Cuckoo Song by Frances Hardinge

Author:Frances Hardinge [Hardinge, Frances]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Juvenile Fiction, Horror & Ghost Stories, General
ISBN: 9780230766365
Google: haQMAwAAQBAJ
Amazon: B00IXLVUFW
Publisher: Pan Macmillan
Published: 2014-05-07T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 24

THE SHRIKE

As Not-Triss drew closer, she saw that the workshop wore a dull grey mop of thatch, streaked with dank green. The man did not wait for them, but ducked back under the low eaves and disappeared into the shop.

The idea of following this stranger into his lair was unappealing, but Not-Triss was even less keen on staying out in the streets.

Pen was shivering slightly. Her face was still pale, but to Not-Triss’s relief, her expression was recovering some of its usual uncertain, belligerent glare.

‘That was him!’ exclaimed Pen shakily. ‘He’s the other man from the Grimmer – the Architect’s friend – the one who called you out of the water!’

Not-Triss had guessed as much. Her hazy recollection of her view from beneath the Grimmer’s surface had shown her the dim outlines of two men standing on the bank above her. The taller of the two had doubtless been the Architect, but beside him there had been another shorter and stouter man.

‘Yes. He’s the Shrike – and we’re going to ask him about the Architect. He might not be our enemy. But he’s probably not our friend.’ Not-Triss wet her lips as the doorway neared. ‘Pen – hold on to me tightly. Everything here is a trick and a trap. Don’t eat anything. Don’t dance to any music. Don’t touch anything. And,’ she added quickly, as Pen’s expression became mulish, ‘don’t let me do any of those things either. We have to watch out for each other.’

With one arm firmly tucked around the rooster-bundle and the other gripped fiercely by Pen, Not-Triss advanced into the workshop.

Within, the light was dim, most of it pouring in through the door, a few pallid shafts from the narrow windows. Above, Not-Triss could make out the thorny thatch past the heavy rafters. There were a dozen tables, all cluttered with tools, china hands, herbs and feathers. On stands and sideboards were displayed dozens of dolls, nearly all of them incomplete. The majority were fashioned from a mixture of green twigs, leaves, porcelain and wood. All of them were life-size, mostly babies, but there were occasional effigies of older children or even full-grown women, their bellies swollen to suggest pregnancy.

Not-Triss was uncomfortably aware that the nearest dolls were turning their incomplete faces towards her, regarding her with hostile eyes of glass.

The man who had greeted them sat in a small rocking chair and watched them with dark grey eyes, brighter than a soldier’s buttons. Now that she saw him close to, Not-Triss realized that he was scarcely taller than she was. He had a heavy, bulldog cast to his face. The curls beneath his bowler hat were grey. His nose was particularly long, with a slight downward curve that made Not-Triss think of predatory birds.

‘Mister . . . Mr Shrike?’ asked Not-Triss. She was not sure how manners worked in this strange place.

‘Just Shrike.’ The man grinned. For the tiniest flash of a second, Not-Triss thought she saw something that was not a man’s face.

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