The Edge of Strange Hollow by Gabrielle Byrne (great book club books txt) 📗

arm. “Get the dog biscuits from on top of the cupboard. At least we can shut Dog up.” Mack nodded.

Poppy grimaced. She hated locking Jute out, but she hated that her parents had left her again even more. She couldn’t allow it. She had to do something. Poppy took the small strongbox to the kitchen and set it on top of the already hot stove, lock down. The kitchen filled with the smell of hot metal. She was certain her parents’ latest expedition notes were inside.

The metal lock cracked open with a pop. Poppy shoved her hand into Jute’s oven mitt, pulled off the red-hot lock, and flipped open the box. A small scroll lay inside.

Mack appeared back in the kitchen. “I can’t stand it, Poppy. I’ve got to let him in.” His face froze when he saw the scroll in her hand. He looked at her once with resignation and turned toward the front hall. Poppy’s hand shook as she unrolled the scroll. Her father’s handwriting curled over the page in pale black ink.

Malediction: The Soul Jar

Severity: Order 1-malevolent intent, in malevolent hands

Case Notes: When this malediction was first observed at the thorn grove at N:47, W: 123, it was just beginning its rise—too early for collection. We believe someone else took it, early, from the grove. We have not been able to determine who, but have heard rumors from a reliable source about the existence of a malediction with an altered function. We believe the so-called Soul Jar may be that malediction. If so, this would be the first such (known) malediction, and the first (known) malediction with its own name.

Altered Function: Trapping souls for consumption (or other usage)?

Current Location: Unknown

Current Owner: Unknown

Task: Find the jar, return it to the lab, and place the malediction in stasis.

Poppy shoved the scroll into her pocket and threw the box into the cupboard under the kitchen sink.

Poppy’s thoughts bubbled like a boiling potion as she considered her father’s words, a plan forming in her mind. Mack swung the door open to let Jute back in. She tried to catch Jute’s eye as he walked past, just to tell him she was sorry … but he didn’t look at her.

Her mind went blank.

The hob dropped to a seat in front of the tiny hearth fire. The flames hovered in the empty fireplace, burning nothing. Other folk collected windfall or harvested peat, but fire without fuel was one of Jute’s special skills. This was just as well since cutting down trees was forbidden—and for good reason. Hurting any tree in the Grimwood would grow a thorn tree at your back, quicker than quick. The house always smelled nice too—like fruit and sunshine. But that might not be Jute’s special powers. It might just be good habits.

The fire sputtered in the grate as Jute drew up his legs. His chin dropped to rest on top of his narrow knees, and after a moment he turned his cheek to face her. His eyes were bright green—a sure sign that he was upset and angry. Poppy’s heart dropped into the toes of her boots. She had never seen him look so disappointed.

With a lump in her throat, she spun around and ran back into the kitchen to scoop up a bowl of mac and cheese, then poured a large cup of cocoa. “Here, Jute,” she said, slipping them forward onto the small side table next to the hob. “I’m sorry … I’m sorry about that.”

Mack did a nose-sigh from across the room.

Jute steepled his long fingers. “You know how much I love you, Poppy?”

She swallowed. “I do.”

He paused, then reached out to wrap his long fingers around hers. “Why don’t you tell me how you managed to get a Mogwen feather?”

Poppy withdrew her hand gently, staring down to rub at a hangnail. “I tracked them by their song, climbed a pine tree, and … and used Mom’s extra net gun.”

The green slowly shifted from Jute’s eyes as he considered her words, leaving them their normal quail-egg colors again. “Oh, Poppy.” His voice hitched. “I hate for you to be in danger. You know that.”

“It was only a little danger—not much really,” she said, rushing to put him at ease. “Nothing I can’t handle. You worry too much, Jute.”

“Perhaps. But someone must.”

Poppy swallowed hard. Jute was the last person she wanted to upset. He was always there for her. When she was little, he was the one that told her stories every night, and he was the one who held her hand—sometimes until dawn—when she had nightmares about something happening to her parents, or about them deciding never to come back.

“I—I was careful,” she insisted. “And Mack was there.”

“I was, Jute. It’s true,” Mack added. “She was in … no … danger.”

Poppy couldn’t help her tiny eye roll. Mack couldn’t fib to save his life.

Poppy moved closer to Jute. “I just … I just lost my temper when I realized Mom and Dad were gone again. I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”

“I’m on your side, you know. I’m supposed to be taking care of you,” he protested, lifting the cocoa.

“You do,” Poppy said. “You do take care of me! You make sure I eat good food, and you check on me, and … and talk to me. It’s not your fault I’m stubborn and have a mind of my own.”

Jute slurped from his cup. “Yet, I can’t help feeling that you’re up to something.”

Poppy looked down quickly. “You … You worry too much, Jute.”

Jute lifted his sad freckled eyes and pursed his lips. “Oh, I do worry. You can count on that. And as to what you might be up to, just promise me you won’t do anything rash. I know your feelings are hurt that they left again.”

“I’m not hurt. I’m angry.”

“Angry, then. But making important decisions when emotions are running strong is never in your best interest. Better to sit with things a little while. You’ll understand what’s in the pot when it’s not boiling over.”

“I know. It’s just—” Poppy studied