A Mischief in the Woodwork - By Harper Alexander Page 0,5

fields, but billows to an extent always came to eddy about. It was materializing now as I treaded off the porch and faced the vast field. Exposure washed quietly over me as I stepped out of the shadow of the manor, leaving that haven behind me. The first breath of chilly night air wafted into my face and drifted on to the manor walls, raising the hairs on my arms. I shivered. The rags I wore – a crudely-crafted, flimsy, loose tunic over one of Victoria's old corsets, and a fraying silk skirt – were insignificant to the dropping temperature. I pulled the fabric of the loose tunic up over my bare shoulder, where the big neck often fell askew. It offered little in the ways of sealing out the cold. There was nothing for it but to finish my task, and retreat inside.

The other slaves filed out behind me. They always came to lend me their support, to sing in the background and guide me back through the mist after I had done the rounds.

I paused before the field, and Letta lifted the back of my tunic to loosen the corset strings. It was not a practical garment, but it was one of the things we were reduced to – wearing hand-me-down undergarments as the best clothing we could attain.

I stretched my lungs as the strings loosened, assuring I had a proper range. Finished, Letta let the tunic fall, and I stepped forward into the fringes of the dead grasses and brown weeds.

The sky was painted with the last inky colors of the day, a sullen tapestry sinking quickly into utter darkness. I trailed my fingers over the ugly weed buds as I treaded into their midst, letting the rising mist swallow me from sight.

I entered that quiet world of softly shifting fears, where nothing but the faint hiss of the mist spoke and nothing but the smearing breaks in the gloom stirred for miles. I eyed those breaks warily, alert for any shift that might be something more than the gloom clearing. The Wardogs could be on the premises any time past twilight. They could be slinking through the field now, and I could stumble right into the path of a hungry beast coming our way.

I could go to ribbons beneath an onslaught of fangs any instant.

I calmed my nerves. It was all part of the job. Just get it done, Avante, I told myself. Then I could go back inside.

I breathed the mist into my lungs, distilling its sting, and then began to let my voice out. It was a haunting lilt, a hymn of ancient words. I sang them from a sacred place in my being, as if speaking in a code that the gods had instilled in me. It filtered out, echoing through the mist. Muffled but rousing.

As the distance fed off of my lonely voice, I became aware, as always, of how alone I was out there. Singing while exposed had the frightful feel of calling attention to myself. I could imagine the beasts perking their ears toward the sound across the countryside, pinpointing me in the gloom. It was haunting calling them so.

I fanned out as I sang, flitting slowly from place to place to awaken the buds. They curled slowly open, touched by my voice, and took on the faintest hues of light as I did the rounds. Sometimes, as I drifted through the gloom, I could hear the faithful chant of the other slaves, lined up at the edge of the field to sing me back. Sometimes, I could not. My voice would fall in pitch when I lost them, becoming tentative as I strained to make them out, as I feared I had strayed too far to find my way back. But the buds would dim, and I strengthened my voice again. I could not risk letting the light die. Whether my voice overrode the beacon voices of my fellow slaves or not, I had to sing the flowers to their full potential before they would sustain themselves.

I circled the manor by a memorized path. I'd counted out the steps by day in the beginning, and stayed true to that pattern, as best I ever could, to complete the task ever since. In wider and wider circles I went, until the buds were sharp lanterns in the night. Then I wound my way back toward the sound of the voices that sustained the lament, my slippers crunching softly on the