If you have not already, please start here!
The Rose and Badger had its namesakes on the sign hanging over the street. The name in print was nowhere to be seen. Marigold was not entirely surprised, given the literacy of Blankston’s residents, but even if the proprietor had to ask someone about the spelling it was the fad of the times to use words over the door. The owner of the Rose and Badger preferred the traditional ways, the building and its signage both being of the old style.
No bell jingled as she entered, for good reason. There was very little sound to cover such an obnoxious noise. The dining room was quiet, though well-populated. A green-grey carpet runner greeted her, small roses at small intervals guiding her inside. Beyond a flight of stairs on her right-hand side was the bar. The proprietor behind it was a different sort from his Main Street counterparts, much like his business. In place of a large red woman, or a large red man, was a thin man wearing small ovaline spectacles. His fawn-coloured hair had prematurely redrawn its border into an M atop his head.
Marigold did not have to flag him down. She did not have to be bold in order to grab his attention from another customer. Rather, it was thrust upon her the moment she walked in. Even at this busy lunch hour there was no such thing as slipping in the door of the Rose and Badger. All were seen and vetted in the span of seconds. She had been approved, clearly. The innkeeper smiled at her as she approached the bar. His kind attention was magnitudes more difficult to address than the distracted apathy she’d found on Main Street, so much so that he got the first word in.
“How can I help you, miss?”
“Um…” She forced herself not to shy back. “…do you have rooms? I mean, good morning. Or, I mean, afternoon. Sir.”
Laughing would have been rude, so he restricted himself to a grin.
“For a polite young woman, yes, I do. How many nights, miss?”
“Uh…I don’t know. A few, at least, I think.”
“Well, they’re a half-guilder each, if that helps your thinking. I’m happy to cut that a bit for a long stay. There’s a bath down the hall and I’ll feed you twice a day.”
“Oh! That’s very kind,” said Marigold.
“Kind would be free drink, miss. Would you like to think on it?”
She looked around at the rest of the patrons, at the clean tables, at the glowing fireplace, at the carefully dusted wainscoting, then back at the man who oversaw them all.
“No. I’ll take it,” she said firmly. She fished among the coins in her rucksack before her brain could come up with a ruinous excuse. Marigold had trusted her instincts when they told her the other inns were bad news; why distrust them now that they presented her good news?
“And a…” She paused, examining the bottles on the wall. She squinted. “Do you have perry?”
“Certainly, miss. Do you prefer sweet or dry?”
Marigold ended up making an afternoon of it. Two sweet perries and a pair of sandwiches, one beef and one egg salad, a bowl of barley soup and a mountain of roast vegetables. She’d had nothing but porridge since that morning, bland porridge at that. The Blankston Guardhouse was not the worst restaurant she’d been to, but the food there was still only fit for a cell block.
“…travelling?”
Marigold jolted from her reverie of food, staring wide-eyed at the innkeeper.
“I’m sorry, miss,” he continued, stacking tankards under the bar, “didn’t mean to break your thoughts.”
“Oh no, that’s alright,” said Marigold. She replayed her unconscious recording of the last few minutes. “I suppose I am travelling, in a way. I’m looking for work but I don’t quite know where. I guess wherever I find it is where I’m travelling to.”
“Ah, I remember those days,” laughed the innkeeper. “Are you in any particular line of work, miss?”
Marigold froze with her fork in a parsnip, but quickly recovered.
“Well, uh…apothecary, mostly. But I’m only an apprentice.”
“Mostly?”
“I dabbled. Here and there. Sometimes,” said Marigold vaguely. “In truth, I don’t know that I’ll stay with it. I might look for something else.”
“At your age? You simply must,” said the innkeeper. “Settling down too soon never helped anyone.”
Marigold heard the door open behind her, and a small group of people spill in. They all headed, or so she thought at first, to a table under the window to her right. She watched the innkeeper’s eyes fix on something by the door. They tracked its movement as it came closer to the bar. Marigold felt the first chill of anxiety as the innkeeper’s gaze settled just over her shoulder.
“My lady?”
Marigold resisted the urge to turn around, but she knew she would give in. She had to. A witch, even an apprentice, who did not acknowledge those who needed her was no witch at all. It was too late, in any case. The innkeeper had heard her addressed. Consternation coloured his usual kindliness. He would come later, after her help had been given.
She swivelled around and leapt off the chair, barely registering who had approached her as she took them by the arm and led them away, under the staircase. Thus shielded from scrutiny, she recognized Ms. Morgan, a soft round woman with similarly shaped curls cascading from under her cap.
“Yes, Ms. Morgan?” asked Marigold, much belated. The woman stared in bafflement.
“My lady, what’s going on? I went by the cottage this morning and it was in ruins! There were Guardsmen everywhere! And here you are hiding me away under the stairs. What’s happened?”
“A lot,” sighed Marigold. “Too much to explain right now. Guinevere…excuse me, Ms. van Allen; won’t be around for the time being, I’m afraid. She’s been called away on an important matter.” To avoid further questions, she added: “You need something, I see, if you’ve gone by the cottage. Can my help be given?”
“Oh, well, I think so. Our boy Charlie’s come down with something, my lady, more than can be helped by bedrest. He’s feverish and stiff, and doesn’t care to eat much. It’s been days now and he’s not improved.”
Marigold gave this as much careful thought as she could, despite her all-consuming awareness of the innkeeper’s keen attention from around the corner.
“He’s not gotten worse, though,” said Marigold.
“No, my lady, seems he’s been the same for three days.”
“How old is he now?” she asked Ms. Morgan.
“Almost nine, my lady.”
“Has he had the chicken pox yet?”
The woman gasped quietly.
“Oh dear, you don’t think…?”
“We have seen it about lately, Ms. Morgan. Listen, I’ll come by tomorrow to see if the sores have appeared. In the meantime, get him some willow tea and have him drink it hot. If the sores do come around, don’t let him scratch. A bath in oats will help. Keep him from the other children, or anyone who hasn’t had their own pox yet.”
“Of course,” said Ms. Morgan. “I remember my own, as a girl. Couldn’t go out to play for a week!”
“And neither will he, I’m afraid. I’ll come by tomorrow morning to see how he’s doing. If you need to find me…I should be here,” she said unconvincingly. “I’ll send word if that changes.”
Ms. Morgan’s concern for her son had transmuted into concern for the woman who was now, however temporarily, her witch.
“My lady, is everything alright? Is Ms. van Allen alright?”
“She’s alive and well,” said Marigold, “but I don’t know when she might return to witching. I’m sure you’ll hear more as time goes on. I honestly don’t know how much I’m allowed to say at the moment, Ms. Morgan. I’m sorry I can’t be more help.”
The woman made a small curtsey.
“You’ve been plenty of help, my lady. I won’t be more of a bother to you. I only hope that yourself and Ms. van Allen stay in good health and high spirits.”
“Oh…thank you, Ms. Morgan. I hope the same for you.”
She turned to watch Ms. Morgan bustle out from under the stairs, to the small table under the window where her fellows were discussing lunch. The first brick in the rumour mill, thought Marigold.
Then came: I suppose I’m a witch now. ‘My lady’ rather than ‘the girl’. So much for changing careers.
Marigold took in a deep breath, held it, and let it out in a sigh. She left the shadows under the stairs and turned the corner to face the innkeeper once more. That same unsettled look was on his face. Brows furrowed, mouth tight. It seemed he hadn’t moved during her conversation with Ms. Morgan. Marigold strode up to the bar as bravely as she could, and stared him down.
“Ms. Morgan called you ‘my lady’,” he observed coolly.
“She did,” admitted Marigold. There wasn’t any way to deny it.
“From my understanding, that title’s for witches.”
“It is. I was studying to be one,” said Marigold. “But I’m not…”
She froze in panic as the innkeeper rummaged under the counter. Oh gods, she thought, a pistol. He’s going to force me out and call the council on me!
She stayed perfectly still as he reached over the bar with a closed fist, fingers down. After an uncertain pause, he said:
“Please, open your hand.”
Scared to death, but not wanting to cause a scene, she extended her hand flat under his. The innkeeper deposited the silver and copper she’d given him into it. Well, thought Marigold, at least he had the decency to return my money before kicking me out. She looked up at him, pale and sorrowful.
“Witches stay free at this inn,” said the keeper. “That includes drink.”
It took Marigold several silent seconds to process these words. She continued to stare, the crease in her forehead firmly set, though fear faded to puzzlement.
“But, I couldn’t,” she said, when she had accepted that it was not a ruse. She set the small pile of coins on the counter with a muffled clinking. “That’s not fair to you.”
The innkeeper made no move for the money. He didn’t even look at it.
“My lady, it’s more than fair to me. Would you prefer sausage or bacon in the morning? Or both?”
“But, really, I couldn’t,” croaked Marigold. She felt the sting of tears in her eyes. It was too much kindness to take all at once.
“It’s no trouble, my lady, please. Say no more. Would you like another perry?” He nodded at her half-finished sandwiches. “Or something more to eat?”
“No, no, not right now,” she whispered. She tried to dab her tears away without making it obvious; easier said than done.
“You aren’t travelling, are you?” asked the innkeeper kindly. Marigold looked up at him, sniffling.
“My teacher’s been arrested,” she admitted. She did not bother to name the charge, or who had done the arresting. “I don’t know enough to start witching on my own. And I wouldn’t want to, not in this town.”
“I can’t blame you, my lady. Please, take some time to forget. Know that you’re safe here. The council isn’t welcome under this roof, not while Seagate is open.”
Marigold sat down again, convinced but still puzzled.
“Why?” she demanded. “Why would you care so much for witches?”
The innkeeper, after a quick glance around, leant in with his elbows on the bartop. He lowered his voice.
“Because,” he said, “the doctors told us not to waste our time. Our daughter nearly died because my wife and I believed them. We only asked a witch out of desperation, and she turned out to be the reason our child saw her first birthday.” The innkeeper touched his hand to Marigold’s on the counter. “The least I can do is see one of her kind through the night.”
He removed his hand before it became unprofessional, and stood straight.
“Now, I won’t ask you again, my lady,” he said, suddenly and dubiously stern, “sausage, bacon, or both?”
Marigold was not one for naps, as matter of course. That afternoon, she napped, and napped hard. The first thing she did upon receiving the key to her room was to lie down on the bed. Though simple, dressed with cotton rather than silk, it was luxurious compared to the bench in the Guardhouse’s holding cell. She fell asleep in the midafternoon sun and didn’t awaken until well after dark. The lamplighters had come and gone, as she could see by the glow from the single window set in the peak of the ceiling. The noise from downstairs was still at a minimum for a busy pub but had certainly grown. Indeed, as she descended the steps, rubbing at her eyes, she saw the dining room twice as full as it had been when she’d left it.
Her spot at the bar was still there. She’d taken the stool closest the stairs, half-hidden by them so as not to be in the way. It suited her just fine but remained unpopular with the nightlife. She slid back onto it, unnoticed; save for one man she knew about, and one more she did not. The one she was aware of came over to her immediately.
“Evening, my lady. What can I get for you?”
“Wine, I think,” she said groggily. The innkeeper smiled as she yawned.
“Any particular one?”
“Something white, thank you, Mr. Arbroagh.”
He obliged with a flourish of glass from under the bar. As he poured, Marigold saw the briefest flash of his eyes towards the back of the pub. A cool glass of wine was in front of her before she could dwell on it too much.
“Would you like anything to eat, my lady?”
“Oh, heavens, uh…I’ll think about it,” said Marigold. “I’m still full of barley soup.” She yawned again. Mr. Arbroagh tapped his knuckles twice on the bartop.
“You know where I’ll be,” he said. His eyes flickered once more, but he moved down the counter to another patron without comment. Marigold looked about at the bustling room, sipping daintily at her wine. A woman about her age was gliding among the tables, picking up empty dishes and depositing full ones. Marigold looked from her to the preoccupied proprietor. The daughter who’d lived, perhaps. She marked a quartet of red-nosed revellers at the table where Ms. Morgan had sat that afternoon. Three young men and a woman, dressed in velvets and buckled shoes. The crowd was surprisingly young, she thought, for a bar off the main roads with no fancy new letters outside. Two of them sat beside her a stool away.
“Can you believe it?” said the man. “Right in the middle of town, and no one knew a thing!”
“I can,” rebutted the woman. “Town hall’s only open on holidays. Maybe a few times a month when council’s in session. And they’ve got all kinds of magic; how hard could it have been, really?”
“You know I never did trust them,” added her friend, after one in a continuing series of draughts of beer, “even before all this, today. Anyone keepin’ to themselves out in the country like that is never up to good.”
Mr. Arbroagh approached Marigold once more as the woman nodded her enraptured agreement. The innkeeper paused for a moment, listening. Then he looked at Marigold. She shrugged and rolled her eyes in absolute silence. He smiled and let the couple be, but studied their faces for a moment more.
His eyes darted around again before he said:
“How’s the wine treating you, my lady?” He added the honorific quietly, in view of Marigold’s neighbours.
“Very well,” she said. She lowered her own voice. “Are you feeling alright, Mr. Arbroagh?”
The innkeeper froze, realizing he’d not been as surreptitious as he thought. He looked over her shoulder once more, lingering there; then beckoned her in close. He leaned on the bar conspiratorially.
“I don’t want to alarm you, my lady,” he murmured, “but a gentleman at the back has been watching you for a while now. Don’t turn around!” he hissed, as Marigold started to do just that. She riveted on the innkeeper, wide-eyed. “It’s Sir Roger. He’s taken to hunting witches.”
Marigold turned around immediately. From a table at the far wall, lit by a single candle, Sir Roger touched two fingers to the brim of his hat.
“I wasn’t sure he knew you when he first came in,” continued Mr. Arbroagh, “but I think he does, after all. If you need to hide away upstairs I’ll make sure he doesn’t try anything funny.“
“No, thank you,” interrupted Marigold, as she stood. “I’ll handle it.”
She weaved her way through the pub, leaving her drink behind. Sir Roger was alone at his table, just he, the candle, and a beer the size of a wine bottle. As she stood over him, he smiled and opened his mouth to say something clever, but against all odds she beat him to it.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I had scared you so badly.”
Sir Roger’s mouth hung open for a second. He closed it when he realized his chance for a witty opener had passed, narrowing his eyes in tandem with his lips.
“That whole time,” continued Marigold, taking advantage of his silence, “I thought I was in the form of a frightened young woman. I’m very embarrassed to hear that I left the house undisguised. Green skin and warts and all. I thought I had a handle on my magic but apparently not.”
“Marigold-“ he began.
“Oh, but that’s my human name,” she interrupted. “Please, call me Griselda the Wicked.”
“Why did you come over to talk, if you’re not going to let me talk?” he asked plainly.
“I didn’t come over to talk. I came over to be short with you so I could storm off,” she said, turning away. Her body trembled with the sudden burst of adrenaline that had granted her such boldness.
“May I have five minutes of your time, my lady?”
She paused mid-turn. Her hackles rose. She whirled on him.
“How dare you address me like that,” she quavered.
“If I may not, say so. I’m only asking.”
She did not sit, but she did not leave.
“What in the world is so important that you had to come in here and blaspheme at me?”
He held his hands up and out, in a gesture of goodwill.
“I want to offer you a job.”
Marigold glared at him, daring him to make sense.
“It’s hard times for witching, these days,” he continued. “It must be even harder for an apprentice. Not many willing to take you on, I imagine. If you want to earn a living at something more desirable than tavern wenching, I’ll make it happen.”
“If it’s in your line of work, you can think again,” said Marigold quietly. “I won’t be helping you.”
“You certainly won’t,” agreed Sir Roger. “I work alone.”
“What, then?”
“So, you’re interested?” he said, with a touch of hope. Marigold realized, with dismay, that she was.
“That depends on the work,” she relented.
“My housekeeper’s getting on in years and she could use a hand,” said Sir Roger. “That’s all. Some laundry here, some dusting there. You could start any time.”
She stared at him, and said nothing.
“I pay well,” he offered.
She stared at him, and said something.
“Why would you hunt me down, only to offer me a job? Do you hate witches or not?”
He motioned her to come closer, nudging a chair out from under the table as he did so. She took the invitation cautiously, sitting on the edge, ready to leap up if necessary. The glare of the candle obscured part of his face.
“You’re staying here for free,” he began. “Room and board, and anything else you might need, I’m sure. Oh, don’t look so surprised. Mr. and Ms. Arbroagh have never made their love for witches a secret, even before Steadney. So, you’ve been taken in by these people who will provide for you unconditionally. Why would you need a job?”
“I don’t want to take advantage of them,” insisted Marigold. “I like to earn my living, not just have it handed to me.”
He chucked a finger in the air before her.
“Precisely,” he declared. “Marigold, you have to understand; I am beyond rich. I own half the land in this town, and plenty elsewhere. I never worked a day in my life before Steadney, but my word, is it fun! I get to give back to the town that gave my family everything. So, no, I don’t hate witches. I just love that feeling.”
“I’m certain you could find a calling that doesn’t hurt innocent people,” said Marigold.
“I’m certain I don’t,” said Sir Roger. “I would never pull someone in without good reason. I arrest ‘witches’, Marigold, not witches. You know.”
She didn’t, but, ever polite, considered this statement.
“Besides,” he continued, “the people like a show! I exaggerate, I know, but they love it. Is it really so wrong for me to give them what they ask for?”
He reached out a gloved hand to touch the tips of her fingers, resting on the edge of the table. In perfect sync, she moved them to her lap. One uncertain heartbeat later, Sir Roger nodded and withdrew his hand.
“I didn’t think it fair,” he said, as if nothing had happened, “that you should be out of work because of your teacher’s poor choices. I’d be happy to fix that if you’ll let me.”
“I’ll be sure,” said Marigold, as she stood, “to give that the consideration it deserves. Good night, Lord Blank.”
She started to make her way back to the bar.
“Please, Griselda, call me Roger!” he shouted after her. She didn’t turn around and he didn’t press the point. Mr. Arbroagh studied her, worried, as she sat back down in front of her wine glass.
“Are you alright, my lady? Do you need him out of here?”
“No, thank you,” she said, and sipped her drink. “He won’t be any trouble.”
He proved her right. He even left a tip on his way out.
David started the evening on edge. He ended it there, too. The odds of Captain Bossard showing up in the dead of night were slight, and he knew this, and his addled brain denied the knowledge. The captain must know he had taken another job by now. Another job he was unfit for, like policing. Like all of them. His superiors would come to their senses and look into his past. They didn’t ask if their employees didn’t tell, but they would, for him, he knew it. He was going to be exposed at any moment. Bossard would march in when he least expected it and—
“David?”
He riveted on Thomas, the evening supervisor, unaware that his eyes were wide as saucers. Thomas stood in the doorway of the little closet coatroom. David had frozen in the act of hanging up his satchel.
“When you get a chance, I need you to bring a bowl of stew to the Elite girl. She’s decided she’s on a hunger strike. I’d let her be but Mr. Belvedere would have something to say about that. She doesn’t have to eat it, we just have to say we tried.”
“Oh. Sure,” said David, and lowered his arms.
“Be careful. She tipped over the first and threw the second at the wall. She’s had a few hours to think but I doubt it helped.”
Thomas disappeared down the hall, giving the prisoner in question a wide berth at the juncture of the corridors. David listened carefully for a moment. No approaching footsteps. Only the echoes of an old damp castle, the shuffle of dozing prisoners. He reached into his newly hung satchel and removed the bottle of nerve tonic and a spoon. Dr. Balmoral had told him to take two spoonfuls whenever he felt it necessary, but David had only been taking one. He found too much tonic made him drowsy. It helped, beyond a doubt, but the cost was an overwhelming desire for a nap. A useful development, given his insomnia; just not at work. Being fired for falling asleep on the job was only a shade less shameful than being fired for being a maniac, so he kept his medicine to a minimum.
He hid the bottle back in his bag and crossed the corridor to the kitchen. A half-full cauldron of stew was being kept warm over the low-burning fireplace. David grabbed a wooden bowl from a nearby shelf, a ladle from a forest of hanging utensils. He decided to give the stew a stir.
One circle, two, three. Sausages, carrots, potatoes. A thick brown lake of liquid. It was like that woman’s entrails.
The steam washed over his face, bringing the smell of roasted meats with it. The cornerstone of the chapel at Steadney had been tossed hundreds of metres in the explosion. All of them had, all the stones in that ill-advised building. Most had vaporized, at least somewhat, like a hail of meteors. The cornerstone was still big enough when it ended its trajectory to do plenty of damage. Still sharp enough to rip through a human body. David stirred some more. She’d been dead several hours when they arrived. He and his fellow officers had moved past her, left her lying in the street to find the living. She came later, when the people whose stew was still inside them had been seen to. Everyone had said that dragging those stones all the way up the mountain was a waste of time, that wood would do just fine for the Lord. The blood dried on the stones, both corner and cobble, looked just like the crusty burnt-on bits in the cauldron.
As the entrails sunk out of sight, David came to. He realized he’d stopped stirring, his hand gripping the ladle so hard it was shaking. He gasped, and blinked, and forced his muscles to unclench.
Stew, reminded his strange new friend.
“Right,” murmured David. He scooped some out into the bowl. It looked like food and nothing else. Almost as an afterthought, he added a spoon.
She was curled on her side on her cot, facing him, though her eyes were closed. Crouching to the floor, he slid the bowl through the slot in the bars made for just that purpose. When he stood again, her eyes were open. They locked with his. David didn’t feel he had anything to say. He was certain he didn’t have to explain what the stew was for. So, he turned to leave on his rounds.
“What were you hiding from?” she called.
Two steps away, he paused. Looked back at her.
“Yes, you,” she insisted, sitting up. She’d kept her shoes on. “What got you all in a tizzy?”
“I…don’t know what you mean,” said David quietly.
“This morning,” said Guinevere. “You were on your way home, or so I thought. A minute later you came charging back up the corridor and hid around the corner. Who did you piss off - Belvedere, or Bossard? Both? I doubt you were afraid of Marigold, but of course, I don’t know what you get up to.”
She was smiling at him. He didn’t like it.
“I just forgot something,” he said. “In the coatroom.” He began to leave again.
“Then why did you check for the all-clear before you left? Is it something you shouldn’t have?”
He kept walking. He didn’t want to, but he knew he had to. She was looking for a fight and it was his job not to oblige her. He only stopped, a few metres down the hall, when he heard the crack of a wooden bowl against a stone wall, accompanied by the splatter of stew and clatter of spoon.
His hands tightened into fists, tendons popping out like tines. It would be easy. He’d done it before.
“No,” he breathed, and resumed his pace.
Later, agreed the voice.
“No, not at all,” he admonished. “Not over some spilled soup.”
