9 Dove #2
Finally, the road opened up. A weathered wooden sign above a half-hearted attempt at a gate read “Hedgehog Hollow.” I nudged Lightning toward the entrance, not bothering to see if Maerryl followed. She would.
Now what? I’d learned from my rare previous visits that this tiny village held little of interest to me.
Petra would sometimes fetch ribbons, potions, or other small items for me if we weren’t able to procure them from the city in time.
During the lean years, before I had her, I’d occasionally come out here on my own because Mother’s maid often somehow managed to “forget” if I requested something when she made her weekly trips here.
Hair ribbons I could do without, but not my paints.
I’d rather eat plain porridge for the rest of my life than go without my tools for painting.
With that thought, I decided I would seek out the little general store that supplied the village and surrounding area with its basic foods, home goods, and artisans tools.
My paintbox was running low on red and indigo anyway.
This would be the perfect opportunity to do something, if not substantial, at least useful and self-sufficient.
A flush of happiness fizzed in my chest at the thought. I could do this. Absolutely.
Now if I could just get these fish-eyed townsfolk to stop staring at me…
Because they were, and quite unabashedly too.
As I rode Lightning down the central road, people paused what they were doing—brushing dirt about with stick brooms, tending front gardens, and other wholesome, simple village-type things—to gape at Maerryl and me.
But mostly me, of course. I suppose they didn’t often see such beauty and elegance around here.
Checking my posture, I sat up in my saddle and tried to embody the kindhearted dignity of Kurriel’s queen.
“Did you do something to offend these people?” Maerryl whispered out of the corner of her mouth, just loud enough for me to hear.
I shot her a confused look. “What are you talking about?”
She cut her gaze to me, then jutted her chin slightly in the direction of a couple villagers exchanging their own whispered conversation.
They looked up at me every so often, expressions cold.
I could see now their pursed lips, the way their shoulders hunched tensely as they watched me pass.
I spotted a young man in his doorway, tired face pinched as he rocked a crying baby.
His gaze tracked me as well, and it held the look of someone who knew you, assessed you, and found you terribly lacking.
I saw, suddenly, the distaste written all over him.
All over each person we passed. Directed toward… me.
Maerryl was right. These people disliked me. Perhaps even hated me.
But why? I didn’t know these villagers. And they didn’t know me—how could they feel so strongly about someone they’d never met?
I caught the eyes of an elderly woman making her slow way down the road, worn kerchief wrapped snugly around her head. Trying for a warm smile, I cleared my throat and called down to her, “Good morning, grandmother! A fine day we have, isn’t it?”
She just sneered, staring me down like the rest. With a throaty “pffaw!” she shook her head at me as she continued hobbling on her way.
A cold trickle of embarrassment tingled down my neck—what had I done to offend these people?
—but I tried for a haughty sniff. “Let’s just get moving,” I muttered to Maerryl, nudging Lightning’s side so he picked up the pace slightly as we veered toward the store on the far right side of the small village square.
I swung down and let Maerryl tie our reins to a post outside the store.
Inside, it was small but neat as a pin. The entire store could have fit inside our solarium with room to spare, and it looked exactly as I remembered it from the couple times I’d been here before.
Whitewashed shelves, organized clearly into different categories of goods—dry ingredients for cooking and baking, tools for carpentry and gardening, scrolls and quills for writing.
Here were the teas, tinctures, and other dried herbals needed for healing.
Over there, a sparse section of worn toys and baby essentials for young ones.
And here—ah yes, here was what I’d come in search of. One high shelf dedicated to paints, canvases, a few brushes, and such. I could feel Maerryl watching me as she walked through the store, checking for potential threats or some bodyguard nonsense, so I contained my excitement as best I could.
But oh! They had red! A good-sized jar of powdered pigment, bright like holly berries in the winter. I snatched it up and shifted the rest of the shelf’s contents, searching for indigo, or at least a similar rich blue.
Nothing, though there was a small pot of mystery pigment that intrigued me. I grabbed that, an armful of canvases—might as well stock up—and a good-sized glass muller for mixing my paints. Maerryl slouched around the aisle toward me, and I said, “Grab that jar of turpentine there, would you?”
She sighed but hefted it up easily, looking as if she carried a basket of feathers rather than a heavy-lidded pot. I pulled my attention from her arm muscles, bunched under that leather sleeve, and made my way to the unattended counter at the back.
“Hellooo? Anyone here?” I set my items down and tried peering through the dark doorway behind the counter.
“Maybe they’re on a break,” Maerryl said, placing the turpentine carefully next to my mound of shopping.
Spotting a little brass bell, I dinged it. And then twice more for good measure. “Hardly a sensible way to run a business. We could steal all of this, for goddess’s sake!”
Maerryl tensed at my side. “I mean, I wouldn’t, of course,” I said. “Just a joke. Who would bother stealing this pittance-worth of art supplies?”
Great, now she thinks I’m an aspiring thief. And a rich snob. I mentally smacked my own head. Though she probably already thought that.
And a second later, Wait, who even cares what she thinks??
Thankfully, at that moment the proprietor of the shop deigned to come out of the back, reeking strongly of pipe smoke.
I quickly bought my items, ignoring the stink eye that the shopkeeper pinned on me, and gathered everything up and bustled out the door into the fresh air.
Maerryl trailed behind me, sweeping a cautionary look around. For any potential “threats,” I suppose.
I stored all my purchases into Lightning’s saddlebag, awkwardly tucking the folded canvases between his blanket and the saddle itself. Good enough.
“You there!” a coarse voice shouted from behind. I spun around. The shopkeeper was hobbling out his front door.