“Can you heal her?” Conor asked again, more firmly. The monster looked down at him. “It is not up to me.”
“Why not?” Conor asked. “You tear down houses and rescue witches.
You say every bit of you can heal if only people would use it.”
“If your mother can be healed,” the monster said, “then the yew tree will do it.”
Conor crossed his arms. “Is that a yes?” Then the monster did something it hadn’t done until now. It sat down.
It placed its entire great weight on top of his grandma’s office. Conor could hear the wood groan and saw the roof sag.
His heart leapt in his throat. If he destroyed her office, too, there’s no telling what she’d do to him.
Probably ship him off to prison. Or worse, boarding school.
“You still do not know why you called me, do you?” the monster asked.
You still do not know why I have come walking. It is not as if I do this every day, Conor O’Malley.
“I didn’t call you,” Conor said. “Unless it was in a dream or something.
And even if I did, it was obviously for my mum.” “Was it?”
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