Chapter 25 #2
I grab my cloche hat and cardigan and head out the front door.
Henry follows as we make our way down the grassy path on the hill toward the road.
As we crest the hill, I slip out each artifact and hide them.
By the time we reach the road, all three artifacts are hidden—the crown beneath my hat, the amulet under my blouse, and the dagger tucked beneath my sweater, nestled at the back of my skirt’s waist.
Henry and I walk hand-in-hand as we make the fifteen-minute trek into town. I pull Henry closer—for comfort and protection—once we reach the quiet main street.
We stop at the baker's first, grabbing an assortment of baked goods. A small token of appreciation for all the hard work they’ve done for me. It’s not enough to cover what I owe them, but it’s something.
Henry suggests we should also stop at the butcher’s, as he offers to cook dinner tonight. I glance at him skeptically. I’m completely unaware of his knowledge of the culinary field, but I shrug and take his word for it.
If it ends up being rubbish, we will at least have four boxes of pastries and three loaves of bread, along with several bottles of alcohol, waiting at the cottage.
Henry, carrying the boxes of pastries, gestures to the telegram office across the side street from the butchers. “Do you mind stopping to see if we’ve received any messages from them?”
I know he senses my reluctance at the idea of us separating because he places his free hand lightly on my back. “It’ll be alright. We can see each other through the window, and I promise, I won’t take my eyes off you.”
Unable to find an excuse to go against his logic, I nod and cross the side street toward the telegram office, placing the loaves of bread under my arms as I open the door.
A line awaits me, with three people ahead of me.
I wait impatiently, glancing out the window at the butcher’s every few seconds.
After several minutes pass by, it’s finally my turn.
All of that waiting ended up being futile, as there were no telegrams waiting for us. A sigh of relief washes over me as I still see Henry inside the butcher’s, talking amicably with the owner. He must sense I’m watching him, as he turns to smile and wave.
My eyes fixate on Henry as I’m crossing the street.
I’m about halfway across the road when I hear glass shattering.
Turning my head toward the sound, I see a young woman glancing at the broken vase by her feet, a bouquet of tulips splattered around her.
With a heavy bag of groceries in her left arm, she slowly kneels to the ground, emitting a cry of annoyance, and cleans the glass off the pavement.
As she delicately places the bag on the ground, it tips over, causing all its contents to roll across the street.
“Oh dear,” I mutter, feeling pity for the young woman, who I know is having a terrible day.
With a quick glance at the butcher shop, I check to make sure Henry is still there—safe and sound. Then I turn to the woman, feeling pulled to help her. It wouldn’t take more than two minutes. I head toward her, grabbing any produce along my way.
“Here. Let me help,” I say, placing the produce back in the bag and kneeling beside her, helping clean the mess.
“Thank you so much,” she says in a heavy Welsh accent.
She sheepishly glances at me, with sharp green eyes and a warm, grateful smile.
Her wavy red hair blows in the wind. “I was foolish enough to think I could carry both the bouquet of flowers and the bag of groceries back home. My husband insisted I should take two trips. Boy, will he be smug when I come back home with no flowers and bruised produce.”
Carefully, I pick up pieces of broken glass and place them inside the base of the vase that managed to remain intact.
“Who says you went to get both? You could always go back to the florist, explain what happened, and get another bouquet. Thus, you can tell your husband you listened to his suggestion—guaranteed zero smugness to come from him.”
She laughs. “How foolish am I to not think of that?”
Once the glass has been cleared, we stand, and she extends her hand. “Thank you again for your help and the advice. I’m very grateful for your kindness.”
“It’s my pleasure,” I assure her.
I watch her make her way down the street toward the cluster of small houses, ensuring that she leaves safely.
It must be the paranoia creeping in again, wanting to be certain we can trust the people of this small town.
I’m about to erase her memory of our interaction, but the smile of gratitude and relief on her face stops me from doing so.
Who knows what world she lives in, and it’s possible our interaction may have given her the kindness she was desperately overdue for.
I can only hope I don’t later regret not compelling her.
Knowing I’ve been gone longer than expected, I cross the road toward the shops.
Peering through the window of the butcher’s, my heart drops when I see that Henry is not inside.
I try to contain my anxiety as I glance around, hoping he might have gone searching for me.
But blood pools in my head when I realize he isn’t around.
Full panic ensues.
Rushing with bated breath, I head inside the butcher’s, my eyes crane over the customers, scanning for the owner, Henry was chatting with.
In a non-polite manner, I trudge through the bodies of the customers to reach the owner, who stands behind a glass counter containing several pounds of raw meat.
Ignoring the glares and mutters of rudeness directed at me, I reach the counter to receive another annoyed look from the owner.
“Ma’am, there’s a line,” the owner grumbles. The deep wrinkles on his face manage to deepen more as he gestures for me to get back in line.
“My apologies. I only need to ask if you’ve seen my…” I pause, not quite sure what to call Henry.
My friend? My beau? My…what? Frantically, I think of an answer and decide to call him what I have been calling him for several days now.
“My husband. He was here a few minutes ago. Tall, broad shoulders, brown curly hair, hazel eyes.” I look at the owner, hoping he can sense my desperation and eagerness to find Henry and will be amenable to helping me without giving me any grievances.
“Oh, you’re Mrs. Abbott,” the owner says with surprise and intrigue.
His irritation falls at the mention of Henry. That man can make friends with anyone—anywhere. The owner nudges his head behind him, pointing with his thumb to the back of the shop.
“He’s out back with my boy, Gareth. He graciously offered to help unload the truck of deliveries since one of my men called out sick.
You can head through the back door over yonder to the loading dock.
Just don’t walk through the door to your right unless you want to see some animal carcasses. Then be my guest.”
The customers behind me snicker at the owner’s joke. I feel the man right behind me getting closer, his way of signaling for me to get lost.
Getting the hint of my unwelcome presence, I mutter a thanks to the owner and give the small crowd of customers a weak smile of apology, then head behind the counter to the back of the shop.
Walking straight ahead toward the open back door, I keep my head down to ensure I don’t see any frightening sights, with only one pressing thought repeating in my mind: find Henry.
Through the open doorway, I spot the delivery truck parked outside with its back door open. I don’t hear any voices, not even his voice. Only an eerie silence as I get closer.
“Henry?” I call, stepping outside. Suddenly, I feel a gun’s barrel pressing into the backside of my head.
“Sorry, love. He's disposed of at the moment.”
Slowly, I turn around to the voice, the tip of the gun now pointing directly in between my eyes.
I don’t recognize the man before me, wearing a white jumpsuit, as a delivery driver.
He’s young, possibly around my age. I can tell from the way he carries himself that he isn’t one of my father’s soldiers.
But he’s clearly one of Dr. Richmond’s lackeys.
If only he were the former, then maybe I could talk him into reasoning and helping me.
Wait a minute.
I may not be able to talk this man into helping me, but I can compel him, too. Before I take too long for him to take any unnecessary actions, or sense what I’m about to do, I look into his eyes and send out one simple but effective command: you must obey and help me.
“Put the gun down,” I order, and watch as the man lowers his weapon back into his holster, underneath his jacket. “Now tell me. Where are they?”
“The boy is unconscious in the bed of the truck, and the others have taken him to Ogmore Castle.” His face has lost its sneering expression and is now replaced with a blankness.
“Is Richmond at Ogmore Castle?”
He nods.
I take a steady breath, even though I feel as if I'm drowning in a sea of emotions. Rage burns in my chest for knowing this could happen and yet still allowing us to walk right into it.
Bewilderment fogs my head as I struggle to form a clear next step. Fear looms over me for not knowing what Richmond and his men are doing to Henry.
Then suddenly, it all goes quiet in my head—dots connecting. Knots form in the pit of my stomach, while the blood drains from my face.
Oh god. Could this be the event that leads to the vision the amulet warned me about?
If so, then I’m wasting precious time standing here. I focus my piercing gaze back on the lackey, my fear and rage guiding me forward.
“Take me to him. Now.”