The Thirteen Hallows by Michael Scott, Colette Freedman Page A

of her later career. When the book critics lauded her wonderfully detailed imagination and fully realized worlds, they had no idea that she was simply repeating and reporting on the places she’d seen.
    As she grew older, Judith had hidden the sword away in her brother’s old woolen military jacket that hung at the back of the closet. The dreams then came only sporadically, and she began treating them clinically, divesting them of their chilling powers by converting them into marketable fantasy and adventure books for children. There were times when she almost forgot about the power of the Hallow that had so shaped her life.
    Almost, but not quite.
    But someone still believed that the Hallows were powerful; someone was prepared to kill in order to acquire the artifacts.
    And Sarah, where did she fit into the overall scheme? Was her appearance, her intervention, more than coincidence? Even dormant, the Hallows attracted certain types of people—either those sensitive to the tremulous aura they exuded but unaware of their powers or those who deliberately sought the ancient objects of power still scattered throughout the world. Over the years, she’d encountered her fair share of both. And Sarah…Judith was convinced she was the former, but there was more to her. There was a strength to her that even the young woman did not recognize.
    The argument downstairs finally ended with a slammed door, then stairs creaked. There was a gentle tap on the door.
    “Come in, Sarah,” Judith Walker said softly, sitting up in the bed.
    Sarah Miller stepped into the room, smiling sheepishly. Her cheeks were red and flushed, and her hands were trembling slightly. “I just came to see how you were,” she said quietly.
    “I’m fine, thanks to you.” Judith patted the bed. “Sit for a moment.”
    The young woman perched on the edge of the bed, her eyes moving about the familiar room, looking anywhere but at Judith’s face.
    “I’m afraid I haven’t made you very popular with your family.”
    Sarah shrugged. “I’ve never been popular with them. But they’re fine. They were just a bit surprised, that’s all.”
    “I imagine your mother suspects I’m here for the rest of my life.”
    Sarah shook her head quickly, though Ruth Miller had indeed suggested that very idea. “Once these people move in, they never leave,” she had preached.
    “No. Nothing of the sort,” Sarah said.
    Judith reached out and touched the girl’s hands. In that instant, she felt a tinge of regret for what she had done—using the girl to provide her with a secure shelter for the night, a place that couldn’t be traced. “What you did today was something you should be proud of,” she said, her voice low and insistent. “You acted in the finest traditions of old; you came to the aid of a damsel in distress.” She squeezed Sarah’s fingers and smiled.
    Sarah nodded, suddenly feeling confident and sure about her actions. She had been sure she’d done the right thing—they had seemed right… until her mother had explained the hundred different reasons why she should have left the situation alone. Ruth Miller simply could not comprehend why her daughter hadn’t looked away and crossed the street.
    “Do you believe in a higher power?” Judith asked suddenly.
    Sarah shrugged. “We’re Church of England.”
    “No, I’m not talking about a church. I’m not talking about a god or gods or anything so specific. Do you believe in a Being, a Spirit, a force for Good?”
    Uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was taking—maybe her mother was right; maybe the old woman was mad—Sarah shrugged again. “I suppose. Why?”
    “Because what you did today was right . It was good. Do not allow people to belittle what you did.”
    “Honestly, I’m not sure why I did it,” Sarah admitted. “But when I saw them attacking you, something happened to me. I just got so angry. I couldn’t walk away….”
    Judith smiled, deep wrinkles crinkling