Chapter Four
Brianna Hargrave did not appear particularly delighted to see me Thursday morning, even though I was doing her a favor by going on this miserable road trip.
She was sitting on the bench of what could only be described as a pony cart, given that it was an open cart, and it was harnessed to one rather portly pony. Jack Turner’s steed, if I recalled that rotund backside correctly.
“What’s this now?” I asked. “I thought we were going by coach.”
She removed the hood of her oxblood cloak, but her scowl remained firmly in place. “We would be, if you’d given me more than a few hours’ notice to procure one.”
“Pardon me for not rearranging my entire life to help you,” I snarled, climbing up next to her. “I’ve got my own matters to attend to, you know.”
“Ah. You’re referring to your sham of a shoppe.”
“Now listen here—”
She gathered the reins and sniffed, raising her pointed chin. “I promised myself I wouldn’t argue with you today, and I intend to keep my word. Let’s get through this, shall we?”
I’m not proud to admit I mouthed “shall we” like a wean. To her credit, she glowered but said nothing.
I was impressed she knew how to drive a cart.
The pony, slow though he might be, responded to her commands willingly; I never saw her raise the whip once.
I wondered if she was casting some curious magic on the creature, but I was too stubborn to ask.
We stopped in the late morning at the side of the road, where I was relieved to see she’d brought enough food for both of us.
I’d overslept and had to run to town without eating, with barely enough time to make sure Argyle had food and water to last him until tomorrow.
As she poured tea into two cups from a large thermos, I divvied up the scones. “Thanks,” I muttered. It was the first word between us in hours, and I was rather pleased with myself for breaking the stalemate.
“You’re welcome,” she replied, sounding equally enthused.
I sipped my tea and glanced around the glade.
We were sitting on a tartan she’d brought for the occasion, predominantly green with black and blue checks and a prominent oxblood stripe that matched her cloak.
“Is this your clan’s plaid?” I asked, running my hand over the soft wool. “I haven’t seen it before.”
“There aren’t many of us left,” she said rather cryptically. She was taking delicate nibbles of her scone, while I’d already crammed half of mine into my gob in one bite. No wonder Finlay fancied her. She was a proper lady, and I had the manners of a wayward goat.
“When did your family immigrate to Carterra?”
She dusted a few crumbs off her lap. “Are we really going to do this?”
“What? You prefer to spend two days in silence? Because I can manage—”
“I was a baby,” she interjected, as though she’d rather divulge her personal details than argue with me. “I don’t remember moving there. But I was born here, in Achnarach.”
Interesting. “And your parents?”
“Also born here. But like I said, there aren’t many of us left. My parents were the last in the family to move to Carterra.”
“Why did they all leave?”
She shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. All that matters is that they refused to come back.”
“They sent you here on your own?”
She shook her head, her curls bobbing. “No. It was my idea to come.”
I had to admit, she was brave to make such a lengthy journey all by herself. Frankly, I was surprised she wanted me with her at all. She obviously didn’t relish my company. “They must be worried about you.”
“They think I’m studying at university. They have no idea I came here.”
Brave, or foolish? I couldn’t imagine disappearing like that, and the only person who would even care to know I was leaving was Finlay. “That seems rather dangerous. What if you’d died in the crossing? How would they ever know what happened to you?”
Instead of answering, Brianna rose and began packing up the picnic basket.
I stood and folded the tartan, wondering again at the oxblood stripe.
There were colors found in almost every Achnarachian tartan: green, red, black, and blue.
Yellow was less ubiquitous, though still common.
But this dark, bloodred thread with an almost metallic shimmer was not one I’d seen before.
“Come on. We need to get back on the road if we’re going to make it to the inn by nightfall.”
I didn’t push for more information; she’d given me far more than I was expecting as it was.
As she climbed onto the cart, I wondered if she could tell I had the magic thimble in my pocket.
I wasn’t entirely sure why I’d stolen it.
I didn’t need protection from stabbing, at least not the kind I couldn’t provide on my own.
Perhaps it was simply the knowledge that I was holding something truly magical for the first time in my life.
Magic, as I’d said to Brianna, wasn’t unusual in Achnarach, or at least not unheard of.
But witchcraft—the domain of a select group of women—had gone out of fashion thanks to scientific advances, which were open to all.
Eventually magical objects became scarce, and while they had once been traded by everyone, they were now the purview of wealthy eccentrics.
If even half the items in Da’s cabinet of curiosities were real, we’d be the wealthiest family in Ardmuir.
During its heyday, people came to the shoppe more for the novelty than the magic.
My father, despite his many faults, was charming and affable.
He used to say he could sell horseshoes to a blacksmith.
We even had repeat customers who bought things just for the chance to hear one of my father’s stories.
Once, before my father died, an older woman came into the shoppe. I was tending the counter alone that day, while Da was off on one of his acquisition trips. She’d introduced herself as Grimelda Bellwood and asked after my father.
“I knew your father when he was a boy,” she explained while I made her a cup of tea. “My own son was the same age as him, you see.”
Da hadn’t been born in Ardmuir, so I rarely heard stories of his childhood, and even then, they were all from his mouth and undoubtedly embellished.
“What was he like?” I asked. Once I sat with the woman, I could see she wasn’t as old as I’d first thought. If my grandmother was alive, she’d be around the same age.
“A rascal,” she said with a wink. “Always getting into mischief. My son, Alfie, was a rule follower through and through. I like to think they were good for each other.”
“Where’s your son now?” I asked. I was only thirteen at the time, and I didn’t yet recognize grief in another person when I saw it.
“He passed away last year,” she said, sipping her tea. “Not even fifty years old.”
“What happened?”
She shook her head. “No one knows. He was healthy one day, and the next he was gone. The doctors said it was a heart attack, but my Alfie was strong as an ox.”
Alfie’s mother left before Da returned that day, and I never saw her again.
Later, when Da had his heart attack, I remembered the old woman and Alfie. Like him, Da had been perfectly healthy, and then was suddenly dying right in front of me.
I climbed back into the cart and we resumed our journey in silence.
The height of autumn was still a few weeks off, and the trees along the road were only beginning to don their golden cloaks.
Soon, everything would be russet and bronze, and then winter would be upon us once again.
Winters were long and wet in Ardmuir, close to the coast as we were.
It made for verdant springs, but there would be many gray days before then.
The grimoire conservator lived in a small town called Neering.
I’d never been; I’d never even heard of it.
But Finlay said it was a village like any other, and we’d be perfectly safe traveling on our own.
The sun wasn’t setting early yet, and this road was well maintained. Besides, we had nothing of value.
We reached Neering as the sun was sinking below the tree line.
It was a quaint town, full of thatch-roofed cottages not unlike my own.
The inn itself looked like many of the other homes, though it was large enough to host travelers.
A young girl took the pony—that I learned was named Fergus—to the small stone barn in the yard after Brianna removed her trunk and violin case from the cart.
I arched an eyebrow at that. I’d brought a spare outfit and little else, and Brianna somehow thought she’d have time to serenade someone.
Inside, everything was neat and tidy, though not nearly as lavish as the Four Swans. I’d come to think of Brianna as somewhat wealthy, and sure enough, she handed over the coins for our stay without even glancing at me. Good, because I had nothing to contribute to this venture beyond myself.
We ate in the inn’s small dining room. There was only one other guest, a nondescript man who kept to himself, and we went up to our room early.
I took the bed closest to the door to be polite, though there was a sturdy-looking lock on it.
I snuggled down under the blanket, trying to get comfortable on the lumpy straw mattress, and wondered if the thing I should be fearing was here in this room with me.
I would have appreciated if the wolpertinger could have been slightly more specific with its omen.
“Good night, Brianna,” I said, because it felt strange to go to sleep without acknowledging her.
“Good night. You can call me Bri, you know.”
I took some small comfort in knowing she hadn’t reserved that privilege for Finlay, though I’d never understood nicknames. Hi, I’m Willow but you can call me … Will? Ugh. “Good night, Bri.”
We were silent for a long while, long enough that I assumed she was asleep. I pulled the thimble out of the pocket of my nightgown, slipping it on for the first time since yesterday.
“It won’t work, you know,” Bri said.