Chapter 5
Chapter
Five
Business at Beadle’s Needles was indeed very brisk the following morning, surpassing Braiden’s expectations.
The combination of Augustin Arcosa’s mere presence at the shop with the specific kind of customer that he could attract made for adventurers who were more than primed for purchasing Braiden’s new selection of moongrass accessories.
And while things weren’t exactly flying off the shelves, this was certainly better business than the shop had seen in several years. The blur and buzz of the morning was here and there interrupted by the tinkling of gold coins as they fell into the till.
And yet all that Braiden could think about was the card that Bones had discovered in the storage room.
It was stuck right under the window, blending so well into the paint that no one would have noticed unless they were doing precisely what Bones was doing: crawling on all fours and getting an obscenely intimate look at the molding.
It was sitting in Braiden’s pocket right now, sandwiched safely between the pages of a small notebook.
He’d taken the time to compare it with the rest of Granny Bethilda’s deck of cards.
It was a match, of course, the same color and thickness of paper as the rest, and the same handwriting.
The only difference was how this specific recipe card was unlined and contained only a single sentence across the center.
Ours is the way of warmth.
Braiden hardly slept a wink. What was this supposed to mean?
Why was the card stuck in the molding under the windowsill, as if placed there deliberately?
Or had it only fallen out of Granny Bethilda’s grasp by accident?
And what an interesting accident that would be, for the card to land precisely in the tiny gap between the wall and the molding.
Perhaps it was only intended as the very first page for the deck of cards, a sort of cover for Bethilda Beadle’s Book of Everything. Card No. 0, as it were. But that didn’t make any sense either. Maybe there was a secret message, Braiden considered as they closed the shop for lunch.
He turned it over in his hands, inspected it against the light to look for faint traces of invisible writing.
He’d read about this before, how thieves and assassins would inscribe letters into paper with a sharpened stick and no ink, leaving writing that could only be revealed by placing a thin sheet of onion paper over the top and rubbing against it with graphite. But nothing.
Braiden nodded absently as Elyssandra and Craghammer asked to stay behind at the shop.
He thought nothing of it, knowing that the two of them could very well feed themselves and trusting them more than anyone in their motley crew — even Augustin — to keep watch over Beadle’s Needles without it spontaneously bursting into flames.
Maybe the message is embedded in the card in a different way, Braiden thought, his feet automatically carrying him down the street as he followed behind Augustin, Warren, and Bones on the way to the Deadlight, a basket dangling from his elbow.
Augustin had helped him pack some sandwiches for lunch, then had helpfully bottled some of his elixirs to wash them down.
He’d procured an inexpensive wand with a frost spell just strong enough to cool his bottled beverages from the outside, tapping each elixir before handing one to a customer.
Very convenient, especially for picnics on warm days like this one.
The Deadlight was the grave and funeral district located at the very edge of the industrial part of town, fortunately far past some of the smellier and noisier warehouses and workshops in Weathervale.
Here the greenery grew thick and lush again, untainted by the oils and gears of the industrial district.
It was a nice enough place for Granny Bethilda to rest.
It was on Augustin’s insistence, actually, that Braiden had agreed to come out and have a picnic at the cemetery. Braiden had met Augustin’s grandmother, so why couldn’t the wizard do the same?
Braiden found the sentiment sweet. He did this himself sometimes when he felt the need to talk and clear his head. Granny Bethilda’s gravestone never replied, but he liked to think that she was listening all the same.
“It’s that one,” Augustin said, nodding at the far end of the cemetery. “Right over there.”
“How could you tell?” Braiden asked, genuinely surprised.
“Because it looks cared for,” Warren said. “It looks like a place that has seen some love.”
Braiden lowered his head to hide his smile.
He let the others take the basket from his arm.
Warren and Augustin carefully set out the picnic blanket between the graves.
Braiden brushed some dirt away from the headstone, polishing the letters that spelled out Bethilda’s name with the edge of his sleeve.
“Hi, Granny Bethilda,” Braiden told the headstone. “Sorry it’s been a while since I’ve visited. I brought some friends, though.”
Augustin knelt by the grave, his hands clasped, his eyes shut, surprising even Braiden. A prayer, perhaps, or quiet meditation. A moment or so later, he leaned in to whisper to the stone.
“Your grandson is wonderful. Most of the time. We all think so.”
Warren pinched at the earth at the base of Bethilda’s headstone, then rubbed the tiniest bit of soil onto the center of his forehead, barely enough to leave a mark on his fur. A burrowfolk tradition?
“So we always remember those who have left us,” Warren explained.
“Your granny’s got some pretty swanky digs out here,” Bones said, rapping the headstone with his knuckles. “Certainly better accommodations than mine. I’m sure she’s happy.”
Maybe Bones was only being polite, or maybe he didn’t know any better. Braiden smiled hard at the thought that anyone could consider his granny’s grave anything but plain. It was sweet of Bones to say either way.
Braiden had done his best with what he could spare to set things up for her.
The headstone was common stone, not made of marble, not decorated with carvings or statuettes.
What made it seem a little brighter, he knew, was how often he visited to pick away errant leaves and twigs, to give the headstone a little polish every now and then.
“I think Granny Bethilda would have liked you all very much,” Braiden said as they tucked into their sandwiches.
“I’m very good with grandmothers,” Augustin boasted over a mouthful of ham and cheese.
“With my grandmother, perhaps,” Warren said. “With your own? Not so much.”
Augustin scoffed. Braiden said nothing, smirking at the bluntness of their burrowfolk friend, something he had quickly learned to find charming. Besides, Augustin needed a little bullying every now and again. It kept him humble.
“I think your grandmother likes me, too,” Bones said, bits of masticated sandwich dropping from his skull and straight to the ground.
Warren nodded solemnly. “This is true. She enjoys how you are constantly teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown, despite not possessing any nerves yourself.”
“Don’t need ’em,” Bones said. “And I am pretty affable, in my own way. I’ve even been making friends around town.”
The other three stopped chewing, glancing at each other before studying the skeleton with varying degrees of doubt.
“What friends are you referring to, exactly?” Warren asked.
Braiden leaned in. “And you’ve been wearing your cowled coat when you do that, of course?”
“You mean my hoodie,” Bones said, sniffing in offense. “And just because I’m a skeleton, doesn’t mean I’m not allowed to meet people. I have other friends besides you guys. Okay, I have one friend. Well, he’s my friend, at least. I’m not sure how he feels about me.”
The Wizard of Weathervale’s mind seemed to work like the wind itself, rushing just a little faster than everyone else. His eyes searched the cemetery, settling on the one structure that wasn’t yet another headstone, or the rare family mausoleum. It was the gravekeeper’s shack.
“This friend of yours wouldn’t happen to be a dab hand with a shovel, would he?” Augustin asked. “Lives nearby. Maybe even on the premises?”
Bones sprayed the picnic blanket with chewed-up bits of sandwich. “You’ve met him too?”
“Lucky guess,” Augustin said, smiling.
Braiden studied the shack for a moment, the very definition of a humble abode, seeing no signs of life. Maybe the man preferred to work by night.
“So does he know that you’re a skeleton?” Braiden asked.
Bones shrugged. “I mean, I wear my hoodie around him, if that’s what you’re asking. Somehow, I don’t think it would matter to him either way. I come here on some nights, to think or to talk. Everyone’s such a good listener here, but especially Gregor.”
Fair enough. The dead didn’t talk back, but who was Braiden to judge? He liked talking to Granny Bethilda, too. She happened to be an excellent listener in life, an even better one in death.
As for this Gregor, it made sense that someone who worked in such close proximity to death would be comfortable in the presence of a walking, talking skeleton. Perhaps tolerant was a more appropriate word.
“Yeah, good old Gregor. I met him on one of my chatty nights. Swell guy. Doesn’t say much, except ‘Isn’t it time you went home?’ and ‘You bother me.’ He’s so considerate.”
Warren stretched out on the blanket with a sigh, finished with his sandwich. “Considerate is one way to put it.”
“Yep. A good listener, like I said. Really good with a hammer and chisel, too. Doesn’t matter, wood or rock, coffin or headstone, he’s got you covered. Stone carver, woodworker — forget about it. The man’s an artist.”
Braiden chuckled. “Sounds like a talented gentleman. Do you think he knows much about secret messages?” He brought out his little notebook, carefully opening its covers to extract the card that Bones had discovered.
Warren tilted his head as he studied the card. “I could show it to Grandmother, but I doubt that she or her many sisters would be able to tell you much. We burrowfolk have far more experience with basketry than parchment and ink.”
“The thought is very much appreciated, Warren. I think we’ll keep it up here on the surface for now. Maybe we’ll find someone around town who knows what to look for, like a wizard, or a rogue. Okay, Bones. Careful with that thing, now.”
“I’m being careful, stringy. Don’t you worry about it.”
The skeleton lay sprawled along the picnic blanket, the mostly blank recipe card held delicately between his fingers as he raised it up against the sun. He hummed to himself as he flipped it over, turned it side to side, trying to make heads or tails of what few words it held.
“That’s only if the card actually contains a secret message to begin with,” Augustin said.
“I don’t mean to take the wind out of your sails, Braiden, but best prepare yourself for the possibility that this might well be a simple cover for Granny Bethilda’s deck of cards, exactly as you’d initially surmised. ”
“Or a cover for something else. Look at this.”
A quiver of excitement ran up Braiden’s spine when he heard the whispered awe in Bones’s voice. The others crowded around him, inspecting the card for signs of something new. Bones sat up, the card resting on his outstretched fingers, cradled as gently as a precious feather, a sacred leaf.
“Ours is the way of warmth,” Braiden breathed. The heat of the sun had revealed the card’s little secret.
There it was, on the back, a sketch of something boxy and strange, drawn in whisker-thin black lines against the card. Braiden squinted at the illustration, then at the cryptic phrase beneath it, written in Granny Bethilda’s recognizable scrawl.
“Heirloom?” he read out, his question mark echoing the one written in an elegant curve by Granny Bethilda’s hand. “It’s like she isn’t sure what this is supposed to be.”
“Is it a blueprint of some kind?” Augustin asked. “A bit hastily drawn, if I say so myself.”
“There’s something familiar about it,” Warren said. “But I can’t quite say what.”
“Looks like a musical instrument to me,” Bones said. “I mean, it sounds like I missed a few hundred years in string instruments between now and when I kicked the bucket, but it’s got all the right parts. There’s a frame, some strings. Maybe it’s a lyre of some kind?”
Braiden shrugged. “But that has nothing to do with the weaving way. The Beadles were never really known for music, either. I can’t carry a tune. I’d make a terrible bard. Why would Granny Bethilda leave this as her heirloom? And why make such a fuss about keeping it secret?”
“And it seems as if it was never actually built,” Augustin said. “Unless — do you think it’s somewhere in the shop? Somewhere on the premises?”
Bones clicked his fingers. “You know who might give us some answers? My buddy Gregor. I’m telling you, the man knows a thing or two about woodcarving. If your good old granny never managed to build this thing, maybe Gregor knows how to actually go about it and get it done.”
Warren’s ears swiveled toward the gravekeeper’s shack before his head did. “And what time do you suppose your friend will be awake?”
Bones creaked and clattered as he shrugged. “Usually when the sun comes down. Sometimes a little later, if he knows I’m out here. I think he’s playing hard to get.”
Braiden peered at the sky, trying to gauge the time. “We do need to get back to the shop. Would you mind waiting around for Gregor, Bones? Maybe see what he might have to say about Granny Bethilda’s drawing?”
The skeleton snapped to attention, making an awkward salute. “You can count on me. I’m your man. Warren, you wanna keep me company until then?”
Warren was already back to comfortably reclining on the picnic blanket. He opened one eye at Braiden. “Do you need me back at the shop?”
“I think we’ll manage,” Braiden said with a smirk.