Chapter Five
Sorcha had gone nearly an entire morning without someone trying to kill her.
Progress.
Short lived, but progress nonetheless.
She supposed the falling stone could not be classified as murder, since it had more to do with the lack of funds necessary to repair the old Jacobean chimney stacks.
She was out in the courtyard seeing to the morning chores.
The birds were singing and the wood was being chopped for the bakehouse fires, as it always was.
There were two young boys whose job it was to find sticks to bundle and bring back to the Hall.
The air was warm, tasting of fresh bread and sunlight. Nettlestone.
She had just brought fresh hay with lavender stalks and rose petals, along with the usual hunk of bloody meat, to Nimue, the unicorn, since no one else should have to deal with her moods.
She had only tried to bite Sorcha once and kick her twice.
Percival, the Pegasus, nuzzled her softly and tried to eat her hair.
He had much better manners. And he loved currant buns.
Sorcha had left several out in the hills in case the Pegasus from the Cauldron was hungry.
She stepped back into the sunshine, wiping her hands.
And then the sky fell. Or the stable roof. Both.
Even when the unicorn was not trying to murder her, she was trying to murder her.
Sheer talent.
And a healthy dose of spite, which Sorcha could respect.
She left the stall open every day so Nimue could choose to terrorize some other family.
She never did. The unicorn made a sharp warning sound.
There was a bellow from across the courtyard.
And the particular sound of something heavy breaking off something else above her head.
Sorcha looked up, but there was only the blinding sun.
And then she was being thrown back into the dusty stable, where the unicorn tried to step on her head.
Someone got there first and yanked Sorcha sideways.
Simon then rolled to his feet, taking her with him.
Pain tightened his mouth when he put too much weight on his bad leg.
Sorcha coughed, trying to convince her heart that it did not belong in the back of her throat.
With very little success, it had to be said.
“Sorcha!” The ground trembled as Aesop charged toward the stable.
She poked her head back out. “I’m fine,” she said. Gasped. Croaked. Same thing. “Thanks to Simon.”
Aesop clapped Simon on the shoulder and nearly sent him flying into the water trough. “You came right out of nowhere. Good lad.”
Sorcha rubbed her chest. “Thank you, Simon.”
“I did say I’d be your wolf.”
She nodded. “I did not think the task would be quite so dangerous quite so soon.”
Aesop and Simon exchanged a telling glance. A judgmental one, even. Rude.
But not entirely unfounded. Clearly.
“What happened?” she asked. The broken pieces of several red bricks lay smashed on the ground. Right where she had been standing.
She squinted up at the side of the far turret, the one that loomed over this corner of the back courtyard.
The chimneys had been in disrepair for some time.
She honestly did not know if they had worked since before Queen Anne.
Granny had not cared much for the back of the Hall.
She’d cared for a proper bakehouse and a drawing room with silk wallpaper.
She would have gotten to it, of course, eventually.
Sorcha might not have. She would have sold the silk wallpaper if it wasn’t glued to the walls.
“The chimney crumbled right into pieces.” Simon gaped up at the turret.
“Well, I suppose that’s that.” Sorcha sighed.
“You could have been killed,” Aesop said.
“But I wasn’t. Barely a scratch on me.” Because he sounded so mournful, she handed him a kitten.
They were everywhere and underfoot and too clever to be crushed by falling chimneys.
Unlike her. The kitten immediately draped itself over one of Aesop’s horns, like a very fancy, very loud hat.
“I’ll have to get someone up there to check the other chimney stacks,” Sorcha added.
She shook her head. “Never mind. That sounds expensive. I’ll do it myself. ”
“No!” Aesop and Simon shouted at the same time like her very own agitated Greek chorus. The kitten added a yowl for good measure.
“Fine, fine,” she said. “I’ll ask one of the pigeons to have a look.
” There were always pigeons at Nettlestone.
They flocked from Hallow and Haven and Holdfast, sometimes even from the mainland.
Dovecotes lay abandoned throughout England, where they had once roosted and been cared for in exchange for sending messages.
But the custom had fallen out of favor. No one had informed the pigeons, and instead they were abandoned after centuries of being trained into dependence and coexistence.
It infuriated Sorcha every time she thought about it.
“You’re grinding your teeth,” Aesop said gently. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”
“I’m thinking about pigeons.”
Aesop nodded, having been on the receiving end of her lecture on the subject more than once.
“What about pige—” Aesop cut Simon off with a shake of his head, which delighted the black kitten. Simon blinked. “Never mind.”
Sorcha forced herself not to give in to the tirade. “How is your leg?” she asked Simon.
He shrugged.
She raised her eyebrows. “That bad?”
“No.” She stared at him until he lowered his gaze. “A bit.”
“Let’s get you a blackberry tart and some willow-bark tea. We’ll put in the last of the brandy.”
Aesop grinned. “I think my leg hurts as well.”
Sorcha left for Hallow after she had transferred everyone’s fussing from her onto Simon, where it might actually do some good.
She wandered through Hallow, glancing into every museum and bookshop and coffeehouse for a glimpse of Aidan.
Where was he staying? There were several inns in town, mostly full due to the coming autumn equinox.
She could ask around, but the winks and knowing glances she might receive would put her in a murdering mood.
Still, she considered it.
She saw a centaur with her nose buried in a book, an imp pouring gin into one of the decorative fountains, a professor lecturing a woman with dragonfly wings, a broom sweeping a front step by itself, and a satyr winking at every single thing he saw.
But no Aidan.
Which was perfectly fine.
She sighed and headed toward the Library.
Sometimes, you just needed a friend to loudly decry the man who had kissed you too well and then barely acknowledged you.
She was a woman grown; she knew disappointment and failed romances and gentlemen who did not favor you the way you favored them.
It was hardly the end of the world. Certainly, it ranked lower than being attacked by an ogre.
Or it should, anyway. Sorcha was no stranger to monsters, so she allowed that her perception of such matters might be skewed.
But Pippa Cavendish, though deceptively gentle, was not the scowling, vengeful sort.
Except for right now. It rather soothed the soul.
“He did what?” she demanded. Her pale hair was twisted into a knot and secured with pins.
And a pencil. She wore a simple muslin dress without a single wrinkle.
Though some of her fingers were ink stained.
“Nothing, really,” Sorcha allowed. “That’s the trouble, I suppose.” She propped her chin on her hand. “It’s petty for me to dislike him for being so proper.”
“Then I shall dislike him for you!”
Sorcha grinned. “Unfortunately, he’s rather likeable. You two would get on, I think.”
Pippa sniffed. “Certainly not anymore.”
They were tucked into a storage closet behind the main circulation desk, which faced the main doors, guarded by marble statues of Eratosthenes, head librarian of the Great Library of Alexandria, and Seshat, Egyptian goddess and mistress of the House of Books.
The Nine Muses led the way to the desk. There was also the Lady of Libraries, quiet and fierce and whose name was only known to the librarians.
But in the cramped storage closet there was dust and tea and shelves heavy with spell ingredients meant to safeguard the books from anything with teeth or fire or mold, from theft to toast crumbs.
There was also a truly astonishing amount of tea and candies.
Librarians had the sweetest tooth of anyone she had ever met.
Pippa offered her a candy from a jar shaped like a badger. “Boiled sweet?”
“Are those the licorice-aniseed ones?”
“Yes.”
Sweet tooth or no, Pippa had atrocious taste in candy. “Vile.” Sorcha stuck out her tongue. “And never mind Aidan—a very nice, giant wolf saved my life just a few hours later. I suppose I ought to focus on that?”
Pippa frowned. “Sorcha Beauregard, not again.”
Sorcha lifted her chin stubbornly. “I had to. You know what the Cauldron is like. And now I need every book you have on the Lycan. In case I want to resurrect my neglected penmanship and send a thank-you note.”
Pippa raised an eyebrow. “There’s an entire wing dedicated to the Lycan. Three thousand and seventeen books at last count.”
“Oh.”
“Seven hundred and three chapbooks.”
“I see.”
“And a truly staggering number of poems. Some of them quite atrocious.”
“You’ve made your point.”
“Give me every book on the Lycan,” Pippa muttered, indignant.
Sorcha scratched at her arm absently. The cut was still red. Had the ogre gotten her? An accidental crow swipe? It might have been a kitten, for all she knew. Kitten scratches were the devil. “Ouch.”
“I’ve chamomile and comfrey ointment for that,” Pippa said, passing her a small amber jar. “Briar made it. It works wonders on paper cuts and knife slips from sharpening pen nibs.”
“Don’t you have apprentices for that?”
“Yes, but…”
“You’re better at it.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I suppose.”
“And the hoity-toity professors refuse to be served by anyone else.”
“Oh, hush.”