Written in Stone by Ellery Adams

about the food
     festival? That’s how you know I’ll be in the forest.” She made a derisive sound. “Is
     that all there is to your hocus-pocus?”
    “In part.” Munin grinned, unfazed. “I am Memory. I collect memories and I put them
     on my jugs. The past helps me see into the future. And I use other methods too. The
     land is rich with plants that aid my visions. Jimsonweed, heliotrope, passion flower.”
    Eying her tea suspiciously, Olivia set the mug aside, causing Munin to laugh. The
     sound was like the rustle of dried leaves. “I haven’t drugged you, girl. I mean you
     no harm, which is a good thing, for harm seems to find you. Death is attracted to
     you.”
    “I assume you’re referring to the murder that happened a few months ago? Again, you
     read about my involvement in the paper.” She narrowed her eyes at the old woman. “And
     if you knew it would happen, why didn’t you send a warning?”
    “I don’t see in straight lines, child. I knew that the man calling himself Plumley
     would pay a steep price. There is always a price, as there was for your friend—the
     one who’s in jail now. He has peace for the first time in his life. You don’t have
     to grieve for him anymore.”
    Olivia felt the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand up
.
Only Dixie, Rawlings, and the Bayside Book Writers knew how she felt about the events
     of the past spring. How she’d mourned the loss of a friend and how her guilt over
     helping the authorities bring him to justice had weighed her down for months.
    “Many of my visions are filled with nightmares,” Munin suddenly hissed. “Ugly things
     that will come to pass. But that does not mean I should interfere. I stay away from
     such things unless I have a debt to pay. I have survived by staying away.” The fire
     in her eyes died as quickly as it had flared and she settled more deeply into her
     chair and drank her tea. “I kept others safe for a long time by removing myself from
     the world, but even I cannot hide forever.”
    There was a scuffing noise outside the house. “Harlan’s emptied my traps. Would you
     like to stay for supper? If there’s quail, I can roast them on a spit and make you
     a bracelet from their bones. Or would you prefer fresh squirrel?” She cackled.
    “Thank you, but, no. Please go on. I’ve paid you,” Olivia reminded her. “I am waiting
     for my story.”
    Picking up the carving Olivia’s father had made, Munin studied it again. A flicker
     of sadness crossed her weathered face.
    “For your gift, I will tell you two things. The first is that I met Camille Limoges
     when she was carrying you.” She stopped suddenly and stared at Olivia. “Did you never
     wonder why such a woman—beautiful, kind, wise—would marry an uneducated fisherman
     who loved whiskey more than any living being?”
    “Of course I have!” Olivia snapped, growing tired of the witch’s enigmatic manner
     of speaking. “A million times over. My grandmother couldn’t explain it. No one could.”
    Munin looked exceedingly pleased. “But I can. She had no choice. Consider that, girl.
     The man who should have raised you couldn’t claim you. Couldn’t claim your mother
     either. Poor, sweet fool.” She slowly raised herself out of the chair. It creaked
     in protest until her weight was transferred to her dirty feet. “Soon, many paths will
     cross in this forest. People who have carried anger around with them too long will
     meet. People who have swept too many secrets into a dark corner will see them exposed
     to the light. Death is coming and you’ll be in the middle of it all. Again. Be wary.
     That is all I have to say.” She turned toward the door. “Harlan!”
    Harlan pushed open the metal door and poked his head inside. “You all set?”
    Olivia was on the verge of protesting when Munin said, “I am tired. The jug on the
     ground is ready to be mailed, Harlan.” She looked at Olivia. “The one by the foot
     of the bed is for