Chapter 5
“The Pooka, rectè Púca, seems essentially an animal spirit. Some derive his name from poc, a he-goat; and speculative persons consider him the forefather of Shakespeare’s Puck.
On solitary mountains and among old ruins he lives, ‘grown monstrous with much solitude,’ and is of the race of the nightmare. ”
By the time I am stitched and liberally doused with salt water, I no longer have any part of my body that doesn’t scream out in pain. Two maids from the manor have come to the physicians’ house with a dress and all the necessary accoutrements to transform me from patient to noblewoman.
“Lady Rylan sent a hooded cloak,” one woman tells me. “She says to tell you that Lady Fleuriste is in a temper over your absence and his lordship’s, so to cover up any bloody parts.”
I laugh, despite everything. My sister feigns gentility better than I can, but she is still cut from the same cloth. “Thank you . . .”
“Elspeth,” the woman supplies. She is older than my sister and me, but not by much.
All the villagers who can rotate in and out of service, and I aim to retain all their names in time. “Thank you, Elspeth.”
She steadies me as I don a clean chemise, stays, petticoats, and tights.
On the outside, I look again like a lady.
In fact, as I am fastened into a deep-blue dress with a high bodice and cap sleeves, I look far more suited to my station than I did this morning when I met with the Maudites.
The stitches that pull my arm’s skin into a red slash stand out. That is my exception.
I can hide that, though. My sister has sent a slick cloak of oiled leather. Inside, a warm sheep’s wool keeps me cozy, and the oiled exterior repels the rain. Stitched into it are several large pockets—one specifically for carrying the steel boxes I use for samples.
“Cloak, please.”
Elspeth settles it over my shoulders.
Maria makes a disapproving noise. “It will be painful if the stitches catch, and if it catches . . . there will be blood on the wool.” She pushes the cloak away again and wraps a dark muslin cloth over the stitches, hiding them and protecting me.
“Thank you.” I look at her, at Elspeth, at the younger apprentices watching and learning from each time I or Father appears at their door.
“We’re doing our part for Alveus.” Maria pats my hand once she resettles the cloak. “None of us are going to be offended by a few stitches, m’lady Huntress.”
“I am not the Hunter yet.”
“May his lordship stay hale and well,” Maria says with a hasty sign over her face, a gesture meant to send a prayer to wherever prayers are wont to go. The sign is repeated by every soul present. To me, then, she adds, “I remember when he was the child in training. He was softer then.”
I have nothing to say to that, so I nod.
My hair is still damp when I touch it, but my hand no longer comes away bloodied. Fortunately, it is the warmest part of the day, so I will not be cold even with my wet hair. The younger woman squeezes my hair with a towel, careful not to tug on it lest the gash on my head start bleeding again.
Dressed and as presentable as I can be, I step into my boots and collect the steel box from the satchel, intending to tuck the box inside the large pocket in my cloak. When I pick it up, no noise echoes inside. No clank or clatter.
Panicked, I unlatch and open it. The box is empty.
Every clue we gathered has been taken away.
All I am left with are the samples I had hastily shoved in my pocket, vague memories of my attack, and what Father and I gleaned before he burned the body.
There will be no microscopy. I step outside, feeling more battered by the realization that all our clues are gone. Did my attacker steal them?
I stand outside and let the comfort of the village ease my worry.
Fleuriste is alive with the sounds of everyday life.
I suspect it was the same when I arrived, but pain has a way of blocking out the world.
Children play, and women hang linens on lines strung out in the sun.
The scent of warm bread wafts from the village bakery, and the smells of cooking meat and onions drift from the hearth fire that sits under a roof beside the tavern.
“Lady Gabrielle.”
“Miss Gabri.”
“Afternoon.”
“Good day.”
I am greeted in nothing but kind voices as I make my way across the village center.
Unlike most small towns, our lodgers pay little or no rent to the Fleuriste family, and the result is a prosperous village that guards the family’s secret well.
Any crime here is quickly managed, and those who cannot work are still given a hearth and meals.
Magic prevents them from spilling my family’s secret to anyone not born here or bonded here.
That same magic tends to make strangers feel like not overstaying their welcome. Visitors pass through, but within three days, they are gone. The result is that the village is a safe haven for my family.
Walking through the village is also a welcome reminder that not only my family but also the citizens of Alveus benefit from the work of the Hunter.
“Lady Huntress.”
I cannot convince the villagers to stop addressing me as Lady Huntress, even though I am not yet the Hunter. The magic prevents them from uttering the word when any nonvillagers are near, but right now, we are alone. Locals only.
One man, Henry, stops and asks the question that many of them undoubtedly are pondering. “What know you? Did you find the beast?”
“Not as yet,” I say. “The Hunter and I gathered what we could, and he goes now to seek information.”
“Smart man. Hopefully the duke will know more . . . or Her Majesty.” Henry, like most of the pensioners, is a fount of gossip.
The consequence of being comfortable is that a fair number of the older residents of the village fill their time with chatter.
“The traveler—Hugh was his given name—was a good lad. A little too friendly after he was in his cups, but not in a way that anyone was hurt.”
I refuse to answer his remark, not wanting to clarify whether Father has gone to see the duke or the queen, partly because I don’t want to hear the inevitable talk of—
“It was good of Ashmore to see you home. That one hasn’t been around this way for years.” Henry has already latched on to one of his eternal interests. If there were a village matchmaker, Henry would be at the front of the list of applicants.
“You’ve forgotten your washerwoman basins if you want to gossip, Henry,” I needle.
Henry’s face is a crinkle of lines as he laughs, but he doesn’t take my hint to heart. “You’d make a good duchess, and she was watching your arse the way the travelers watch their pints in the Goose.”
“Henry!” James, a cobbler by trade, shakes his balding head. “What I want to know is are we at risk? Young Jamie and the lads are in the wood right regular. The missus said they shouldn’t, but you know how the lads like to collect the coins the Hunter passes out.”
“I do.”
“Will you be keeping the tradition?” James peers at me.
“My father is hale and hardy.”
“He sees Maria’s lot often.”
I pause. Father has not shared word of illness or injury. Neither did Maria mention anything just now when I was in her care.
“Your man Girard over at the Goose might know more.” Henry nods toward the tavern, as if that wasn’t where I was already going. “A lot of talk is spilled over a few pints.”
We make our goodbyes, and I head toward the Dancing Goose.
All requests asking for the Hunter to investigate come to the Goose.
It is a hub of information, as well as where rents—small as they are—are collected.
The ruse feels thin, but it seems to have worked for generations, possibly because most people never hire the Hunter outright, and those who do keep the secret in gratitude.
The Dancing Goose looks like every small tavern in every village I’ve visited, and despite my being a part of the peerage, the list of such places is longer than I likely ought ever to admit.
The interior is dim, and a fire burns in the back.
A few patrons sit and drink. Several have a midday meal.
Two others play a game of chess with an audience.
In a few hours, the pub will be raucous, but even then, the citizens are loyal enough that I am welcome here to drink among them.
I don’t often indulge, but the temptation of forgetting my station, my duty, and my fears makes me ponder what will change when I am properly the Hunter.
Inside, a few more villagers greet me, but I don’t linger. I don’t see Girard at the fire or at the seats inside. So I walk to the house on the backside of the Dancing Goose. In truth, I’m not looking forward to seeing Girard. He once seemed so charming, but that changed after bedding him.
Was that just a consequence of sex? Or is it because Father suggested he marry me?
The door is standing open, but after our history, I won’t be going inside. I call, “Girard?”
Plenty of other women have decided to have sex with Girard without consequence, so I foolishly thought I could do the same. I blame my father mentioning matrimony for the awkwardness that fills me as Girard walks to the threshold of the door and bows from the waist.
“Your presence graces us.”
“Why must you do that?” I snap.
He is undeniably handsome, but his exaggerated courtesy makes me uncomfortable since we’ve had sex.
I tried to find the naked sport pleasurable.
Truly. The act wasn’t unpleasant, and from all accounts from locals, he is good at it.
The thought of a lifetime of it turns my stomach more than the blows to my head.
Girard simply doesn’t make me feel the way Isabeau can make me feel with a simple look—or with the way she says “love.”