The inscription on the gable was weather-beaten, but Vera knew what it said: This hoose is mine ain and yet no mine ain, he that follows will caw it his. The paint had peeled off the timber frame facade, and the exposed oak posts were embedded in the walls like gray bones. There were masses of green moss nests in the thatch it was only sagging at the top. The ragged roof held fast to its timbers. That’s what witches sound like when they’re burning, Vera thought, or children when they get their fingers caught. Gusts of wind squealed before being deadened by the old walls. S OME NIGHTS, WHEN THE STORM came in from the west, the house groaned like a boat tossed back and forth on a heavy sea.
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