Sir Roger And The Witches - Part 12

If you have not already, please start here!

...Previous

   As Sir Roger was eavesdropping on a council meeting, Mr. Belvedere was answering the door of his room at the Lancer Hotel, upon which a courier had knocked. Mr Belvedere thanked him, tipped him, and took the letter he offered. It was sealed by Mr. Sandros’ personal mark, rather than that of his office. Mr. Belvedere didn’t bother to sit as he slit it open.

   My examination is complete. I request your presence as soon as you may provide it. 53 Rettig Street.

   There was no signature nor well-wishes. Mr. Belvedere grabbed his overcoat and stuffed the letter in a side pocket as he hurried out the door.

   He knew the address already, being an employee of the Crown himself. The coroner of Blankston County plied his trade out of a small, square, stone building that housed a collection of minor Crown offices. Mr. Belvedere had only to show his Elite Forces badge at the front desk to be shown up to Mr. Sandros’ office, which was somehow dim and close even with the wide window thrown open. A glass case atop a low-slung cabinet sat in this direct line of sunlight; moisture beaded inside its walls. It housed a half-dozen strange potted plants; hairy, toothed, or both, to various degrees. Mr. Belvedere was studying the equally strange ebony carving of three intertwining eels that graced Mr. Sandros’ bookshelves when the man himself opened the door. He was in a long white smock, setting off the near-blue translucence of his skin. He neither entered nor took his hand off the door latch as he spoke.

   “If you’d follow me,” was his only invitation.

   He led Mr. Belvedere along office-lined hallways and down portrait-lined stairwells to a small antechamber at the heart of the building. It looked like a common entryway, with hooks and cupboards for coats and gloves, only the door beyond it did not lead outside. The coats were all plain white smocks and the gloves all dark leather. Mr. Sandros took a pair of gloves as he passed by.

   “If you might wish to touch anything, I ask that you dress,” said the coroner. Mr. Belvedere hugged his own elbows.

   “I think I’ll be alright.”

   The door opened without a sound; oiled to perfection like the coroner’s hair. Mr. Belvedere closed the door politely behind him and followed Mr. Sandros into the deepest cellar. It was cold as an icebox, and would have been dark as one save the kerosene lamps burning on the walls. The wooden stairs creaked even more than usual under the Elite man’s heavy frame. 

   There were two bodies laid out on examination tables, both covered by sheets. One was a clearly recognizable human form; the other appeared to have had its chest levered open like a cabinet. Mr. Belvedere breathed an internal sigh of relief as Mr. Sandros approached the human-shaped one. It was indeed the remains of Ms. van Allen under that sheet, looking just as it had in prison. Mr. Sandros only pulled the covering down to the shoulders. He glanced around, ensuring their privacy, as he pulled on his gloves. Then said:

   “It was homicide.”

   Mr. Belvedere grimaced, closing his eyes.

   “Saints be cursed,” he muttered. “You’re sure?”

   “Very,” said the coroner. He motioned the Elite man to come for a closer look. Mr. Belvedere continued to keep his hands to himself. Mr. Sandros gently pressed two fingers to the corpse’s temple, pushing the head aside to expose the back of the neck. “My suspicions were correct; the bruise is inconsistent with a hanging, even a makeshift one as was presented. The weight of a body pulls a noose into a curve, whereas a strangling leaves a straight line - like this. Proper bruises do not form after a heart has stopped beating, meaning she was dead before she was hanged.”

   He pointed out an incision over her voicebox, which had been carefully sewn shut.

   “In addition, the cartilage of her throat is quite soundly damaged. That rarely happens due to the placement of a noose. If it does, it means there was a struggle during; which there was not since she had already passed. This was garrotting, plain and simple, in the guise of a suicide.”

   Mr. Belvedere did not respond. He seemed transfixed by the still, silent face of Ms. van Allen. Mr. Sandros replaced the sheet over it. The Elite man continued to stare.

   “I find it hard to believe,” continued the coroner, “that no one would have heard a struggle beforehand. Another round of questioning is in order, particularly the other prisoners. If, truly, no one heard anything - it may be possible that she was drugged and strangled while unconscious. That, or the entirety of the cell block sleeps very deeply indeed.”

   Mr. Belvedere glanced up at him, then back at the human shape.

   “Drugged,” he murmured. “Does that, uh, mean, someone might have…”

   Mr. Sandros shook his head as he read the Elite man’s pained expression.

   “Naturally, I considered that possibility. There are no signs of sexual misconduct. A drugging would make sense if there were…otherwise, I don’t know what to think of it. Perhaps the perpetrator had hoped to poison her, and resorted to strangulation when that didn’t work. Perhaps they just had the sense to keep things as quiet as possible.”

   Perhaps, agreed Mr. Belvedere silently.

   “Clever,” he said aloud. He offered Mr. Sandros a faint smile. “But not clever enough.”

   “Oh, certainly clever enough,” said Mr. Sandros, as he removed his gloves. “Just not as clever as a coroner.”

   As the courier was knocking on Mr. Belvedere’s door, Julian Bossard was climbing the front steps of Blank Manor. The captain was still unsure that he had the correct information, but it was all he had to act on. Tracking down a single person who, as far as he knew, wasn’t trying to run away was a task easily delegated to an officer; but he’d done it himself. It felt right.

   He pulled the bell. Only a few seconds later, the door swung wide. Julian tensed, and ducked into a reverent stance halfway between a bow of the head and a curtsey.

   “Good morning, my lady.”

   Annabel fixed Julian with her kinder, gentler version of a stern glare.

   “Now, you know better than that, Julian. It’s Annabel to you.”

   The police captain shuffled his feet a bit as he spoke.

   “Yes…Ms. Galbraith.” The witch seemed to accept this compromise. “I was told that I could, uh, find someone I’m looking for here. Do you know a Ms. Baker?”

   “I certainly do; she’s downstairs with the breakfast dishes. What did you need her for?”

   “An investigation,” said Julian carefully. “I’m afraid I can’t discuss the details just yet, Ms. Galbraith. It’s Elite business. They need to ask Ms. Baker a few questions. Just for evidence. She’s not in any trouble.”

   “That sweet thing? I don’t see how she could be.” Annabel opened the door wider and stood aside. “Come have a seat in the parlour, dear. I’ll send her up right away.”

   Julian took up the same gold-green chaise longue that Sir Roger favoured, his cloak spilling across the brocade like a night sky. It was swept back up against his body as he stood to attention. Ms. Baker had appeared in the same doorway favoured by spying crones. Her constant expression of semi-worry had been turned up a notch. She waited for him to speak.

   “Ms. Baker, I’m sorry to bother you. I wouldn’t if it weren’t important.”

   “I know you wouldn’t,” she said kindly. “What is it you need, Captain?”

   He held her eyes a moment, wondering where to start.

   “I’m only a messenger in this situation, Ms Baker. I’m here on behalf of the Elite Forces. Mr. Belvedere needs to ask you some more questions. His investigation has…taken a turn.”

   They shared another silent pause.

   “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but I think you should know sooner than later. I only ask that you keep it between yourself and those who might need to know. Mr. Belvedere’s trying to keep the rumour mill from spinning out of control.”

   “Of course. I understand,” agreed Marigold. “What is it?”

   The captain took a deep breath through his nose.

   “Ms. van Allen was found dead in her cell. Two nights ago. It was an apparent suicide by hanging. In custody, and particularly Crown custody, apparent suicides must be investigated and ruled to be such before anything else can happen. That’s what they’re working on now, and that’s what they’d like to ask you about. I wanted you to have time to process it before they did.”

   “Thank you,” said Marigold, after a pause. She hadn’t noticed how hard her hands were grasping eachother. Julian had.

   “I’m so sorry, Ms. Baker.”

   “You don’t have to be. It’s quite alright.” She sniffed quietly.

   “If you, uh, need a moment…” began the captain.

   “No, I’m fine. Sad to hear it of course, but, I’ll be fine. I…I can’t say as I was expecting to see her again anyway. It’s just a shame she had to go so young.”

   Marigold gave a sigh. Then she looked straight at Julian, perking up.

   “When and where should I meet with Mr. Belvedere?” she asked, as if discussing the weather.

   “I’ll leave his contact information with you, and you can get in touch if- and when- ever you’re ready. I’ll pass along yours as well, in case he ends up needing you sooner.”

   “Thank you, captain. I appreciate that.”

   He knew it was not the time, but he also did not know when he might get another chance to ask.

   “Speaking of, Ms. Baker…you did tell me you had a place to stay.”

   She looked to the floor. “Yes. I did.”

   “This wasn’t what you meant, was it?”

   “No, I just ended up here. I was fine, captain. I am fine. You don’t need to worry about me. You have important things on your mind.”

   “Nothing is more important to me than people being safe. And treated well,” he added, when she met his eyes again. “Don’t ever be afraid to contact me or my officers, for any reason.”

   Marigold smiled faintly at this. “He’s not evil, captain.”

   “Well, he’s not good either,” said Julian firmly. He bowed to excuse himself before his emotions could override his officiousness. ‘Thank you, Ms. Baker, for your cooperation.”

   He wrote out the address of the Lancer hotel and Mr. Belvedere’s room number in his notebook. As he tore out the page and handed it to Marigold, Annabel appeared from the kitchen hallway, duster in hand.

   “All sorted, dears?”

   “All sorted,” agreed Marigold.

   “Wonderful! When you’re done with the dishes, dear, could you give the laundry room a good sweep?”

   “Of course.” The young witch nodded at Julian once more. “Good day, captain. Thank you again.”

   “No, Ms. Baker, thank you.”

   She smiled politely yet again and left the parlour, back to her dishes. Annabel waited a careful moment before speaking.

   “Is everything alright, dear?”

   “Yes, Ms. Galbraith. There are a few more questions the Elite need answered, that’s all. Purely formalities.”

   “About poor Guinevere again, is it?”

   Not sure what she might have heard whispered, Julian hesitated, screening his words.

   “Yes, Ms. van Allen is the subject of their inquiries.”

   He could have left at any time. There wasn’t so much as a throw rug between himself and the front door, yet, Annabel was looking at him strangely. He knew he was being asked to stay.

   “Did they have to talk with Alfie about her?” she asked quietly. Shakily. Julian considered that question, and the question behind it, as he looked into her careworn eyes.

   “Ms. Galbraith, he helped the investigation more than I can say. You should be very proud of him.”

   Juilan didn’t know for sure if he’d gotten the message across in its entirety, but the old witch smiled. At the least, she knew that all was well.

   Sir Roger could afford to hire any horse in town, but he did not do things, least of all first dates, halfway. After a bit of convincing, he had managed to wheedle Penelope and her cab out of Mr. Harforth’s custody for the evening. He’d packed the carriage with blankets, and baskets of bread and cheese and cured meats and pickled veegtables and tarts and cakes. Two bottles of fine wine had been excavated from the strata of dust in the cellar and nestled carefully in one of the baskets.

   He pulled Penelope up alongside the fence, though this time he risked not hitching her to it. She did not move an inch. Sir Roger reached into the cab and pulled out the little bouquet of flowers he’d agonized over all afternoon. His upbringing, which had taught that flowers on a first date was gauche, had fought with the rest of him, which wanted to bring Lucy most of a rosebush. They’d compromised on daffodils and bluebells.

   Sir Roger paused on the front step for a quick inventory. Hair, neatly tied back with a bow. Shoes, polished. Flowers…flowers. He was ready. He knocked.

   Auntie answered. Roger shrank back into himself. They stared at eachother, each calculating their next move.

   “She doesn’t know what you do for a living, does she?” asked Auntie.

   “It’s…not for a living,” said Sir Roger hastily, “it’s—“

   Auntie cut him off with a raise of her eyebrows.

   “You harass women for fun, do you? What a charmer.”

   Before Roger could respond, Lucy’s voice called out from within the cottage.

   “Is he here?”

   “Sure is, my girl,” Auntie called back.

   “Just a minute!” cried Lucy. “I’ll be right out!”

   Sir Roger turned a pleading look on the looming woman.

   “Could you please keep it to yourself? Just for tonight?”

   “I won’t tell her a thing,” said Auntie, “unless you treat her poorly. And if you do, don’t count on a second date. I raised her to have standards.”

   She left the door open wide, turning her back on him. She resumed her spot at the kitchen table where she’d been darning her way through a pile of socks. Sir Roger slunk through and closed the door behind him. The kitchen glowed a bright yellow in the slanted autumn light. He was only left to stew a few seconds before Lucy emerged from a bedroom door beyond the little sitting room. She was wearing what she always wore, with only a smattering more lace. A blouse and a skirt and sensible boots.

   She smiled as she caught sight of the daffodil bouquet. Sir Roger proffered it to her with a little bow.

   “You charmer!” she declared, taking the flowers. Her hands brushed his as she wrapped her fingers around the stems. “You didn’t have to do that.” She glanced around the kitchen, brow furrowing.

   “You know what? I don’t own a vase. Hm.” Lucy crossed to a cupboard near the basin and pulled a tall mug from inside it. She poured some water into it from the nearby jug on the counter, and slid the flowers into it. She beamed.

   “That’ll do. What do you think?”

   “It’s beautiful,” said Sir Roger, gazing at Lucy. “Are you, er, ready to go?”

   “Yes! Let’s be off. I’ll see you later, Auntie!”

   “Have fun,” was the distracted reply. Sir Roger glanced back at her nervously as Lucy brushed past him out the door. She didn’t look up from her darning.

   Lucy gasped as she saw her conveyance for the evening. She trotted over to the ever-patient horse and gave its nose a hug.

   “My fwend! How’s my widdle Penelope?”

   Penelope did not have a response to this. Sir Roger stood by, basking in the glow of her smile. Lucy leaned in conspiratorially towards the horse as she stroked its ears.

   “Why don’t you and I get outta here, huh?” she whispered, rather loudly. “We’ll get rid of this silly boy and you and I can eat all the picnic ourselves. How ‘bout that?”

   Lucy patted Penelope on the nose with finality, and turned to grin at Roger.

   “Shall I drive?”

   He blinked at her as if she’d asked a difficult math problem.

   “Uh, I, don’t know. Did you want to?”

   “Oh, it’s no difference to me,” said Lucy. “I just thought it’d be fair. You brought the picnic and the flowers. About time I did something around here!”

   She mistook his gentlemanly indecision for acceptance and stepped up into the driver’s seat. Penelope’s ears perked up, betraying her glee, as Lucy picked up reins and crop. Roger climbed on beside her, still unsure. As long as there were no dowager countesses around to faint at the sight of a woman driving a man, he supposed, and relaxed a little. Lucy urged the horse into motion, pulling her around towards the road.

   “Where are we off to?” she asked, looking to Roger. “Did you have a place in mind?”

   “I, er, did, if that’s alright…”

   “Of course!”

   “Then, just turn right at the road. I’ll point the way.”

   She nodded and turned her attention to the horse, who was clopping along at a steady rate now. Roger looked away from her, out at the sun descending through the trees. The forest was alight with yellow, as the kitchen had been. It was a day of beautiful things. He relaxed a bit more.

   Lucy snorted a laugh. He turned back, waiting for explanation.

   “What is that?” she giggled. Cold shocked his senses, plunged into an icy lake of panic.

   “What?”

   She touched one pointing finger to the knot at the back of his neck.

   “Your fancy little ribbon,” she said, twiddling it. “It’s a picnic, silly, not a ball.”

   “Well, I…”

   “Besides, I liked your hair down.”

   Her smile thawed him out just enough. He reached up and hastily pulled the blue bow off his ponytail. Curtains of hair swung forward, rippling red as he shook them free.

   “By the way,” said Lucy, “did you know that your friend Bill and my Auntie knew eachother when they were young?”

   “Oh?” feigned Sir Roger. “Did they?”

   “She tells me he grew up just a few pastures down the road from her parents’. They were good friends, can you believe that?” Lucy leaned in conspiratorially. “Auntie even said they talked about getting married at one point! How’s that for a coincidence, that you lead her old friend right to her door?”

   “And what a coincidence,” agreed Roger. “I…never would have guessed. Bill didn’t mention a thing.”

   Penelope drew them nearly to the peak of the thing that was too small to be a mountain, but a little too tall to be a hill. If Sir Roger craned his neck over the side, he could see the edge of his property, though he made no mention of this to Lucy. From this vantage point, no matter where he looked or how his neck was set, the view was breathtaking. The sky in the east was already darkening over the forest beyond Felltown. Blankston sat to the south, chimneys trailing smoke and streetlamps coming ablaze, the last bastion of civilization before the farmlands gave way to endless plains. The sun was setting behind the mountain marked by the scar of Steadney. Still charred, that void, but it seemed some life had come back to it. Sickly green and yellow trees, but trees nonetheless.

   Lucy reared the horse to a halt, gazing out over the vista. Her eyes did not waver from it as she slid down off the cabriolet.

   “Wow,” she breathed. She looked along the footboard at Sir Roger, who had similarly stepped down. “Good choice!”

   He couldn’t help a smile, even at such trivial praise. He pulled the stack of blankets out of the carriage; Lucy hefted out a basket of breads and, more importantly, the wine.

   Penelope had been released from her tack and tied to a tree, left to her own picnic of grass. She was ignoring her fares with gusto. They had gotten quite silly indeed and hadn’t even offered to share their apples.

   The only light on the overlook was from their lanterns, the only sound their chatter and giggles. The sun had sunk in time with the level of wine. Lucy had given up on a glass some time ago, sipping as politely as she could from one of the bottles.

   “It’s not nonsense,” Roger was insisting. “I’ve seen him myself!”

   “When no one else was around, I’m sure,” giggled Lucy.

   “No! We all did! Some friends and I were…” He suddenly held his hands aloft, a conductor silencing the orchestra. “Wait,” he whispered. “What’s that?”

   Lucy stayed absolutely quiet, listening intently. She tensed as distant hoofbeats sounded through the trees. She looked to Sir Roger, whose eyes were as wide as hers.

   “Luuucy,” moaned a voice in her left ear. She gasped and fumbled with her wine, snapping her head around to catch the culprit. There was no one there.

   “I cooome for your picnic…and your soooul,” continued the voice. Lucy looked back to Roger, bewildered. He was feigning similar surprise.

   “My god!” he cried, and leaned his head back over his shoulder, towards the grazing horse. “Penelope, did you hear that?”

   “I di-hi-hid, Roger!” came the whinnying reply. “You were right! These woods are hau-au-aunted!”

   Lucy had already caught on to the faint twitch of Roger’s lips, the careful movement of his throat. Her own lips were pressed together tightly, trying to fight off the grin taking hold.

   “Oh no!” squeaked Roger, his voice back in his own mouth. “The Headless Huntsman’s going to get us!”

   “And he’d be doing us a favour!” shouted a surly voice from the glittering town below. “You rascals are keeping us awake!”

   Roger sniffed his indignation.

   “What a wag,” he declared. “I hope he never sleeps again.”

   Lucy applauded as Roger took another swig of wine.

   “Incredible,” she said. “Where did you learn to do that?”

   “Oh, it’s nothing,” said Roger, shaking his head. “I taught myself as a kid. It’s simple once you know the secret.”

   “Don’t be so modest! Doing it that well must take some time.”

   “Well, I was lucky to have it. I didn’t have siblings or anything so I was able to talk to myself a lot. It was fun, actually, pretending someone else was there.”

   Lucy had no response. Roger looked down at his shoes, dangling the wine bottle between his knees. He tensed as a hand touched his shoulder.

   “You’re an only child, too?” asked Lucy. He looked up at her, and smiled faintly.

   “Yes. I, er, don’t think my parents wanted even one, but, here I am.” Lucy’s hand slid from his shoulder, and she turned back to the nighttime vista. Roger continued to study her profile. “No siblings for you either, then?” he said kindly. Lucy shook her head.

   “I can’t be sure, to tell the truth. I…I’m a foundling. Auntie isn’t really my auntie, not that I know, anyway. She took me in when I was very small. Small enough that I don’t remember my parents. I’ve asked around, but nobody seems to have known them.”

   She went quiet for a moment. Roger similarly did not know what to say. In the end, he decided on a tried and true method.

   “I’m so sorry, Lucy.”

   “It’s alright,” she said. “It’s more than alright. If I hadn’t been a foundling, I wouldn’t have grown up with such a wonderful Auntie. And if I hadn’t had such a wonderful Auntie I wouldn’t have met the man who came by her farm the other day.”

   She turned a smile on him. It was the kind of smile poets wrote about. The kind they dreamed about. He stared at her wide-eyed, mind racing.

   You are a monster, thought Sir Roger. You are a monster that does not deserve this. You horrible, horrible man. Kiss her before she catches on.

   He did.

Next...

Sir Roger And The Witches - Part 11

If you have not already, please start here!

...Previous

Blankston town hall had reopened for business. Both the Guard and the Elite had gathered every bit of evidence there was to gather, their only trace the disturbed layers of dust in the cellar. Town council was once again in session. Normally, Sir Roger only attended if he had something to report, which he rarely did. It was his job to act on the reports, not give them. He was happy to leave the old codgers to their rambling while he toured the town soaking up fame and adoration.

   But this morning, he knew Mr. Harforth would be there. Harforth never missed a meeting if he could help it, his attendance being the inverse of his contributions to Blankston’s governance.

   Auntie - that is to say, Ms. Templeton - had requested Mr. Harforth’s presence at the farm if business was to be done. He might just want an escort, and that escort might just have a chance to speak to Ms. Lucy again.

   The councilmen were seated at a long table in the centre of the main hall. The table’s identical fellows had been relegated to the wall, where they spent most of their time. Occasionally they were put to use as buffets or dining tables for events; the lucky ones got to be head tables at weddings.

   Sir Roger did not approach the eight men, who were all in various stages of examining sheaves of paper that Dr. Balmoral had distributed among them. His lordship was content to listen until they were through. Near the door he’d entered, Sir Roger leaned against a vertical beam, one of many ringing the main hall. They formed a forest, as they had once been; though their spacing was more even in this place.

   “And, in fact, the materials would be very cheap,” the doctor was saying, apparently as a retort. “Why should it look fancy? It need only serve our purpose.”

   The rest of the council did not seem convinced. A sallow, sideburned man in spectacles that Sir Roger knew to be Mr. Wesson was the first to speak.

   “I still don’t understand what that purpose is, Cedric. It…” Mr. Wesson paused, examining his fellow councillors. Seeing his own expression reflected by most of them heartened him to continue. “It doesn’t make sense to build one here.”

   “How so?” challenged Balmoral. “I’ve never heard you speak out against capital punishment before.”

   “As I don’t object to it, in certain cases. But, those cases are tried in Carrabon, where there are a half-dozen gallows already in service. I don’t see why we might need one in Blankston.”

   “For the cases tried in Blankston, naturally. What are we to do? Ship the guilty off the Carrabon? Rob our citizens of the chance to see justice met?”

   The councilmen exchanged glances, some more worried than others.

   “Are we going to be trying many people in Blankston?” asked Mr. Harforth. Balmoral glared at him. The smaller man shied back in his chair.

   “Did you think we were just going to lock them up and leave them? Of course there will be trials. How else can we learn the truth about what happened at Steadney? Yes, some may remain at Seagate, if their crimes dictate it. What of the masterminds? What of the ones who planted the powder kegs?”

   “Death’s too good for them,” chimed in Mr. Colroyne. Balmoral nodded at him.

   “Precisely,” agreed the doctor, “but it’s the best option we have.”

   “But, what if…” Mr. Wesson paused, considering carefully what he had been about to say. What if we don’t find anyone guilty? He rephrased. “What if the masterminds have not been detained yet? What if we never find them? What if no one is found deserving of the death penalty and we’ve built a gallows for nothing?”

   “There will be someone,” said Dr. Balmoral coldly. “There has to be. We’ve put too much work into this to have gotten it wrong.” He began to gather his papers and plans from all corners of the table. “Besides, there WAS someone deserving of the gallows at Seagate, she just beat us to it.”

   More looks were exchanged. The doctor tapped his stack of schematics into a semblance of order.

   “The Town Hall Bomber has died in prison,” he sighed. “Now, she doesn’t have to face any of the crimes she committed in Blankston OR in Steadney. She gets off without a slap on the wrist and the victims of a massacre have no closure. The state of it,” he finished in a snarl.

   “When was this?” asked Mr. Wesson.

   “How?” added Mr. Harforth.

   “The night before last,” said Dr. Balmoral. “About 2am. She hanged herself from the bars of her cell, using her dress as a rope. I was asked not to say anything publicly, but I suppose you all have a right to know, both as upstanding leaders of the community and those investigating acts of terror within it.”

   “Did you know about this?” asked one Mr. Murdoch, addressing Mr. Colroyne. Seagate’s de facto warden nodded solemnly.

   “I got the news when Jim came home. I talked to the boys about it, don’t you worry. They’re not spreadin’ any gossip.”

   “It is inevitable that news of her death will be made public,” said Dr. Balmoral. “The cause of death is where we’ve been…asked to hold our comments. It was suicide, but our friends in the Royal Elite have decided to overdo their diligence and consult the coroner. Once he makes a ruling, we can speak more freely.”

   “They don’t think…” began Mr. Wesson, horrified.

   “No, they generally don’t,” agreed Balmoral. “If they had, they wouldn’t have the mettle to accuse our upstanding officers of homicide.”

   “The doctor and I,” said Mr. Colroyne, “discussed the possibility of increasing security up at Seagate. Hiring a few more warm bodies…er, if you’ll pardon that expression, sirs. Perhaps arming the guards with some sturdy flintlocks. Just to be sure nothin’ like this happens again.”

   The silence that followed was mistaken for acceptance. Mr. Colroyne leaned back in his chair, satisfied. Dr. Balmoral slid the last of his papers into his attache case and snapped it close. He patted it twice like a faithful dog.

   “I can tell I haven’t convinced you,” he announced. “I only ask that you think on it before we meet again.”

   The council exchanged a few more pleasantries before bringing the meeting to a close. Sir Roger approached the table as some of the councilmen passed him going the other way. The doctor, the warden, and Mr. Wesson had stayed a moment to discuss an apparently critical bit of municipal tax. Mr. Harforth had stayed to listen in and feel important.

   “Er, Bill…” began Sir Roger, as he touched the councilman’s arm. Harforth whirled on him, almost angry at having been taken from his urgent business.

   “I went to have a chat with the woman you put forward,” added the witch hunter, in a low whisper. Harforth’s eyes lit up with excitement. He hustled Sir Roger away from the droning trio.

   “Ms. Templeton? You did? Which cell is she in?”

   “I didn’t bring her in. She refused to come.”

   The councilman’s brow furrowed sharply.

   “Why didn’t you make her?”

   “Well, she refused to let me make her. She had what you’d call a mind of her own.”

   This seemed to disappoint Mr. Harforth, though not surprise him.

   “Couldn’t you just arrest her?” he demanded.

   “If it’s just to have her in for questioning, no. You’d either need to charge her with something or hire me a flock of lawyers. Or…”

   “Or?” snapped Harforth.

   “Or, she said she would be happy to talk to the council if you invited her yourself. In person.”

   The councilman’s mouth hardened to a thin, set line.

   “Oh, I see,” he murmured. “In person, eh? With me, eh? She would like that, wouldn’t she?”

   “Bill, it’s that, or I have to move on.”

   Mr. Harforth stared at him a long time, thinking. Sir Roger could hear the cogs grinding away in his head.

   “Fine,” said the councilman quietly. “She wants to play that game? Fine. We’ll go this afternoon. You’re not busy, are you?”

   “No,” said Sir Roger, heart hammering. “I’d be happy to go.”

   “Then I’ll be at your front door at noon,” declared Mr. Harforth. “And we’ll see what we can’t make her do.”

   He stormed off, having thoroughly forgotten the riveting discussion not ten feet away. Sir Roger hurried home to pick out a nicer shirt.

   The autumn was still warm enough for Marigold to leave the laundry room door open as she swept it clean. She was careful not to kick up any smut onto the clothes hung from the low ceiling as she evicted warrens of dust bunnies, most of whom were swept unceremoniously into the backyard.

   She looked up at the sound of footsteps charging towards her; Sir Roger slunk through the door from the hall, eyes wide and turned heavenward to the canopy of garments. Marigold paused a moment to watch him prowl around like a cat stalking a bird.

   “Good afternoon, your lordship.”

   “Have you seen the one with the gold embroidered trim?” was his reply. He batted a few shirts aside, paying her no mind.

   “Er…the one what?” began Marigold. Suddenly Roger leapt, having found his prize. The shirt slid off the line, sending a ricochet through its criss-crossed fellows. As the crazed bandit ran back through the door, he nearly collided with Annabel coming the other way.

   “Heavens!” she swore.

   “Sorry!” Roger shouted over his shoulder, fading down the hall. “I’ll be back for dinner!”

   “It’s probably still wet!” offered Annabel. If his lordship had heard it, he didn’t reply. The older witch looked to the younger, matching both her raised eyebrows and her shrug. Annabel was carrying a tea tray bearing two cheese and pickle sandwiches, a sizeable butter tart and of course, two mugs and a teapot oozing steam.

   “A girlfriend, do you suppose?” She set the tray down on the counter. Marigold nodded as she considered the question.

   ‘That would make sense.”

   “Best of luck to the poor thing,” added Annabel quietly. She did not specify whether she referred to Roger or his woman. She closed her fingers around a few dangling shirt sleeves; indeed, still damp. She sighed, looked to Marigold, and smiled.

   “Why don’t you run along and see Crone, dear?”

   “Oh, are you sure?” Marigold clung to the broom just in case. “I don’t mind finishing up.”

   “Heavens, no, dear. It’s not a problem. You go see what Crone’s got to say and I’ll call when dinner’s ready.”

   Marigold relented the broom and took up the tea tray. She paused in the doorway, and turned back to the already sweeping Annabel.

   “What’s the best way up there, anyway?”

   She had not seen the entire house in a single tour. Such a feat would have been impossible. The Blanks had owned and lived in the manor for centuries and had rarely agreed with their predecessors on which renovations had been good ideas. From what Marigold could see, no two windows in any given room were identical. Stairs had no standard length, width, or in some cases, destination. Brick faded into stone faded into wood faded into doors on which latch placement was very much a guessing game.

   She had seen her quarters, a decently sized room on the second floor with a bed, a plain wardrobe, a desk by the window and a tiny table with two chairs. She had seen the unused master’s dining room on the first, riddled with a birdshot scattering of pastoral oil paintings. She had only seen the incongruous attic room referred to as ‘the tower’ from the outside, a strange semi-circular jut of stone from the mostly angular manor, but had hardly remarked upon it.

   On the way up, Marigold had to pass through the dark heart of the third and fourth floors of Blank Manor, where it seemed the house’s sparse inhabitants ventured least often. Cobwebs drifted lazily in the corners of ceilings, spots had crumbled through the decades-old wallpaper. The floor creaked a right racket under Marigold’s feet. She was tempted simultaneously to speed up and slow down by the hundreds of dour portraits lining these corridors. Even by the dim light from narrow, misshapen windows, the family resemblance to Sir Roger was unmistakable, and for more reasons than the ubiquitous shades of red of the portrait subjects’ hair, a spectrum from almost-brown cherrywood to pale sunrise orange. The men wore tall collars and ruffs, most with long noses like his lordship’s. The women wore plain dresses and narrow faces. Marigold felt thoroughly judged as she passed by.

   She turned a corner and came to face a short flight of stairs leading to a wooden door, as Annabel had described. Natural light seeped out underneath it. Marigold knocked, erring on the side of quiet. She was surprised to learn that she had been heard.

   “Come in,” called Crone. Marigold did, carefully balancing the tea. The door, she discovered, was on one end of the tower’s only flat wall. The rest of the room formed the semi-circle visible from the outside. The flat wall had a huge stone fireplace at its midpoint, crackling rather boldly for a warm autumn afternoon. A smattering of shelves stood at a careful distance from the hearth; mostly trinkets, some books. Two comfortable armchairs flanking a round side table faced the fire. Behind these, lurking in the semicircle, was a bed, a small wardrobe, and a large standing mirror. The room had two windows, as large as could be before the curve of the wall had become too much of a challenge for the glaziers; one to Marigold’s left as she entered, beneath which was a shelf with an infestation of common house plants, one opposite this, the south-facing one, under which Crone kept her worktable. She was also keeping herself there, at the moment. She had her back to Marigold, hunched over her work.

   “I brought tea, my lady,” offered Marigold gently. “Like you asked.”

   “Ah! Good thing, too. Just thinkin’ about a cup. Set it down by the fire for now and come have a look at this tincture.”

   Marigold placed the tea tray on the small table central to the armchairs, and continued past to the worktable. It was taken up in large part by retorts and bowls and beakers in various stages of use. Mortars and pestles had seemingly grown out of it like a patch of fungi. Plant matter was everywhere; mosses bundled into miniature shrubberies, vines draped over the necks of cold retorts, flowers popping like sunbursts among them. Crone was using a dropper to add a dull green liquid to a clear one in a steaming bottle. Marigold observed from a polite yet interested distance.

   “Burdock root and celery seed,” said the old woman. Marigold reflected a moment upon this statement.

   “A diuretic,” she replied. Crone nodded her approval between drops of the green substance.

   “You ever made it yourself?”

   “Not as a tincture, no.”

   “You’re in luck,” said Crone. “I always have fair demand for it. You’ll have lots to practice with…after tea.”

   She set aside the dropper and left the bottle to let out some more steam. Taking up the cane hooked over the end of the worktable, she hobbled over to the fireplace to sit. Marigold followed and sat in the armchair opposite. Crone poured tea into each of their mugs with only a slight shake to her hands, adding two spoonfuls of sugar to her own mug. She cut a generous chunk from the butter tart and dug into it with zeal. Marigold selected a quarter of cheese-and-pickle sandwich to start.

   “It sounds as though you’re serving quite a few people,” observed Marigold. “Even with all the…unpleasantness.”

   “Aye, those with an ounce of gratitude - which is most of them, I might say - stand by their witches. Balmoral and his goons like to say we’ve been abandoned in the hopes that prophecy will fulfill itself, but so far they’ve done a lousy job. A witch doesn’t deliver three generations of townsfolk without earning their loyalty. They may whinge in the open about how much we know and how little we share, but that tune always changes once they need us.”

   “I suppose it’s only natural to be wary of witches,” said Marigold. She studied her sandwich intently. It really was quite good. “After what happened in Steadney. I was myself, for a while. People will come around, won’t they?”

   Crone said nothing to this. When Marigold looked up, curious about the silence, the older witch was staring at her from under level brows.

   “You think Steadney was witch’s work,” observed Crone.

   “Wasn’t it?” said Marigold cautiously. “I mean, everyone says so.”

   “Everyone says everything, some point or another. Tell me, girl, if witches were the culprits, how did they manage it?”

   “Well, like…like Guinevere. They hid powder kegs under an inn, I think it was, and set them off, and, well…the fire spread. They might have had several stores, in fact. That’s probably how it spread so quickly.”

   “How about the smoke, that day? Do you remember it?”

   It was Marigold’s turn to be silent. She studied her memories very carefully.

   “There wasn’t much, was there?” said Crone. “Not much at all, for an entire village burning. No survivors, either. Only those out of town at the time ever turned up again. Not a one, not even animals, had time to flee a fire?”

   “What are you saying?” asked Marigold. “What else could it have been?”

   “It could have been anything. I don’t claim all knowledge of life’s mysteries. What I think it was, was a sorcerer.”

   Had it been anyone else, Marigold might have objected to such a childish suggestion. As it was, she only dared give the old wise woman with a skeptical look.

   “They exist?”

   “I have reason to think so. Though, in your own words, I don’t blame you for bein’ wary, girl.” The old woman stood, ignoring her cane once more, and hobbled to the shelf closest her, awash in fireplace glow. “I’m one of very few who suspects they’ve met one, and even then I can’t be sure.”

   She selected a thin, yet broad, book from between a stone carving of a badger and a small brass kettle. She settled back into her chair and opened it most of the way through, flicking through a few pages.

   “You know Pysoniros?” asked Crone.

   “Er…by name,” admitted Marigold. “He was a philosopher, right?”

   “And mathematician, and alchemist, and physician, and so on. One of those old fellas from Upandia with too much time on his hands. He wasn’t known for bein’ overly fanciful. And yet, he wrote about a mysterious fire at a temple while he was travelling in the East. A fire that left no survivors. A fire whose only smoke was s single cloud thrown to the sky.” She was paraphrasing, eyes ticking over the ancient words. “A flawless circle of destruction, where the sand became glass and the insects were no more. The animals near became twisted and sick. The trees gave no fruit, or broke under the weight of their bounty.”

   She turned the page and presented it to Marigold. A detailed sketching of a temple was on one leaf; the facing page described only a smooth circular pit ringed with melted lumps of stone. It was drawn, apparently, from a careful distance on a hill overlooking the havoc.

   “Yes, that does sound familliar,” agreed Marigold. “But what about it suggests a sorcerer?”

   Crone turned the page again, back to the words.

   “The old woman had come forth from her cave by the sea that morning. The first time for many months she had been seen. No one paid her mind as she passed, for she was mad as a bitten dog and able to kill with a glance. Magic had marked her for its slave since childhood and had finally driven her out of the body they shared. No one who saw her on her path to the temple lived to say what happened there; those outside the cast of destruction said she had heard the crystal calling, drawn to it like a moth to the candle, no longer able to resist. The crystal was revered as a holy thing, a gift from the gods that bestowed blessings. They could not fathom it causing harm. The woman, they insisted, had brought this suffering upon them. What she had done to wreak vengeance, or why, they could not say.”

   Crone closed the book, and nodded once at Marigold.

   “Marked by magic and able to kill with a glance? Tuned to the vibrations of the world? Livin’ alone so’s they can’t hurt folks? That’s a sorcerer if I ever knew one. The descriptions - and those of a few other instances I might name - are awful similar to those of Steadney.”

   Marigold had finished her quarter sandwich. She played with her milk-and-sugar tea, but did not drink it. Her forehead was crinkled in thought.

   “So…sorcerers are real,” she queried.

   “Somethin’ that sounds an awful lot like them, is real. All the stories through thousands of years from around the world makes me think there’s more to it than hysteria.”

   Crone counted off three important points on her fingers.

   “Did witches destroy Steadney? No. Is the same thing that destroyed Pysoniros’ temple the thing that DID destroy Steadney? I’d swear my life on it. Was that thing a sorcerer? Well, that’s anyone’s guess. There’s no way to know, is there? I ain’t heard tell of a suspected sorcerer being seen again after they burn summat down. Hard to ask ‘em about it.”

   Marigold had finally taken a good long sip of her tea, and another sliver of sandwich. Crone stood to replace the book on the shelf.

   “You’d said you’d met one,” said Marigold.

   “I said I might have. No way to be sure.”

   “Here? In Blankston?”

   The old woman paused, book in hand, and turned to look over her shoulder at Marigold.

   “Nearby,” she said slyly. She shuffled the last few steps and slid the book home. “It’s done, girl. Steadney’s no more and it doesn’t matter why that is. Somethin’ magical that we can’t ever understand happened there, and that’s all there is to it. Just know it wasn’t witches and whoever told you so is lyin’ whether they know it or not.”

   Crone rejoined her, and the ever-popular butter tart. They nibbled in silence a moment.

   “But you do think they exist,” ventured Marigold. “Sorcerers.”

   “I think,” said Crone, “that’s it’s a long story I’ll tell another day. For now, you and I have tinctures to brew.”

   Sir Roger tried not to wait at the door. It was harder than first thought. He kept circling back to it, opening it a crack, peering down the drive, closing it again. After several fruitless repetitions, he forced himself to sit on the gold-green chaise longue in the parlour for three minutes that felt like three hours. He was in his full ‘uniform’, as he thought of it; hat and cape and black waistcoat, and even the crossbow. No pistols this time. If anyone - or Ms. Lucy - were to ask, he could simply be out hunting, after game instead of witches.

   He twisted his ankle in his sudden leap for the door, upon which a knock had finally come. He paused, breathed, and opened the door as blasé as could be.

   “Are you ready?” asked Mr. Harforth curtly. He, too, had donned a broad black hat for the foray into the countryside. A cabriolet drawn by a beige-and-brown horse awaited at the bottom of the steps.

   They were granted another beautiful, bright day. A few leaves sprinkled off the trees as they drove past in terse silence. Sir Roger did not care to interrupt the councilman’s quiet simmering, and Mr. Harforth did not wish to be interrupted. Harforth’s hands were tight on the reins.

   On arrival at Four Meadows Farm, he hitched the also-silent horse to the fence surrounding the cottage. He had no interest in admiring the scenery. He paid only one glance, that Sir Roger could tell, to the lone castle spire. He drilled straight through to the cottage, leaving the front gate hanging open, which Roger closed politely behind himself.

   Mr. Harforth paused on the walkway, glaring defiantly at the front door. After a half-minute of this, Sir Roger took it upon himself to move in beside the councilman, fist outstretched to knock. A hand caught his cape and pulled him back.

   “No,” snapped Harforth. “I can do it,” he added, more quietly. He stormed up to the door and hammered on it before he could be reasoned with. They suffered another short silence before it opened.

   The woman that Sir Roger had come to think of as Auntie stood before them. She smiled, quite genuinely, at the tight-fisted councilman.

   “Bill!” she declared, “I wasn’t expecting you. What a pleasant turn of events.”

   “You’ve been given an order by the Steadney Inquisition to present yourself for questioning,” said Mr. Harforth, surprisingly smoothly. “As a subject of the Crown you are obligated to assist in this investigation. Failure to do so is cause to consider you guilty of aiding and abetting the murder of Steadney’s entire population. Is there something you don’t understand about this, Templeton?” He spat the last word as if divesting himself of a demonic possession.

   Auntie crossed her arms, but loosely. Her polite smile had become sympathetic.

   “I’d rather you’d call me Violet, Bill.”

   Harforth stood ramrod straight and pointed a similarly stiff finger at her.

   “Lord Blank,” he declared, “arrest this woman!”

   Sir Roger made no move to do so. He looked to Harforth, then to Auntie, puzzled by both. Auntie turned the smile, now wry, on his lordship.

   “Yes, Lord Blank,” she said, nodding. “Please, arrest me. Come right up.”

   Sir Roger gently, carefully, guided Mr. Harforth’s arm back to his side.

   “Bill, I don’t think this is a good idea,” he murmured, as the councilman glared at him. “You haven’t presented evidence to the Council yet. They may disagree that she’s a person of interest.”

   “Are you saying they don’t trust my judgement?”

   “I’m saying, judgement isn’t enough. Proof, is.”

   “Really?” Ms. Templeton butted in. “Finger-pointin’ was enough for Mamie Harker, if I recall. And I’m sure Mr. Colroyne’s purchase of her coveted acreage the week after was just a lucky coincidence.”

   “She put it up for sale,” snapped the councilman.

   “To buy her freedom,” retorted Ms. Templeton. “Did she ever get it, Bill? Or was it just to stop the beatings?”

   “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” hissed Harforth. “You’re insane.”

   “And, therefore, not criminally culpable. That worked out, didn’t it?” She looked back and forth between the two men. “Would you care to come in for some tea? You’ve come a long way just to talk to me, and I wouldn’t want to be inhospitable.”

   Harforth actually recoiled from this suggestion.

   “You couldn’t drag me into that house,” he spat. “Who knows what poison you’re brewing in there, witch!”

   Auntie sighed, and sagged against the doorframe. To Sir Roger’s surprise, she looked genuinely weary.

   “I wanna know about the poison you’ve been brewin’, Bill. It’s been so long. So very long,” she added in a whisper. “How can you still hate me that much? Makes no sense.” She shook her head sadly.

   Sir Roger watched the councilman bristle like a cat in a patch of burrs.

   “Hate you?” snipped the councilman. “I don’t hate you, Templeton. Even if you are self-centered. And stubborn. And too proud to see a good thing right under that upturned nose of yours. This is about public safety, not your private life.”

   Auntie spoke low and quiet.

   “Bill, I didn’t say no to hurt you. I only wanted time to think. If you’d given me a few months, I might’ve said yes.”

   “Oh,” scoffed the councilman, the break in his voice leaving his volume unchecked. “Oh, a few months? What a coincidence. Exactly as long as it took me to save up for that stupid ring.” His chest hitched, breaking his sentence in two. “Now, are you coming with - me or not, Violet?”

   She took him by the shoulders, and looked him in the face.

   “I think you should come with me, instead.” She jerked her head over his shoulder to indicate Sir Roger. “Your boy doesn’t need to hear this.”

   “Violet, why did you lead me on like that?” sobbed Harforth.

   “Inside, Bill,” said Auntie firmly. She placed an arm around his shoulders and guided him through the door. Despite previous protestations, he did not resist. The woman spared a glance back at Sir Roger. “Won’t be a minute.”

   The witch hunter watched, unsure, as Harforth was ushered into the cottage in a fit of sniffles. Roger could hear muffled voices behind the front door and was not eager to understand what they said. He could also hear chickens clucking, leaves rustling, a weathervane creaking, and…singing.

   His skin crawled. The everyday sounds of the farm were underscored by a young lady’s voice in the distance. He crept around to the side of the cottage, and the open kitchen window. He ducked underneath it as he slunk past. There was nothing to hide from, in particular, but some instinct deep down told him not to be seen right now. He felt like he had made the right choice when he caught a shred of strangled sobbing from the kitchen.

   “My mother had been slaving away for weeks fixing up her dress for you, and that’s how you repay her kindness?! I had to tell her that everything she’d done was—“

   Sir Roger kept his head down, desperate to hear as little as possible from Mr. Harforth and as much as possible from the siren song.

   He reached the corner undetected and peered around it into the back yard. His heart stopped. The roof of the small chicken coop was opened wide, and the siren was currently arm-deep in it. She sang her made-up, wandering notes and paid him no notice.

   Sir Roger flattened against the wall out of sight. The plan had been so clear a moment ago. He would walk up to her, talk to her, and she would be charmed by his eloquent banter. There had been no possibility of error, when he was a suave handsome Sir. Now that she was only a few metres away, he was nothing but an ignorant cretin in a damp shirt.

   The singing trailed off. A terrifying silence engulfed the yard. Sir Roger leaned a fraction of a inch around the corner to see Ms. Lucy staring, perturbed, at the corner where he hid.

   “Hello?” she called, craning her neck to see. “Is someone there?”

   Sir Roger did his best to launch himself forward in a way that would make it look like he’d been walking uninterrupted. He swung around the corner like weather-warped gate on its post and tried to continue on that trajectory to the henhouse. He only stumbled over his own feet a few times.

   Ms. Lucy smiled as she recognized him, and waved a handful of egg before setting it in the basket at her feet. He took this as an invitation to watch as she worked; at a respectful distance, naturally.

   “Uh…hello,” said Sir Roger, hands casually in trouser pockets. She smiled at him as she retrieved another pair of eggs.

   “Afternoon, Roger,” she said. “How are you?”

   One thought, and one thought only, entered Sir Roger’s head as Lucy turned back to the henhouse: She remembered my name. He forgot how to speak momentarily. Lucy did not seem to notice.

   “Oh, er, fine,” he murmured, and immediately wanted to slap himself for murmuring. He cleared his throat. “How are you, Ms. Lucy?”

   As she set more eggs in the basket, she paused, only a second, to shoot him a knowing smile.

   “Can’t complain,” she said, “though, I might if you call me ‘Ms.’ again. It’s just Lucy to you.” She reached deep into the maze of nests as she added: “What brings you back to our little farm?”

   “I’m here with a, er, friend of mine,” said Roger. “He was, er, looking for a poultice too and I thought I would, you know, introduce him to your Auntie.”

   “How nice! It’s so kind of you to recommend her.”

   “Yes, well, she did such a good job, I, uh, fell in love with…I mean, I thought her poultices were…really great.”

   “Aren’t they? It’s such a shame she never became a witch. I think she would be excellent at it.”

   “She…would be,” agreed Roger quietly. The crossbow seemed to throb against his back. To drown out the sound, he cleared his throat. There was no going back now.

   “Uh, Lucy…”

   She turned to look at him; that was the worst part. He thought he might manage talking to the back of her head, but looking her in the eye made it that much harder.

   “…may I, uh, ask you a personal question?”

   Her eyes narrowed, but she was smiling, curious to see where this might lead.

   “Of course you can, Roger. I may not answer if it’s TOO personal, but there’s no harm in asking.”

   Sir Roger twiddled the hem of his cape as he tried to hammer out a polite inquiry.

   “I know it isn’t my business, really, and I understand if you don’t want to tell me, but, just in case, I was wondering if you were were in any way…seeing anybody? In, you know, sort of, a relationship sense?”

   Understanding dawned, both beautiful and terrible, on her face.

   “Not at the moment,” said Lucy. “I have a few dates I see every now and then, but none of them are exclusive.”

   She rested her elbow in one hand and her chin in the other, studying him brightly. She fluttered her eyelids in just the right way.

   “Whyever,” she simpered, “do you ask?”

   “Well, would you…want to…do something with me? Sometime? Maybe this week?”

   Her genuine smiled replaced the coy one.

   “I would love to.” She closed the roof of the henhouse after depositing the last of that day’s eggs in her basket, which she set in the crook of her arm. She began to walk back to the cottage, Roger following beside. “Just tell me when and where.”

   “Really?! I mean, er…perhaps tomorrow evening? A picnic? I’ll pick you up at four?”

   “But will you ask quite so many questions?” mimicked Lucy. She laughed at his pained expression. “That sounds delightful, Roger. I can’t wait.”

   As she set her hand on the back door latch, a sob sounded from inside the cottage. Lucy paused, glanced at Roger. She mistook his embarrassment for confusion, and opened the door into the kitchen. Auntie was seated at the table, as was a man Lucy did not recognize. Auntie had the man’s head cradled to her chest, her arms wrapped around his quivering frame.

   “Oh,” said Lucy. “Sorry to interrupt. Eggs,” she announced, and set them on the counter. Auntie nodded at her.

   “Won’t be a moment,” Auntie added, in Roger’s general direction.

   “Please, take your time,” invited his lordship. He continued through to the front door, only a zig and zag away. Lucy was the one to follow this time. Alone on the front step, they made careful eye contact.

   “Was that your friend?” whispered Lucy.

   “Er…yes. He’s not well,” added Roger helpfully.

   “I could tell! He must be after one hell of a poultice.” She turned at the soft sound of a whicker from the fence, and gasped at the sight of Mr Harforth’s faithful steed.

   “You brought two friends! Why didn’t you say so?” She practically ran to the beige-and-brown horse and began to stroke its nose. It nibbled at her shirt sleeve. Roger followed much less excitedly, leaning against the fence beside Lucy. He smiled. Her joy, he’d found, was contagious.

   “What’s her name?”

   “Oh? Er…I don’t know. Bill just showed up with, er, her.”

   Lucy placed her hands on either side of the horse’s head, touching her forehead just above the velvet soft nose. The horse’s ears flattened on her head, but she stayed put. Lucy was pouting theatrically.

   “Those mean owd boys didn’t even ask yow name! How wude.” She scratched under the horse’s chin. It stretched its neck forward into the embrace. As her fingers worked, she looked over at Roger. Her pace slowed.

   “I hope Woger learns how to tweat a lady by tomowow,” she said quietly. She let her gaze linger a moment; then turned back to the horse. The fervent scratching resumed. Roger waited until she looked away to let his grin spread wide.

   He stood straight as the cottage door opened behind him, and turned to see Auntie guiding Bill out of the kitchen by an arm around his shoulders; exactly as she’d guided him in. She walked him over to the scratch-happy horse, the careful scrutiny of Sir Roger, the kind smile of her niece.

   “All sorted,” declared Auntie. She patted the hapless Harforth on the back. “You won’t be a stranger, now, will you, Bill?”

   “No…no, Violet, I won’t,” breathed Mr. Harforth.

   “What’s your horse’s name?” asked Lucy brightly. The councilman riveted on her, startled as if she had yelled an expletive.

   “Oh, er, Penelope.” He smiled shakily as Lucy patted the horse’s nose.

   “Please, do bring her back sometime. She’s a darling.”

   “Isn’t she? Yes, I…I’ll be back,” said Mr. Harforth, glancing at Auntie. She gave his shoulder a squeeze.

   “Best be gettin’ your boy home, eh?”

   “Yes. Er…thank you, Violet.” With that, he turned to Sir Roger. The tears had dried up, and even the redness of his eyes was fading. “Let’s get going.”

   The ride back to Blankston was as silent as the ride from it, though both men were in a much better mood.

Next...

Sir Roger And The Witches - Part 10

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   ...Previous

   The good day had turned into a bad night. The tipsy woman that the universe had tossed his way had not taken kindly to being called by the wrong name twice in three minutes. That stuck-up tart had shoved off from his chest and upturned her half-full pint in his lap before storming away. He didn’t shout after her, mostly to avoid attracting attention to his soaked trousers, partly because he’d already forgotten her name again. He settled their tab with an extra tip for whoever might be mopping up that night and slunk home resigned to his fate. The chase was over. Tired and cranky, it would have come to nothing anyway. So, he slept, and in the morning rediscovered the note than William Harforth had given him in his discarded shirt. It read:

Violet Templeton

Four Meadows Farm on Auldcastle Road

Follow the curve near old boulder and turn left at big tree

   Sir Roger knew Auldcastle Road well enough, and so was able to ignore Mr. Harforth’s directions of questionable use.

   Four Meadows was a small farm, cleared from the wilds long ago. It sat in a little dip in the land; forest on one side, hills on the other. Most of this dip was a garden; shrubs, vines, vegetables flourishing in the sheltered sunlight. A small cottage, thoroughly worn but well-maintained, sat at the end of the path from Auldcastle Road. A picket fence contained a number of roaming chickens in the surrounding yard.

   The only thing Sir Roger had eyes for was the tower. It stood opposite the dip from the cottage, looming over all, casting a huge sundial shadow. It was overgrown with climbing vines; only a small wooden door at the bottom and a large window at the top were clear of plants. Whatever castle it had once been a part of had long since crumbled away.

   In the cottage’s back yard, next to a tiny woodshed and currently unoccupied chicken coop, a woman was chopping firewood and making a quick job of it. The timber stocks melted under her axe. Looking at her, Sir Roger felt relieved to have come bearing both crossbow and pistol. She was at least as tall as he and twice as stocky, thick with muscle. Her hair was cut short, dusty black curling tight against her scalp.

   The woman did not stop chopping as he approached the back gate, nor as he entered it, nor as he paused a few feet from her. He watched her for a moment in silence, hands on hips.

   “Good morning?” he said, when the waiting became too much.

   “Morning,” said the woman. She brought her axe down again with a crackling thump. Still, she did not look at him. “How can I help ya?”

   “I’m not looking for help, dear lady,” said Sir Roger, with a smile. “I’m looking for a witch.”

   His dramatic pause went unnoticed.

   “You won’t find one here.” Thump. “Sorry. Closest one I know is Ms. van Allen, up the moor there.” She indicated the hills to Sir Roger’s back with a jerk of her head. “Blue cottage past the mill.”

   “Aha, well, I’m not looking for Ms. van Allen. Anymore,” he added. “The witch I want goes by Violet Templeton.”

   The woman had been reaching for another block of wood. She paused and finally looked Sir Roger in the eye. Slinging the axe over her shoulder, she turned to face him. It was like staring down a bear.

   “I’m Templeton,” she said, “but I’m not a witch.”

   “Really? Not even a tiny bit?”

   She shrugged at this. “A poultice every now and then is as far as I go. Who told you otherwise?”

   “I’ll be able to answer that,” said Sir Roger, “after I’ve introduced myself properly. My name, Ms. Templeton, is Sir Roger Blank. I am currently in the employ of the Steadney Inquisition, acting as a liaison between inquisitors and inquisited. The Council, my dear, wishes to ask you some questions, and I wish to escort you to them.”

   The look she gave him couldn’t have been more sideways had they been in two-dimensional space.

   “What’s this about?” she asked coldly.

   “About? About! Nothing. They’re simply looking for information.”

   “Concerning what?” she persisted.

   “Ms. Templeton, I cannot speak for them. I’m only a messenger,” said Sir Roger pleasantly. “If you would accompany me back to Blankston, they will explain themselves.”

   “Ain’t going nowhere. Sorry,” she added, unconvincingly. “Not without good reason.”

   “The inquisitors do not act rashly in the interests of public safety. I assure you, there is good reason.”

   “Tell it to me, then.” She punctuated this statement with a little come-forth wave of her fingers. The first fiery creep of indignation flickered on Sir Roger’s face. Ms. Templeton did not give him a chance to rebut.

   “Who’s orders you here on, boy?”

   His lordship bristled further at ‘boy’.

   “The Council’s, I told you,” he snipped. “If—“

   “Who, though? Who brought me forward? What’s his name?”

   “I don’t believe I need to tell you that, Ms. Templeton.”

   In a swift, slow, single movement, she let the axe head fall from her shoulder into the palm of her opposite hand. Nothing more, nothing less.

   “I don’t believe I need to allow you passage on my property,” she said, devoid of inflection. The witch hunter narrowed his eyes, and thought very carefully. The only thing more dangerous than a witch was a lawyer. The only thing more dangerous than a lawyer was an axe.

   “William Harforth brought this case to the Council, I believe,” he murmured. The look of incredulity on her face was enough to wither a houseplant.

   “Dear old Bill’s still thinking about me, eh? Isn’t that sweet of him. Listen, if he’s got something to say to me, he can come say it in person. I’m not lettin’ him tie up legality with his petty personal problems.”

   “There is nothing petty about public safety, Ms. Templeton.”

   She had already returned to her work on the woodpile. The conversation, it seemed, was over. Sir Roger set his hand firmly on the butt of his pistol.

   “I really do think it’s best if you come with me,” he declared. She looked at him, at the gun; back at him.

   “Don’t you threaten me.” It was an order, not a request. Sir Roger had to force himself not to move his hand. “You ain’t got a leg to stand on and you know it. Now, you get back to your Council and you tell Bill that he’s welcome to drop by any time he has the mettle to face me again. Until then we have nothin’ to talk about. Good day, sir.”

   She turned back to her firewood, not sparing him another glance. The dip of the farm was filled once again with the echo of the chopping block. Sir Roger, after a moment’s careful reflection, came to a decision. Then, three things happened, three small things in perfect clockwork sequence.

   First, the witch hunter reached up and over his shoulder for the crossbow at his back. His pistol was already loaded, but his aim wasn’t as good with the new-fashioned firearm. If he did have to fire on Ms. Templeton he wanted to be sure it wasn’t fatal.

   Second, the back door of the cottage opened. Sir Roger was distracted by the motion, riveting on it, his arm hanging crooked in the air over his shoulder. The look of grim determination on his face froze, then faded, slower and slower until his mouth hung open. His eyes went wide.

   A young lady had emerged from the cottage. A fairly plain young lady, as young ladies went. She had blond hair pulled back in a ponytail and wore a plain cotton skirt with sturdy boots. A basket was hooked on her arm.

   Maybe it was the way the light touched her face as she stepped into the fresh morning air. Maybe it was the way she flicked her ponytail, catching a gentle breeze as it passed. Maybe it was the way she smiled at the sunshine, as if it were a treasured gift from an old friend. For any number of reasons, Sir Roger did not see a plain young woman step out of the cottage. He saw a goddess. He saw a vision. He saw beauty incarnate, the image of grace and all that was good in a sensible cotton dress.

   Third, Sir Roger snapped his arm back to his side, standing stiffly, not sure whether he hoped to be noticed or not. As she approached the woman chopping firewood, the goddess spared him a momentary glance and a smile. His skin crawled.

   If Ms. Templeton had noticed him reaching for his crossbow, she hadn’t acknowledged it. The goddess tripped over to her and said:

   “I’m off to dig up some turnips, Auntie.”

   “Sounds good, my girl,” said Ms. Templeton. “Could you grab a cucumber too?”

   “Of course!”

   The young lady turned her attention to the visitor in her midst. He appeared to be a bit soft in the head, staring at her slack-jawed. She gave him her most pleasant smile.

   “Hello,” she said kindly. She looked to the other woman. “You have a visitor, Auntie?”

   “Just a local boy lookin’ for a poultice,” said Ms. Templeton. Thump. “He ain’t stayin’ long.”

   The goddess made a half-curtsey to him, and started off to collect her turnips. She passed by him on the way to the back gate. His head swivelled as she sauntered by, skirt swishing, hair rippling. The noise of the gate latch clanking closed behind her snapped him out of his stupor.

   “I-! Uh-!” blurted Sir Roger suddenly, raising a gloved hand out to her. The young lady turned, surprised, and then relaxed into a smile. She waited politely for him to continue. He pulled his hand back in, curling it in a loose fist at his chest.

   “My name’s Roger,” he squeaked.

   “Oh,” said the young lady, “it’s very nice to meet you, Roger! My name is Lucy.”

   “Yes, nice to, uh, meet…uh.” That seemed to exhaust his speaking capabilities.

   “Have a wonderful day,” she said, pleasant and genuine. She curtseyed to him again and headed up the path to the turnip patch. He watched her until she vanished into a trellis of beans.

   The thump and crackle of a log splitting startled him half to death. He whirled on the older woman, still focused on her work. Their eyes met as she looked up. She raised a querying eyebrow.

   No, he agreed silently, there was nothing more to talk about today. He left with only a few glances back at the garden.

   The laundry had been sorted and stacked away. Mantels had been dusted, floors had been swept. Night had fallen and the roast had come out of the oven at just the right time.

   “I’ll see to the odds and ends, dear,” said Annabel, whisking off her oven mitts. “Could you set the table? Just one door down the hall, there. Oh, and Roger’s in tonight so don’t forget a place for him.”

   Marigold gave her a quizzical look. “I thought lords and ladies didn’t eat with their staff.” Having grown up in a family where even housestaff were considered posh people, she couldn’t be sure.

   Annabel smiled as she mashed some butter into a huge bowl of steaming potatoes. “It’s not done in other houses, no, but this one’s too empty not to. We’d never see the man if it weren’t for eating together.”

   The servants’ dining room had a similar layout to the masters’ above, only smaller. They each sat the same dozen-or-so people, and had the same pair of sideboards flanking the door. Pine and birch for the servants, oak and mahogany for the masters. This went for the chairs and table as well.

   From the sideboards, Marigold pulled three plates, three forks, three knives, and just to be on the safe side, three spoons. She chose, correctly, to set the three places closest the fireplace at the far end of the room. Annabel came in carrying the bowl of potatoes post-haste.

   “Dear, could you put down a trivet for me?”

   Marigold scuttled back to a sideboard and retrieved a metal trivet for the still atomically hot potatoes. Annabel dropped the bowl on top of it next to the table settings, smiled at her young protege, then frowned at the plates still awaiting their cutlery.

   “Is Crone not joining us, dear?”

   Marigold tried. She tried so very hard to put that sentence together. The most she could understand was ‘dear’.

   “Sorry, what?”

   “Crone. Is she not coming for dinner?”

   “Sorry, who?”

   Annabel suddenly became stern, what passed for her as stern: her eyebrows scrunched together slightly.

   “That man!” she declared. “He didn’t even introduce you to Crone?”

   “No, I suppose he didn’t,” admitted Marigold. “Who’s Crone?”

   “She lives up in the tower, dear. A boarder, though I’m not sure what the rent is if any. She’s a sweetheart. And a witch, too! I know she’d love to show you a few things.”

   Marigold leaned on a chairback with one hand, blocking Annabel’s return to the kitchen. She stared the older woman right in the face.

   “Annabel,” she said firmly, “tell me right now and do not lie: how many witches live under this roof?”

   The housekeeper smiled. “Three, heart, including you. I promise there won’t be any more surprises. Though knowing how little Roger has told you, perhaps I shouldn’t speak too soon!”

   They met the man himself on their way back to the kitchen.

   “There you are, you cheeky thing!” said Annabel. She ducked into the kitchen and returned with a platter of vegetables from the roasting pan. She thrust these into his lordship’s hands. “Set that down and use a trivet.”

   The two witches could not help noticing the vacancy behind Roger’s eyes. He accepted the platter seemingly without noticing what it was.

   “Done,” he murmured, and wandered off into the dining room. Annabel and Marigold exchanged the briefest of confused glances before retrieving the roast and a basket of bread, respectively. On their return to the table, Annabel was surprised to find that Sir Roger had in fact used a trivet. Marigold was surprised to find that he had not taken the seat at the head of the table, as she had assumed he would. They took up the two places across from him, leaving the head chair alone.

   Annabel did not wait. She began doling out potatoes and roast onto her plate with gusto. Marigold followed suit, and nobody seemed to mind. Roger halfheartedly scooped some carrots onto his plate, some onto the table. A slice of roast was dragged to its doom beside.

   “Are you feeling alright, dear?” Annabel asked of his lordship. It took a moment for his eyes to drift over her way.

   “Hm? Sorry?”

   “Do you feel sick at all, Roger? You don’t look well.”

   “No, I feel, just…good,” he murmured, and smiled faintly. And kept smiling. Annabel reached over the table and felt his forehead. Satisfied that the plague was not about to take him, she shrugged at Marigold.

   A shadow appeared in the doorway. Marigold watched, as politely as she could from the corner of her eye, as an old woman made her way past the rows of chairs. Compared to the average person, she was hunched and slow. Compared to the elderly that Marigold knew, she stood tall and walked quickly, using her cane in the most perfunctory way. Watching this, Marigold felt that the moniker of Crone was a touch hyperbolic. This witch was old, no one would argue that. Old enough to be Marigold’s grandmother, but this news had not seemed to have reached her. Her hair was entirely white; not a speck of grey remained, but was full and thick and tied in a neat bun at her neck.

   Crone settled herself in between Roger and Marigold, hooking her cane on the back of her chair. She began to serve herself without a moment’s hesitation. Her hands did not shake as she broke a bread roll over her plate.

   The old witch suddenly looked over to catch Marigold staring. A chill stole over the housemaid. She had only known the elderly to have clouds in their eyes. Crone had two clear skies, bright as a full moon in winter and just as full of stars. She didn’t seem to mind being observed, as she smiled.

   “Got a name, then, girl?”

   “Um, Marigold. My lady.”

   Crone nodded as she sopped up some juices from the roast with her bread.

   “Well met, Um-Marigold,” she said with a mischievous smile. “I’m the Crone I’m sure you’ve heard about.” The old woman looked to Roger, who was drawing patterns in his own roast drippings with a speared celery moon, then at Annabel with a raised eyebrow.

   “I think he’s coming down with something,” whispered the housekeeper. Crone shrugged and turned to Marigold again.

   “You were van Allen’s girl,” she observed.

   “Er, yes, I was, my lady.”

   “How’d you like it?”

   “Oh, very much,” answered Marigold brightly.

   “Do you have a speciality? Herbs, medicine, midwifery?”

   The young woman considered this.

   “I think I like apothecary the most, my lady. Unguents are just so fascinating.”

   Crone nodded her approval, ruminating on a piece of soggy bread.

   “How’d you like van Allen?”

   Caught off guard, Marigold looked down at her potatoes.

   “Er…she was always kind to me.”

   Crone’s gaze did not waver for a moment, nor did her faint smile. Marigold cleared her throat.

   “She was hotheaded, sometimes, I suppose,” continued the young woman. “But she taught me a lot.”

   “Good to hear,” said Crone.

   “Do you know her, my lady?” ventured Marigold.

   “Not well. I heard of her more than saw her and that was enough for me. She never struck me as the witching sort, to tell the truth.”

   Marigold did not know how to respond to this. Part of her wanted to object, and part of her knew that the truth had, as promised, been told. She ate some carrots to have an excuse not to speak. Annabel, similarly unsure what to say, defaulted to mothering mode. She stood in an awkward crouch to reach across the table and scoop up some of Roger’s potatoes and onions with his spoon. She offered these to his lips, currently humming something tuneless. He started from his stupor, wide brown eyes meeting Annabel’s stern blue ones; relaxed into a pout, and took the spoon from her. He dutifully ate its contents. Annabel sat back, satisfied that he would not waste away.

   “D’you enjoy this work, girl?” continued the Crone, as if nothing had interrupted her flow. “Scullery and the like?”

   “I do, my lady. Well enough,” added Marigold, as those two clear skies twinkled at her. “I’m happy just to be working. I like to put my own shirt on my back if I can.” She spared the slightly more coherent Sir Roger a nod across the table. “Lord Blank was awfully kind to make me such an offer.”

   Crone snorted at this. Roger glared at her sideways, but said nothing.

   “Don’t be fooled, girl. He’s kind when he’s told to be. Though, there are some who aren’t,” she added, defusing Roger’s daggers with a suddenly soft tone. “We can say that much for you, can’t we?”

   “This is why I eat at the Ram’s Staff,” he muttered, largely to Annabel. Crone ignored him.

   “Who told him to be kind?” asked Marigold, though she knew already.

   “The only one who can, my girl. At supper a few nights ago he started running his mouth about van Allen’s arrest. I asked what had come of her apprentice and he said he’d handed her to the Elite and thought no more of it. I told him if he didn’t find her and offer her help before I could reach my walking stick he could say goodbye to his front teeth. And here we are!”

   Marigold kept the old witch’s gaze as she thought.

   “Well, I…suppose I should thank you, my lady, for thinking of me. And you, your lordship, for following through.”

   Sir Roger nodded at her, working at a chunk of roast that Annabel had silently willed him to eat.

   “You’ll still be a witch, if you wish it,” continued Crone. “For what it’s worth I think you should. You have the temper for it and that’s the important part. Annabel and I can see you through herbs and splints as long as your heart’s in it, which I know it is.”

   Marigold thought back to the first day she’d set foot in Blank Manor. Her brief meeting in the parlour. Sir Roger glancing over her shoulder at a seemingly unoccupied doorway.

   “You listened in,” she said. “To see if I might be a good student.”

   “And it seems you are, my girl. Attentive, patient, and in your own words, ready to do the job in front of you. Yes, you’ll make a fine witch, if you don’t develop a taste for scullery.”

   Marigold couldn’t help a smile.

   “Tomorrow afternoon,” said Crone, “bring tea up to the tower. We’ll see where you’re at.”

   “I will, my lady. I’d like that very much.”

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