The Bone Flute by Patricia Bow

at the kitchen table, waving a finger as he argued with Bronwyn over something on the six o’clock news. “Bring him home,” she murmured. “Home.” She took a breath, raised the flute to her mouth … then put it down and exhaled.
    â€œWait, let me think.”
    â€œNobody’s stopping you,” Miranda growled.
    â€œSuppose I bring him home, and he believes me, and he tries to do something about Terence, and then Terence … Maybe it’s not such a good idea.”
    It gave her a funny feeling when she realized what she was doing. Protecting her father. Wasn’t he supposed to protect her? A strange, lonely feeling.
    â€œIf only we could find those three women,” Mark said. “Those Wyrde. You could just hand the flute back to them.”
    â€œThey won’t come,” Miranda said from her new perch on top of Camrose’s dresser. “They don’t interfere. They’re not allowed.”
    â€œNot allowed?” Camrose laughed. “Who’d boss them around?”
    â€œThat would be telling—a lot more than I’m allowed.”
    â€œI bet you don’t know.”
    â€œI know this, as Keeper it’s your job, and you have to do it, not me. You’re the one with the powers.”
    â€œPowers?”
    â€œPowers?” Mark echoed.
    â€œMe? What powers have I got?”
    â€œI thought you’d never ask.” Miranda interlaced her stubby fingers and recited, “The powers of the Keeper are these: plain sight, far sight, insight and foresight. And unfolding from these gifts of sight, judgement: the power to decide. There.”
    â€œYou’re kidding. When did I ever see … ” Camrose stopped, remembering the burning house.
    â€œJust now, when you decided not to call your father home, that was insight.”
    â€œAnd today when I saw what Terence really looks like?”
    â€œPlain sight.”
    â€œAnd when I saw that door?”
    Miranda flinched. “Far sight.”
    â€œPowers.” Mark gave Camrose a strange look and stepped away from her. The desk chair caught him behind the knees and he sat down.
    Camrose pushed the flute on the coverlet with her foot. “Well, my insight tells me Mark’s right. If I could hand those Wyrde the flute, everything would be okay. You could tell they could handle Terence and Diarmid rolled up in one, no problem.”
    â€œBut how can we get to them?” Mark asked.
    â€œMaybe the flute would call them.”
    Miranda shook herself. “You’re asking for trouble. That thing has a will of its own.”
    â€œI’ll be careful.” Camrose grabbed the flute and raised it to her mouth again. “Now, how do I do this?”
    â€œI won’t help.”
    â€œCam, I really think you better not.”
    â€œI’m telling it where I want to go.” Camrose shut her eyes and said firmly, “Take me back to the beginning of this story.”
    She took a breath, then another, and blew gingerly into the flute. Out came a sour squeak that made Mark grimace, but nothing else happened. “Do I have to play a tune? Miranda?”
    Miranda turned her back.
    A breeze, cool after the storm, swirled in through the window and over her hands. The flute whined. The room blurred.
    When her vision cleared she was standing at the window, looking out. In the yard below the gates were open, and a man was riding in on a path of sunset light, like a hero out of a tale.

18
Rhianna’s story
    T he guest rode up from the loch and in through the west gate at sunset. The sun laid down a golden highway through the gate and across the middle of the courtyard, and along that shining path rode Diarmid, fair as the hero of one of his own songs.
    The window of Rhianna’s room was a perfect place to watch people arriving. Rhianna could see almost the whole front courtyard. Behind the bard on his tall gray horse walked a man leading a mule. Man and