Old Bram had lived in Merrow’s End longer than anyone else. His back was bent, but his gaze was sharp.

  “You listen to it, don’t you?” he asked her one evening.

  “To the humming?” Lina replied.

  He nodded.

  “Good,” he said. “It’s important that someone does.”

  She wanted to ask more, but Bram simply tipped his hat and walked on.

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  One gray morning, Lina found an envelope in the mailbag with no postmark and no return address.

  Her name was written across the front in steady black ink.

  Inside were three words:

  You have been chosen.

  The paper trembled slightly in her hands.

  Chosen for what?