belly. He looked up at the mantelpiece. Below his father’s Wolfshead blade was a brass carriage clock. It was almost half past ten in the evening, well beyond the time that his father and Trent would normally be home. He had to assume that they had fallen foul of the weather.
Standing, he managed to smile to his mother. “Do you fancy a brew, Ma?” he asked, making for the kitchen. A hot drink seemed to be the only thing he could keep down at the moment.
“That would be lovely,” she called after him. Filling the kettle with water he placed it over the big old stove. Whereas his brother clearly followed in his father’s footsteps, Drew took after his mother, sharing her peaceful demeanor and easygoing nature. He always figured his mother must have been wasted in her youth as a scullery maid in Highcliff serving the king; her sharp mind and quick wit could have made her a great scholar if the opportunity had been there for her.
Leaving the kettle on the stove, Drew wandered back into the sitting room, settling cross-legged on the rug by the fire.
“Still not hungry?” his mother asked, concerned again.
“No, can’t eat anything, Ma. Sorry,” he replied, aware that his mother had spent hours preparing the evening meal earlier. Unable to eat, he had lain in his bunk in his bedroom, leaving his mother downstairs to eat her meal alone. The table still remained set, the cutlery for Pa and Trent laid out, plus his own.
“There’s no need to apologize, my dear,” said his mother. “I know how it is when you feel ill.” She looked intently at him, as if reading his thoughts. “And I hope nothing else is troubling you.” She put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I know you didn’t mean to lose that sheep.”
Drew nodded. It was true he’d been worried about that, but now something else was disturbing him. He’d attempted during the day to unravel what had been going on with his parents’ heated arguments, but his mother had proved adept at dodging his subtle lines of questioning. Although she’d provided no answers she had, however, revealed some clues.
To his relief, it didn’t appear to be his fault. He knew his father was annoyed at the loss of a prize-winning ram, but his mother had just made it clear that he had done nothing wrong, and he believed her. She would sooner stay silent than tell a lie to either of her boys. Nor was it something that stemmed from a disagreement between his parents. Whatever it was, the clues suggested that it had something to do with the flock’s strange behavior, but that was all he could work out. With his father dismissing his theories earlier, Drew was surprised to find out that he also thought something was wrong.
Drew was pulled back from his thoughts by the rapid rat-tat-tat of the rain on the windowpanes, making it seem as though the glass might shatter at any moment. Picking up another log, he threw it into the fireplace. The flames leapt high, the fire burning hungrily now, spitting, hissing, and popping. Drew walked across to the huge bay window. Over the storm he could hear his sheep bleating, wailing with worry. Should he go outdoors to check on them? Surely they’d be safe in the paddock? The moon, full and bloated in the night sky, broke through the storm clouds, casting an eerie light over the farmyard.
Drew suddenly felt the fever take him anew, as never before. A wave of dizziness washed over him as the blood rushed from his head. He grasped the heavy curtain with a trembling hand to stop himself from falling. His breathing rasped in his chest, labored and shallow, as rivulets of sweat rolled down his face and into his eyes. Drew wiped his forearm across his face and his sleeve came away sodden, clinging to his flesh. What kind of illness could have this effect on him?
He fixed his eyes on the moon, trying to focus, trying to clear his head of the painful sensations that now assaulted his body. His skin crawled, a fevered itch spreading its way over every inch of his flesh like wildfire. Nausea assailed him, his chest heaving, his lunchtime meal threatening to make a break from his stomach. The world turned around Drew, spinning on the bright white axis of the moon. Focus on the moon.
Focus on the moon.
His body seemed to calm, the pains passing as quickly as they had come. His flesh cooled; the sickness passed. Outside the rain was subsiding, gentle now and almost tranquil. The sheep had quieted, suddenly calmed. Drew released his grip from the curtains, putting his hand to his clammy throat and massaging it softly. The peace he felt was unnatural, unnerving.
His mother rushed over. “Are you all right, Drew?”
“Not really,” he replied. “I feel ill. I think it’s the sheep being in distress. I’m picking up on it, and there’s nothing I can do.”
His mother chewed her lip, her brow creased as she stroked his cheek.
“Ma,” asked Drew, taking a deep ragged breath. “What’s wrong with me?”
“Nothing, my love. Nothing at all.”
Her face looked so sad, Drew thought, her frown aging her before his very eyes.
He smiled.
“I know there’s something you’re not telling me, Ma,” he said, then, as she started to protest, “Please don’t deny it. I’ve seen you and Pa. There’s something you’re keeping from me. I know I’m right, but hear me out. I need to say this. I just want you to know that I trust you. Whatever it is, whatever you and Pa are worried about, I know you’ll do the right thing. I just hope, whatever it is, there’s something I can do to fix it.”
He was surprised to see tears stream down his mother’s cheeks at his words, rolling freely as she smiled and sobbed.
“Oh, Drew,” she said, her voice breathless. “Always so thoughtful, so understanding. Please believe me when I tell you that no parents ever loved their child as much as we love you.”
Drew was slightly taken aback, and with a sadness in his heart doubted she genuinely spoke on behalf of his father.
“I wish I could be strong like Trent, and let Pa see that I’m worth something more. Are there two twins more different in all of Lyssia?” He smiled weakly. “But I never meant to upset you, Ma,” he said. “Really, I didn’t!”
His mother laughed at his words, hugging him. “I know you didn’t, you silly boy, I know you didn’t.” She squeezed him tight. The storm outside seemed to stop, fading away for the moment. The rumbling of thunder had gone; even the rain had subsided. The world seemed silent.
“Don’t try to be like Trent,” she added quietly. “There will come a time when your pa and I need to tell you more. But you do need to know . . . that you’re not like your brother.”
Drew’s eyes queried the strange statement, although the full understanding of her words was totally beyond his reach and comprehension. Just then the kettle began to whistle on the stove in the kitchen, low and slow at first before building toward a crescendo. The hairs on the back of Drew’s neck stood on end. His mother wasn’t finished.
“You are different.”
He wanted to know more, to ask her what she meant, but as he opened his mouth the small panes that made up the bay window suddenly shattered in a hail of flying glass as the frame buckled and exploded into the room.
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