Cuckoo song

  • Cuckoo song
  • Product Code: A2-38788
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Cuckoo song by frances hardinge 


Intro  

Her head hurt. There was a sound grating against her mind, a music-less rasp like the rustling of paper.

Somebody had taken a laugh, crumpled it into a great, crackly ball and stuffed her skull with it. Seven days, it

laughed. Seven days.

‘Stop it,’ she croaked. And it did. The sound faded away, until even the words she thought she had heard

vanished from her mind like breath from glass.

‘Triss?’ There was another voice that sounded much louder and closer than her own, a woman’s voice. ‘Oh,

Triss, love, love, it’s all right, I’m here.’ Something was happening. Two warm hands had closed around hers, as

if they were a nest for it.

‘Don’t let them laugh at me,’ she whispered. She swallowed, and found her throat dry and crackly as bracken.

‘Nobody’s laughing at you, darling,’ the woman said, her voice so hushed and gentle it was almost a sigh.

There were concerned mutterings a little further away. Two male voices.

‘Is she still delirious? Doctor, I thought you said—’

‘Just an interrupted dream, I think. We’ll see how young Theresa is when she has woken up properly.’

Theresa. I’m Theresa. It was true, she knew it, but it just felt like a word. She didn’t seem to know what it meant.

I’m Triss. That seemed a bit more natural, like a book falling open on a much-viewed page. She managed to

open her eyes a little, wincing at the brightness. She was in bed, propped up on a mound of pillows. It felt as if

there was a vast expanse of her, weighted down with rocks, and it was a surprise to see herself stretched out as

a normal-sized lump under the counterpane and blankets.

There was a woman seated beside her holding her hand gently. The woman’s dark hair was short and arranged

close to her head, moulded into stiff, gleaming, crinkly waves. A faint flouring of face powder dusted over her

cheeks, muffling the tired lines at the corners of her eyes. The blue glass beads of the woman’s necklace

caught the light from the window, casting frosty glints on to the pale skin of her neck and the underside of her

chin.

Every inch of the woman was achingly familiar and yet strange, like a map of a half-forgotten home. A word

drifted down from nowhere, and Triss’s numb mind managed to catch at it.

‘Muh . . .’ she began.

‘That’s right, Mummy’s got you, Triss.’

Mummy. Mother.

‘Muhm . . . muh . . .’ She could only manage a croak. ‘I . . . I don’t . . .’ Triss trailed off helplessly. She didn’t

know what she didn’t, but she was frightened by how much she didn’t.

‘It’s all right, froglet.’ Her mother gave her hand a little squeeze, and smiled softly. ‘You’ve just been ill again,

that’s all. You had a fever, so of course you feel rotten and a bit muddled. Do you remember what happened

yesterday?’ ............. Download Now to read more about " Cuckoo song " by frances hardinge 



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File Size: 4.7Mb

File ext: pdf 

Total page: 148pgs


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