Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
F or a day and a half, Joss managed to avoid Miss Clio. Whenever he caught a glimpse of her, he would heft the axe or a cask of cream or busy himself with a customer, and he would send her a grin and a shrug. Once he slipped out into the crowd as she approached and waited past the next lane of tents and stalls, watching and waiting until she finished speaking with Droose before he returned.
He wasn’t exactly sure why he was avoiding her. Part of it was pure mischief. Recompense for the way she’d put his back up, approaching him with aggression the other morning. As if he was up to something nefarious. Or as if he didn’t belong. Joss had experienced more than enough of both attitudes from his family. He wasn’t going to put up with such things as a grown man.
But he’d also had the notion to learn something about her before he engaged her again. He really should try to discover if she was connected to his bauble, or to the mystery his great-uncle wanted to solve.
But Joss found it hard to concentrate on any of that, especially after that last conversation. She was so damned lovely. And distracting, with that forceful aura, popping and sizzling with power—and with spiked levels of agitation. Perhaps if he went in forearmed with a bit of knowledge, he would find it easier to concentrate around her.
Not that he’d been able to learn much. Miss Clio could be in line for sainthood, if the people of the Night Market were to be believed. Considerate. Kind. So responsible for one so young . Every time he asked, he heard a variation on the same theme.
Perhaps he was the only one she was snappish with, then?
But why?
On the second morning after their . . . confrontation? Flirtation? It had felt like both. In any case, on that second morning, he decided to find out.
Rising, he dressed carefully in his starched linen shirt and embroidered waistcoat instead of the loose tunic and vest he’d been wearing to work in. He combed his hair, shaved his face and pulled on his good boots before stepping outside the old tent that Droose had arranged to have set up beside her wagon—a tent with no sign of spiders, thanks be to the heavens and all its stars. His bauble followed as he stretched and yawned—and stilled.
The Night Market had moved again. The long flatland next to the terraced slope was gone. Now they were settled in a wide, oblong field surrounded by dense forest. Their new spot crowned the top of a hill—he could see the forest dipping away on the sides. Fascinating. He’d never felt a thing. He could only imagine the amount of magic it must take to accomplish such a feat.
He started as he heard a sudden thunk and a crash—from the wagon? He followed as the bauble raced to the door at the end. “Droose?” Smaller thuds sounded inside. “Are you all right in there?”
A groan. A series of rolling noises. “Droose?” A step sounded before the door cracked open, and Droose, in her nightrail, a hand clapped to her head, peered out at him.
Joss gaped. “What is it? What’s happened?”
“That thrice-damned shelf above the bed, that’s what happened!” She probed her brow with a moan. “I’ve told Karl a thousand times that it looked like it could come down. And, of course, it waits until he is away until it crashes down and thunks me a good one!”
“Let me see.” He flinched when she took her hand away. “It’s swelling already.” He glanced around. “Is there a physician traveling with the market?”
“No, no. Harriet, the herbal woman, she sees to us. She’ll fix me up right enough. She has a bit of healing magic. Enough to deal with a lump on the noggin, in any case.”
“Let me see you there.”
“No, no. I need to dress. And I need coffee.” Droose eyed him up and down. “And you look like you had plans for this morning.”
“You did say today would be a day of rest for the whole market?”
“Yes.”
“I thought I would find Miss Clio and answer her questions when we both are not so busy.”
“That one is always busy, but it’s a good idea.” She peered around. “Where are we now? Ah. The Cotswolds.”
“How can you know?” He stared around at the fields and the wood.
“This is a fairly regular stop for us. We’ll be busy for a few days. People will come from all the villages hereabouts.” She gestured to the far end of the field. “There’s a road out there, a bit steep. It leads down to the closest village. But there’s a back trail that way.” She pointed in the other direction. “You’ll probably find Miss Clio a bit down the hill. There’s a spot she favors there.”
“I’ll look for her. You are sure you’ll be alright?”
“Yes, yes. The ache is easing already. You go on and come back and eat later. The cook tent always does a nice breakfast on our days off.”
Droose waved him off, and he set out. His bauble tried to shepherd him toward the road, but he persisted, finding the trail and beckoning the reluctant orb to follow. The wood quickly closed around him. Birds sang, vigorously greeting the morning. The mature trees stood tall, creating an early summer canopy that shaded everything below. The rough trail wound through the undergrowth and he was careful to watch his footing, until he turned a corner and something snagged his eye on the slope below.
He caught his breath. An entire bank was covered in the lush, deep green leaves and white, airy blossoms of wild garlic. A dusky blue spot in the midst of the thousands of starry flowers had caught his eye—and stopped his heart.
Her hair was undone, a riot of curls falling down, and she’d leaned back, her head tilted up to meet the bits of sunlight coming through the leaves. The front of her bodice hung open, leaving just a thin underdress covering the curve of her bosom.
Joss swallowed. Here was another side to her, apart from the eerie competence and saucy intensity. A quiet side. Peaceful. Content?
Definitely a side she expected to be private , his conscience reminded him. Moving silently, he backed away and retreated up the trail a bit, the bauble bouncing alongside him. After a moment, he spoke to the orb in a carrying voice, making sure to create a bit of noise in negotiating the uneven path. When he came around the curve again she sat straight, her bodice fastened and her hair properly bundled up. She looked the picture of propriety—and still shockingly beautiful. And perhaps a bit annoyed. She flashed him a hint of a smile. A taunt, really, full of amusement and . . . challenge.
He found himself straightening, ready and eager to meet her dare. “Good morning! I suspected you might be down here.”
“Oh? Did Droose give me away?”
Joss didn’t wish to embroil the kind baker in their . . . disputes. “Actually, it was because my bauble tried to convince me to go the other way.”
She glanced at the orb, which ducked behind a tree off to his side.
“It’s the oddest thing, really,” Joss continued. “Until now, it has reliably led me straight to the most interesting thing in the vicinity, not away from it.”
“Interesting?” She crinkled her nose at him. “I’ve been called worse.”
He grinned. “As have I.”
“Let me guess. Evasive? Exasperating? Annoying?”
“All three, and worse besides,” he admitted as he drew closer.
“I believe it. But I will clear you of at least a couple of those if you say you’ve come to answer my questions at last.”
“As a matter of fact, I did, and I?—”
He stopped as a curious expression washed over her face. “Oh! I’d almost forgotten where we are!” She stood, her eyes gone wide. “Will you come a little further down the trail with me before we speak?”
“Ah, of course.”
“Good. Yes. Come!”
She stepped carefully through the flowers and moved off down the trail. Joss followed, the bauble bobbing in his wake. After perhaps a quarter mile, she paused and peered to the right, where the bank rose, still boasting a scattering of wild garlic and a massive tree that she regarded with satisfaction.
“Here we are,” she declared.
Joss stared. “Is that what I think it is?”
She looked surprised. “What do you think it is?”
“A TruthElm.”
“Indeed, it is.”
He let his gaze travel over the huge, gnarled trunk. “There must be a cracking good lot of liars in these parts,” he said, low.
“Or perhaps it heard one colossal lie.”
Sit beneath a TruthElm and speak, and the tree absorbed either the truth or lie of your words—and was affected accordingly. This elm was old, dark and twisted. Strips of bark peeled away from it. Branches varied from thin and spindly to grotesquely swollen. Thick, braided vines wrapped around it, pressing into the trunk, black as night.
The girl looked from the tree to him and back again. “Would you mind? The answers I need from you are important to me.”
“I think the exchange of information might be important for both of us.”
“You will sit beneath it and speak with me? The tree will tell us if you speak a truth or a lie.”
“I will, if you will.”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
Joss eyed the tree again. “Let us do it then, and perhaps do the poor thing some good.”
They both stepped up to the base of the tree and found a spot beneath it, settling in.
“Wait, wait!” Joss jumped up, ducking his head and shifting his position.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Spider,” he said flatly.
She laughed. “Am I supposed to believe a great lump of muscle like you is afraid of a spider?”
Shuddering, he pushed away bad memories and wondered instead if lump of muscle was meant as a compliment or a disparagement. “I avoid them if I can.”
He ducked again as a massive, tawny owl glided in and perched on a nearby oak. It gave a short shriek to announce its presence, and Joss’s bauble ducked under the crook of his knee.
“That’s Athena,” the girl said. “I hope you don’t have objections to owls?”
“No, just spiders.” Joss peered upward. “Are her markings blue?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because blue is her favorite color,” the girl said simply. She ducked her head to look at the bauble. “Athena is a friend. There’s no need to be afraid of her.”
“I think the bauble is nervous in general.” Watching her, he thought perhaps she was, too. “For the record,” he said, “I would have told you the truth, in any case.”
She looked up. He followed her gaze to see one of the thick, tight vines loosen its hold and shrink back, reflecting the truth of his statement. He could see respect in her gaze when she glanced back at him. He shifted his focus, just for a second, and noticed that her magical aura had lightened a bit and lost a bit of that agitated furor.
Good then. They were ready. Expectant, he watched her and waited for her to begin. But oddly, she hesitated.
Silence stretched out between them.
He decided to start. “When we first met the other day,” he began, “I was under the impression that you recognized my bauble.”
Her lips pressed tight for a moment. “I . . . I did. At least, I think I did?” She glanced over at the orb beneath his knee. “I’m sorry. It’s sometimes hard for me to speak of it.” She took a deep breath. “You see, I lost my family when I was very young.”
He didn’t have to glance up at the tree to know the truth of her statement. Everyone he’d spoken to had agreed that she was an orphan with no family to speak of, save the people of the Night Market. And that she’d arrived there as a small child. “Take your time,” he told her. “Such things are difficult. I understand.”
She looked up. “Do you?”
“I lost my family, too. I was ten.”
“Hagan,” she said quietly. “That’s what they said your family name is, some of the people you’ve spoken to in the Market.”
He nodded. “Joss Hagan. It’s nice to meet you properly, Miss Clio.”
“Just Clio, if you please? If you don’t mind such informality between us. It’s just, it would feel cumbersome to call you Mr. Hagan when everyone else in the market speaks more casually.”
“That’s odd. So far, I’ve heard everyone refer to you as Miss Clio .”
Her expression darkened for a moment. He’d surprised her? Dismayed her?
“I’m sure it was only meant as respect,”he said, “as they were speaking with an outsider.”
Breathing deeply, she nodded. “Outsider? That opens the door to allow me to ask about your accent.”
He laughed. “Yes. I know. I cannot seem to rid myself of it. Not completely. But I was born in a tiny fishing village on the south coast of Norway on the North Sea. I didn’t come to England until . . . after.”
“What happened?”
He sighed. “A draugar.”
She gasped and he was glad she knew. Understood. Glad he didn’t have to explain or describe the undead creature and its blue-black skin and glittering, empty eyes, void of anything but hunger.
“It came in on a fishing boat found adrift. It wasn’t discovered aboard, and when the boat was pulled into our harbor, the creature went through the village in a night. It got nearly everyone.” Everyone except him.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
She meant it. He knew that. Everyone said the words, but she understood. They shared a glance—and a moment. Of communion. Recognition. Shared pain.
“Ten years old?” she asked. “Then you must remember . . . everything.”
“Yes.” He frowned. “You don’t?”
“Not truly. I was very small. My mother hid me away. I just recall the sounds. The fighting. The screaming.”
He nodded. “She was wise. It’s better not to carry it with you.”
“Yet you were old enough to remember your family.”
“Yes. Sometimes it helps.” Other times, it could nearly break his heart. “What of you? Do you have any memories of your family?”
“I . . . Yes. And no. I have only vague images. My mother singing while she cooked. My father’s laugh. What I recall most are feelings. The joy I felt when my father walked through a door. The love they both gave me. The comfort my mother offered.” She looked directly into his gaze. “When I was cranky and tired, I would crawl in her lap and she would cuddle me close . . . and offer me a golden bauble.”
Joss blinked and glanced up at the TruthElm, which was looking decidedly healthier as they talked. At her words, he saw one of the swollen branches shrink down into a normal, graceful aspect. He cleared his throat. “You think my bauble is the same one you remember?”
“It feels like the truth to me.”
He glanced up to confirm her answer.
“Does your family possess two of them?” she asked.
“No. Not that I know of.” He frowned. “Why?”
“There were two. I think yours might be one of them.”
He sincerely hoped not, mostly for her own sake. But if she was right . . . He sighed. He was going to have to get to the bottom of this. “This is a siphoning bauble,” he said clearly.
“I know.”
“Your mother gave you a siphoning bauble as she cradled you in her lap?” He couldn’t keep the disbelief and disapproval out of his tone.
“It was necessary.” She swallowed. “I possess quite a bit of magic.”
That much he knew. He had to stop himself from adjusting his focus to examine her magical aura again.
“Sometimes it was too much for me,” she explained. “It made me uncomfortable and irritable. And now that I am grown, I can imagine that having a very young child with that large excess of magic must have been difficult.”
“Oh.” He considered it. “Yes. All of that power . . . Imagine it coupled with a tantrum.” He shuddered.
“I remember the relief of it—of the bauble’s touch. My mother’s warmth. Her embrace. The easing of the push of too much magic under my skin.” Her gaze slid to the golden sphere.
As if it felt her attention, the orb shifted to hide behind his hip. “I think it recognizes you, too.”
“I have only fond memories of the orb I remember,” she said quietly. “Why is this one so nervous? Afraid of me?”
“I don’t know. I was hoping you could tell me.”
“How did it end up in your family’s possession?”
“I don’t know that, either.” But he meant to do some digging. To find out.
“Does the bauble know? Can it tell you? Show you?”
He heard the hope in her voice. Some part of him wished to answer it—to bring back the light and ease he’d glimpsed in her earlier. “I’m sorry. It doesn’t work like that.”
“How does it work?” She sounded almost desperate.
He shrugged. “We are companions. That’s the closest way to describe it.” He sighed. “One day, we were all summoned to my great-uncle’s study. Everyone in the family. He brought out the orb. They all seemed eager, as if they knew what it was. I hadn’t a clue. My great-uncle, Wilmot Hagan, announced it would choose one of us. He released it, and it zipped around the room, around all of us standing there, waiting.” Joss couldn’t disguise the wonder he still felt when it had nudged him. “It chose me. I didn’t understand, then. But it is more than just the family honor. The bauble is company. Light. Warmth. It goes where I go.”
“You said it leads you to interesting things.”
Joss closed his eyes. “I have not much magic of my own.” He opened them and watched her face. “Most magic folk can sense my deficiency.”
“I wouldn’t call it that,” she protested.
He lifted a shoulder. “I am used to it. Perhaps that is what has led me to a deep interest in unusual magics and especially in magical objects. The bauble knows of my interest. It is very good at searching them out.” He never knew if it was because the bauble was responding to his fascination or if the objects could be related to the mission he was supposed to be on—but he wasn’t going to tell that particular truth. Not yet.
“Look,” he said slowly. “As I said, it is a siphoning bauble. It can take a bit of magic from anyone who touches it without shielding. It contains many different sorts, from all kinds of people, but the last person it pulled from was that Promethean thug. Perhaps that’s why it is acting strange.” He also didn’t mention that he found the kind, golden core of the bauble to be very similar to her own aura—another reason why he found her so intriguing—and now he might just know why. He shrugged. “Alternately, you said that the last day with your family ended in violence. Perhaps the bauble possesses bad memories. Your familiarity might bring them to the surface.”
“Or perhaps it fears being separated from you?” she ventured in a soft tone.
He hadn’t considered that. But it was a possibility.
“I would like to examine it more closely,” she whispered.
The bauble burrowed into the small of his back.
“I won’t force it. We are companions, as I said. It is not at my beck and call.” Her face fell and he relented. “But perhaps we could spend a bit of time together? It might, with time, learn to trust you.”
Her expression lightened. But she didn’t smile. Three encounters now, and he realized he’d never seen her smile. Not really. Not with more than just a corner of her mouth. She was very serious about finding out more about the bauble, about herself, but it was more than that. The people in the market all talked about how steadfast she was, how thorough and responsible. But who looked after her? Who made her smile? Laugh?
He suddenly and very strongly wanted it to be him.
“Thank you,” she said, gripping her hands tightly in front of her. “I should like to try.”
He could almost feel the longing coming from her. Her knuckles were white, but . . . He frowned. Were those sparks coming from her hands?
As if he’d brought it to her attention, she quickly stood. “Oh. The time! We’ve been out here for far longer than I meant to be.”
“Yes.” He looked up. “But at least we did the tree some good.”
She blinked upward, where the tree stood, demonstrably healthier. Greener. The vines had completely gone and new leaves were coming out on the reformed branches.
“Oh, yes. Well, good. Didn’t Shakespeare tell us to unmask falsehood and bring truth to light ? There. Accomplished.” She seemed suddenly nervous and he swore he saw more sparks before she hid her hands behind her back. “I must go! Thank you. I’ll look for you again, and we’ll try your plan. Forgive me now for popping out, but I must?—”
And she was gone, in a veritable shower of sparks.
Joss sighed. Standing, he cocked his head at the bauble. “Come on then, we’ll have to walk back up. And we have a shelf to hang.”