The Song of the Winns by Frances Watts Page A

periodically to gather mushrooms, which she wrapped in a handkerchief and stowed in her rucksack. “I’m not going to get caught short of food again,” she vowed.
    The hardships they had endured seemed a million miles away now, with the golden light of the afternoonsun making the flowers of the wild rhododendron bushes glow a vivid scarlet against the dark green foliage, and the air full of the sweet scent of meadow flowers. Yet even though the conditions had improved, Alistair grew more and more exhausted. His eyes felt gritty and bleary. His legs, his arms, even his tail seemed heavy, the scarf around his neck weighed his head down so that he could hardly lift it. Now that the adrenaline was draining from his body, Alistair felt wearier than he ever had in his life.
    When he judged that more than an hour had passed without any sight or sound of Queen’s Guards, Alistair said, “It’s going to be dark soon, Tib. Why don’t we try to find somewhere to stop for the night? We can get some sleep, then start out early tomorrow to look for the source of the Winns.”
    Tibby, he saw when he turned, was in mid-yawn. “That’s the best idea I’ve ever heard,” she said.
    It was in the sun’s dying rays that they stumbled into a secluded clearing. A mix of spruce and pine trees were etched in black against a deep blue evening sky, and Alistair felt needles from the trees under his feet and heard the burble of a spring he could barely see. “This is perfect,” he said, his eyelids already closing in anticipation. He shrugged the rucksack off his shoulders and helped Tibby off with hers, then sank with a groan onto a bed of needles. Tibby flopped onto the ground beside him.
    â€œI could sleep for a thousand years,” she murmured sleepily.
    Alistair had just muttered his agreement when he wasseized roughly. His heart seemed to explode in shock and he could barely draw the breath to shout a warning to his friend.
    â€œTibby!” he yelled. But it was too late. Opening his eyes he saw a dark shape looming over his friend, about to pounce.

8

    Departure
    E ven the thought that he was playing a part didn’t make Solomon Honker any less intimidating. As Alex and Alice entered the classroom and sat at their desks, he didn’t betray the slightest hint of the cheery mouse of the night before, not by so much as a wink or a twinkle in the eye.
    â€œIt’s time to focus on your new identities,” he said without even bothering to greet them. With a nod he indicated the folders standing ready on their desks, and Alice opened the topmost file, lowered her head and began to read the story of Raz and Rita of Tornley.
    Rita and Raz were the children of Jez and Webbley, though they never saw much of their father, for Jez was a Queen’s Guard. He had been sent to the Gerander–Souris border in the Cranken Alps, and only came home on leave infrequently.
    â€œHa, look at his big ears!” Alex held up a photo and gavea snort of laughter.
    â€œThat is your dead father you’re talking about, young man,” Solomon Honker reprimanded him. “Show some respect.”
    When the children were six, Jez had been stabbed and killed by a gang of Gerandan rebels trying to storm the border.
    â€œOh,” Alice cried out involuntarily. “Their father was killed by Gerandans!”
    â€œDon’t believe everything you read,” Solomon Honker told her. “He was actually part of a patrol that lost their way in the mountains and fell into a ravine. It just makes a better story for the folks back home if he died a hero fighting the evil Gerandans.”
    Somewhat relieved, Alice resumed her reading.
    Now a widow, Webbley took in washing and ironing. Six years after her husband’s death, she fell ill and died. Her orphaned children, Raz and Rita, were passed from neighbors to relatives, but no one wanted to care for them full time. At last, someone