Chapter 43
In Which the Dog Is Glowing Bright Enough to Pain Glenda’s Eyes, but Still They Have Stopped, and Still They Delay. In Which Glenda Is Wondering Why She Follows the Instructions of a Half-Breed Witch So Readily, but In Which She Has to Admit, Albeit Reluctantly, that It Is Nice to Stretch Her Legs.
The town they’d entered for the night was preoccupied with a harvest festival.
The witch, of course, insisted on attending, and so now they strolled, sipping from flasks of cider. It burned Glenda’s throat, but warmed her belly, and the intoxicants made the pressing human crowd easier to stomach.
A bonfire filled the square, flames shooting up to lick at air greyed with smoke.
Stalls ringed the square, with vendors shouting advertisements for everything seasonal at the throngs of families, couples, and roaming gangs of children.
They passed apples in every form: fried, baked, dried, and candied.
Tarts flavoured with elderberries, red currants, blackberries, mulberries.
Spears of roasted vegetables, sugar-crusted breads, and thick cuts of meat dripping in fat.
Spying this last item, Glenda pulled a face. “Do they have no empathy whatsoever?” she said to Domitia, not caring who overhead. “As if the animals are less alive than they are! As if they don’t want to live, just like we do!”
“Sir Cameron wants to live, too.”
It took some gasping and exhaling before Glenda could bring herself to respond. “Animals are innocent! He is anything but. And besides, I don’t want to eat him. Although . . .” A smile crept across her face at the image of him strung up like a hog. “It would certainly serve him right.”
Domitia winced. Perhaps she would have found a retort, but a man stumbled up to them, whisky on his breath.
“Phew!” He attempted a wet and rather flat whistle. “The size of you, ma’am! Are all elves that big?”
“Yes,” said the witch firmly, while Glenda squawked.
“All of them. This one didn’t eat enough growing up.
” Domitia’s hand settled on her shoulder, and Glenda readied herself to shrug it off .
. . but instead found herself grappling with an odd heat that started in her cheeks, and moved downward.
It did something to see Domitia’s hand, warm and broad, envelop the entirety of her shoulder.
Glenda wondered, flushing, if those hands were large enough to fully encompass her waist.
Too much cider! It must be interacting with the Passionweed in unexpected ways. Glenda coughed into her fist, burningly aware that the witch had not withdrawn her touch.
“Aye, we had a cow like that,” the man said, tipping his straw hat.
In his haziness, he overdid it, revealing a head as bald as a thumb.
He stooped to retrieve the hat, shoving it firmly back into place.
“Its mam got ate by shucks before it finished growing, and the stupid thing wouldn’t suckle from any of the others. Barely got big enough to slaughter.”
“Yes,” said the witch. “That does seem like an identical situation.” She twinkled down at Glenda, who started, shocked to be enjoying the same joke.
“Huh,” is all she could manage. “Uh.”
When Glenda failed to materialize a smile, the witch changed course, her face hardening. “But perhaps my friend here does not like being compared to a cow.”
“Didn’t mean any offense,” said the man, his panic sobering him. The crowd had carefully parted around the elves, but they didn’t show the man the same care, so that he was continually buffeted on either side by passing elbows. “Meant none at all, ma’am. I am sorry for botherin’ you.”
Domitia offered a smile. “It’s quite alright. You enjoy your evening now.”
He bobbed, babbling thanks, and somehow lost his hat again. Before he could regain it, Domitia took Glenda’s arm, and gently steered her away. “He didn’t mean any harm,” she said. “They just get excited, seeing someone new.”
“We could be making progress right now. Your carriage doesn’t need sleep. We could be on the road, closing in on those bastards.”
The witch clucked her tongue and guided them toward a stall hawking braids of bread. It stank of garlic and butter. “Glenda, Glenda. Why fight for a life you can’t enjoy?”
The humans queuing for the stall looked over their shoulders, blanched, and made way for the elves.
Glenda sniffed. “Another pearl of wisdom.”
“I am twice your age, you know, and wisdom does flow downward.” The witch gave her a smile that flashed the edges of her jagged teeth. “I could easily be your mother.”
A full-body shiver ran through the elf, like a static shock. Now, why had that done something to her?
Then and there, Glenda vowed never to drink again. “Tomorrow,” she said, staring into the crowd with violet-flushed cheeks. “Tomorrow, we leave at dawn. I want to end this.”