I was sure Raven was about to reply, his mouth open ready to speak,
when he stopped, head cocked once more, listening.
A deep, grinding rumble filled the room, barely audible but
definitely there. I could feel it in the pit of my stomach. This
was the sound I'd heard, or at least felt, earlier, so much clearer
now that it wasn't competing to be heard over the other noise. Or
voices. Edward says I should call them voices.
“Why did the bird ignore the proper channels?” it asked, “Surely
they are there for a reason?”
Silence followed, a long awful expectant pause. My husband and I
looked at each other. I was about to speak, to fill that terrible
void, but Edward shook his head.
“Well?” the fire crackled, “Does the bird speak?”
“Yes, sorry,” Raven said, the first time I'd seen him look
flustered. “I don't believe that events here have been covered by
the usual precedents.”
“And the tree?” water crashed, like waves hitting a reef, “What
does the tree have to say for itself?”
