The cursed towers 160

Bronwen was sitting on the floor behind her, singing to the ragdoll Isabeau had made for her. Scattered
around her were some of the beautiful and amazing toys that Isabeau had discovered in one of the rooms
in the south tower. On the same floor as the main bedroom, it had been furnished beautifully with two
little cradles and a rocking seat carved in the shape of a flying dragon. The satin canopy and quilts had
been used as nests by mice and were tattered and filthy. The flying dragon rocker was as perfectly
balanced as ever, however, rocking back and forth with the slightest motion and painted with amazing
realism. It stood behind Bronwen now, its wings stretched wide, its eyes gleaming with gilt paint.
Lying on the floor behind the little girl were a rainbow-painted spinning top, two rattles carved in the
shape of bluebirds, a wheeled horse that could be pulled along by a string, a beribboned hoop, a
collection of painted building blocks, and a miniature drum and flute.
Despite the beauty of these toys, Bronwen preferred the ragdoll Isabeau had made and took it
everywhere with her, crooning to it and pretending to feed it bits of bread and cheese. The flute was her
next favorite and the little girl showed an amazing aptitude for the instrument, especially surprising
considering neither Feld nor Isabeau had any musical ability with which to guide her.
Suddenly the spinning wheel faltered and the thread snapped and unraveled. Isabeau looked up, her eyes
vacant. "Latifa?" she whispered. "Oh no, Latifa!"

Meghan had slipped into a doze by the fire, Gita curled on her lap, when she suddenly woke, her black
eyes snapping open. "Latifa?" she murmured, trying to shake off her stupor. She got to her feet rather
stiffly and went to the door. She could hear nothing, but still a sense of unease persisted. She called to
one of the guards standing at the end of the corridor. "Is all well?"
"Aye, my lady," he answered. "All is quiet."
She hesitated, then leaning heavily on her flower-carved staff, made her way past the guards and down
the stairs. She passed through the great hall and into the maze of narrow corridors that led toward the
kitchens. A scullery maid was hurrying up the hall, a bucket of steaming water in one red-chapped hand,
a scrubbing brush in the other. Meghan stopped her with one gnarled hand. "Elsie?" The maid nodded,
her fair skin reddening. "Have ye seen Latifa?"
"She was just going to get something from the storerooms," the little maid answered rather breathlessly.
Meghan thanked her and hurried on, unable to shake her deepening sense that something was wrong.
Her breath was sharp in her side, but she ignored the pain. The cavernous kitchen was crowded with
servants and she asked for Latifa again. Another of the young scullery maids was directing her out to the

storerooms when suddenly there was a hubbub from outside. Meghan put her hand on the table to steady
herself. She showed no surprise when a young pot-boy came running inside, his cheeks drained of all
color.
"Murder!" he cried. "Latifa the Cook, she's been murdered."
Snapping out orders, Meghan followed him out into the inner bailey and down a dark side-alley toward
the privy yard. Even her old eyes could see the great bulk of the cook lying on the stones. With difficulty
the sorceress knelt beside her, feeling for a pulse. Under her fingers was a faint, erratic flutter. "Latifa!"
she called. "Can ye hear me, auld friend?"
Weakly Latifa's eyes opened, and she stared up at Meghan's face without recognition. Very low she
said, "Maya . . . the Banrigh . . . what does she do here?" Then her eyes closed, and the pulse died.