Witchsign

The chalet was not so different to her own home. Three chairs attended a table standing in the centre of the room. An unlit lantern hung from a hook by the door, soot-black and rust-red. Leaves lay strewn about the flagstones, collected in drifts at the corners, the alcove beside the fire deep with them. Dead ferns and twigs added to the debris. Rustling sounded and Kjellrunn stared with widening eyes. A breeze gusted through the doorway, making her shiver. Wild thoughts summoned the spirit of a long-dead woodcutter, appearing to defend the home he had loved so much in life. The leaves in the alcove continued to shake. Kjellrunn lurched towards the door as a bleary-eyed winter fox appeared, snuffling about the cold flagstones.

Kjellrunn released a long sigh. ‘Sorry to wake you.’

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