Witch Catcher by Mary Downing Hahn Page B

hanging in the tower, she took it down and studied it ... peered through the glass, pressed her ear against it. She saw something inside, heard it begging to be released, but she knew better than to listen. She put the ball back where she'd found it."
    Liar, I thought. It wasn't your grandmother who knew Uncle Thaddeus—it was you.
You
gave him the traps.
You
wanted what he caught.
    Moura leaned across the table and tilted my chin up, forcing me to look at her. "You seem bored, Jen. Doesn't my story interest you?"
    "Not especially." I tried to look away, but her pale eyes held mine for a moment, probing as if she hoped to read my mind. It was a relief to turn my head, to break away from her gaze.
    "Do you wish me to continue?"
    I shrugged. "If you want." Instead of looking at her, I watched a dy walk across the ceiling.
    Moura went on with her lies. "My grandmother never had the opportunity to return to the tower. When your uncle realized she was interested in the witch trap, he locked her out."
    He
sealed
you out, I thought, with those runes on the door. He knew what you were. He knew what you were after.
    "You saw your uncle's paintings," Moura continued, "the strange creature trapped behind glass, her hands pressed against her prison walls, her mouth open in a plea for freedom. Thaddeus Mostyn painted her over and over again, never satisfied with his renderings. Always beginning again."
    She paused to swat at the fly, now crawling around the sugar bowl. Off it flew.
    "And then one evening," Moura said softly, "Thaddeus Mostyn suffered apoplexy—a stroke, you'd call it. He never recovered his ability to speak or to walk. He could no longer go to the tower."
    Yes, I thought, yes—I know all about that stroke. And who caused it. Witch. Liar. I hate you.
    Keeping my face as expressionless as Moura's, I said, "And the globe was left there with the girl trapped inside."
    "Not a girl," she said. "A demon from another world, untrustworthy, dangerous, wicked, a teller of lies, a deceiver."
    The fly buzzed over her head. Annoyed, Moura picked up the newspaper and tried to kill it. Again she missed. "Filthy creature," she muttered. "Full of germs."
    To keep from looking at Moura, I picked up my cup and stared into my coffee. "If something wicked was inside that globe, why did you and Mr. Ashbourne want it so badly?" I ventured.
    "To make certain it didn't fall into the wrong hands. Mr. Ashbourne collects witch catchers to prevent the accidental release of the evil beings trapped within."
    Suddenly, Moura laid her hand on mine. "Now do you understand why you must tell me everything you know about the globe, Jen? You mustn't put yourself in peril because of your innocence." She paused, her eyes locked on mine again. "Or should we say your ignorance? Your stubbornness? Call it what we will, but you are endangering yourself."
    I pulled my hand away. "Tink broke the globe. There was nothing but broken glass in my closet." This was true, so I looked her in the eye while I spoke. "You saw it yourself. Shards of glass ad over the door."
    "Ah, but perhaps you encountered the creature later," Moura persisted. "In the woods, maybe. Foolish child! You could be enchanted without even knowing it. You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into."
    Although I knew better than to believe Moura. her words scared me, awoke possibilities that hadn't occurred to me. Doubts. I'd believed Kieryn almost from the beginning. Had I been too trusting? All of this was new to me—magic, witchcraft, fairyland, spells, traps.
    Moura got up and came around the table. She hugged me. Her perfume surrounded me as dense as a cloud of smoke. I felt dizzy, woozy, breathless. Moura loved me.... She wanted to protect me from danger ... from Kieryn. I relaxed in her arms, I breathed in her perfume, filling my lungs with it as if I'd been drowning in ordinary air.
    "My dear, dear child," Moura whispered, her breath cool in my ear. "Allow me to be a mother to you, let me