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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.
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