Wanted. #3
“Lodgings for the four of yous’ll be half a penny…
No, wait… A shilling and a—no, I was right, half a penny each it be.
Supper’s nettle stew, breakfast be thistle soup.
” She gestured toward the giant ceramic pots bubbling on the hearth.
“I want no hassles—no hassles at all,” she warned us, thrusting out her sooty palm.
After a tense silence, as we waited for someone to pay, Bash finally gave in. He tutted, digging into the pocket of his brown jerkin and pulling out a handful of coins. With a reluctant sigh, he plucked out four tiny silver pieces and slammed them onto the table.
“Ta,” the innkeeper mumbled, crouching down beside the hearth.
She served us four bowls of bright green stew and a basket stuffed with hunks of bread. I grabbed a piece, eyeing its suspiciously white color and wondering if there was more chalk than flour in the mix.
“Enjoy,” she said miserably.
As I reached for my soup, my sleeve snagged on something. Expecting to see the fabric caught on a splinter, I glanced down—only to find the creature from the stables clinging to my cuff. I shook my arm, trying to fling it off.
“Hungry,” it moaned.
Arthur inhaled—sharp. “What is that?” he asked, sliding to the far end of the bench.
The innkeeper sighed. “Yous’er meant to stay hid till the customers are tucked up in their bedsteads,” she scolded, smacking the creature across the back of the head.
It wobbled like a spinning top, clutching its pointy ears.
“Sorry, ma’am,” the creature croaked. “I thought I smelled something suspicious in the air,” it said, inhaling deep. “Something magical. I believed it was safe to show myself.”
“We should go,” Arthur muttered across the bench to me.
“Stay,” the innkeeper pleaded, scooping up the pennies and stuffing them into the pouch dangling from a chain at her hips. Her mouth twisted into a tight knot as she raised the back of her hand toward the creature, ready to whack again. “Come’er,” she growled.
Cowering, the creature reached for a broomstick resting against the fireplace.
“Sorry, ma’am,” it apologized again, frantically sweeping the straw-covered planks.
“Argh, he’s only a boggart.” She sighed. “Harmless house spirit, he is. Been helping my family run this inn for seven generations. Knows this place better’n me.”
“You should be hanged for practicing magic,” Arthur spat, pointing an accusing finger her way.
“Out here, in the arse-end of nowhere, ain’t no one enforcing laws—I barely got time to blink, let alone start acting like judge and jury,” she said.
Arthur scowled, though his eyes glinted with fear. “If I didn’t know better, I’d call you a witch—”
“Ain’t no witch, me,” the innkeeper interrupted, turning up her crooked nose. “And the boggart knows no spells, none at all. We told him to go during the Dark Days, see—we was afraid folks’d think us magic. But he’d nowhere else, nowhere at all.”
“Poor thing,” I said, watching him struggle to wield a broomstick five times his height.
“Don’t go feeling sorry for him. Selfish little scamp,” she muttered, voice low. “Proper rude and stubborn as knotweed, but useful all the same.”
The innkeeper patted her coin-filled pouch and shuffled back to the bar.
Arthur leaned across the table, toward the men. “Do you think it’s safe to stay here?” he whispered, panic edging his voice.
Bash shrugged. “I don’t think we have much choice. Just keep an eye on that,” he said pointing at the boggart.
The creature sniffed Bash’s outstretched finger, then chomped down on it.
“Argh!” Bash yelled. “Little bugger bit me. I’m used to splinters, but his teeth sting like nettles.”
Bash rubbed the bleeding pinpricks before swiping the boggart across the back of the head.
The creature yelped, hobbling around the table with a bright red handprint on the back of his misshapen skull.
He reached his veiny arms—like the underside of a leaf—and snatched the bread I’d hoarded in my lap.
“That’s mine,” I snapped, grabbing for it.
The boggart spat on the crust. “Mine now,” he said, nibbling at the edge.
Bash tore his lump in half and tossed one piece across the table to me.
“Thank you,” I said, catching it and stuffing the whole chunk into my mouth before the boggart could steal again.
The bread tasted not only chalky but like sawdust, with a consistency chewier than candle wax. I gagged as I swallowed, focusing on filling my empty stomach.
The boggart tugged at my sleeve, pestering me while I tried to shrug him off.
“Let us have a bit more,” he moaned.
“No, I haven’t eaten in days,” I snapped back.
The boggart gasped, baring his pointed teeth. “You’re a filly!”
I froze, not understanding the word, but fearing he could sense I was a witch.
“Ignore it and it’ll go away,” Fletcher mumbled, sipping his soup.
The boggart edged closer, his veiny hand clawing at my tunic. “Girl,” he spat, yanking the fabric hard enough to strain the stitches.
The men howled with laughter. I flushed, burning with fear. They thought he was mocking my size or lack of facial hair, but it was worse than that—the boggart saw through my disguise.
Bash stifled his chuckles. “Knock it off,” he said.
But the boggart didn’t stop. His long fingernail caught on the fabric, and as I felt a stitch snap, a memory hit me—of Adder by the well, using my vulnerability to make himself feel powerful. Something inside of me shifted.
Without hesitation, I reached into my stocking for my knife. Grabbing the boggart by his wiry hair, I yanked back his head and pressed the blade to the fat fold on his neck.
“Leave me alone, or I’ll slit your throat,” I hissed through my clenched jaw.
I pushed the blade harder, finding the bravery I couldn’t muster on that night by the well.
The boggart’s yellow eyes flickered with fear. “Fine,” he said, his stubby limbs trembling.
“Smith, you’ve proved your point,” Bash said, his tone stern.
I released the blade and freed the boggart. He scrambled toward a narrow staircase beside the bar, disappearing into the shadows.
Stew had sloshed over my lap during the altercation, soaking my breeches. Pathetically, I stared down at my soggy crotch.
“Have you pissed yourself?” Fletcher jeered, cackling as I shook off clumps of nettle clinging to the fabric.
I slumped onto the bench beside Arthur, eating what was left of my soup in silence, like a disobedient child who just got a scolding.
Bash reached toward me. “May I see that?” he asked, nodding at the blade.
I handed it over.
“Exquisite craftsmanship,” he said, twirling it between his fingers. In the candlelight, the blade shimmered like melting ice.
“Thanks,” I replied, feeling a sense of pride. “I made it myself.”
Bash raised an eyebrow. “Smith, if I survive this war, I want you to make me one.”
I beamed at the thought of my first customer—even if I had to masquerade as a man to seal the deal.
A gust of cold air flurried through the inn as the front door swung open. A clanging sound announced his entrance, and even after the door was wedged shut again, I couldn’t help but shiver.
“Knight,” Fletcher murmured.
The knight removed his metal helmet, cramming it underneath his arm.
His chain mail hung heavy on his frame as he navigated through the tables.
My eyes caught the gleam of his polished sword, sheathed at his hip, its intricately carved pommel stirring memories of working alongside Father in the smithy before he left for war.
He pounded a sheet of parchment onto the tabletop before us, then clinked his way toward the bar.
The drawing caught my attention—a dog, its teeth bared in a vicious snarl.
Though I couldn’t read, I recognized it instantly as a wanted poster, with its bold lettering printed above an unflattering caricature.
“Wanted—the Black Shuck,” the knight announced as he pinned another poster to the inn’s wall. “A magical beast has been on a killing spree in the Wetlands. Two dead—including the Lord’s daughter—and one villager still missing.”
He was from the Wetlands, and fearing recognition, I shrank into the shadow cast by Arthur. Fletcher picked up the parchment, examining the drawing like he wanted to etch every detail into his memory.
“I thoughts the Wetlands were free o’ magic?” the innkeeper asked.
The knight shook his head. “It appears not. The Lord’s offering a handsome reward to anyone who can bring him the Shuck—alive or dead.”
“Maybe we should go hunting tonight,” Bash whispered, shooting me a wink.
The men chuckled.
Arthur snatched the poster from Fletcher. “Smith’s good with a knife, he could take on the Black Shuck alone,” he muttered, clearly still fixated on my tussle with a creature small enough to nip at my knees.
I scooched across the bench, peering over Arthur’s shoulder at the drawing of Dog.
They’d depicted her as a deranged beast—with beady eyes, sharp fangs, and a tangle of untamed fur.
That wasn’t the Dog I knew. The one who loved belly rubs and neck scratches.
The one who protected me. Tears pricked my eyes as I realized I owed my life to the very beast on that wanted poster.
“I’m going to sleep,” I announced, rising without waiting for the men to bid me good night.
“Third door on your left—no, right,” the innkeeper called after me as I hurried up the narrow staircase.