She comes to a stop.
All the questions I’ve been dying to ask leap to the tip of my tongue, but before I can ask even one, she peers at Jude. “What has its claws in you, boy?”
My curiosity dies dead in my throat.
I look at Jude, who stares back at her like somethingdoeshave its claws in him and how did she know?
She turns to me. “You may come.”
I blink at her—my mouth dry, my bearings off kilter.
“On Saturday, when the sun is highest, you may both come.” She pulls the drawstring on her pouch, then slips once more into the fog.
By the time we climb inside Jude’s BMW, everyone else has gone and it’s drizzling again.
Neither of us have spoken.
I can’t seem to find my voice.
It feels like I’ve drifted here in a daze.
What has its claws in you, boy?
Jude pulls the seatbelt across his lap.
Is it me, or is he avoiding eye contact? And what about the state of him? I assumed the dark circles were courtesy of his grandfather, but what if it’s something more?
He starts the car and flips on his windshield wipers. “The luncheon is at Ivy’s grandmother’s house, right?”
“Why did she say that?”
He scratches the back of his neck. “Say what?”
“Jude.”
“The thing about the claws?”
“Yes, the thing about the claws.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t have any idea, Selah. She’s pretty odd.”
I study him, unsure if he’s really stumped, or if he’s just good at acting.
Mistress Bramble keeps saying cryptic things.
You woke a great hunger.
And now, this—what has its claws in you, boy?
An unsettled feeling—infinitely worse than anything I felt when Lainey waltzed into St. Oswald’s earlier today—sinks deep into the pit of my stomach
Saturday can’t come soon enough.
Twig sits on a stair with his hands on his knees, looking star struck. “She invited you to her house?”
The four of us—me, Twig, Jude, and Naomi—are gathered on the staircase inside the home of Ivy’s grandmother, modest in size with floral wallpaper, a plethora of doilies, and the strong scent of potpourri, even with all the casseroles and crockpots vying for space on the dining table. The place is full of guests. They stand in clusters, eating from paper plates. Others wander from one room to the next, offering strained smiles and soft excuse-me’s.
“On Saturday. When the sun is highest.” Which I assume means noon, but Twig is typing away on his phone.
