Maeve propped up on her side. “Because of the anticipation of tomorrow?”
“No,” he said. “Because you’ve had a feeling you were being watched for a month and didn’t bother to tell me.”
Maeve rolled to her other side. “You’re just nervous is all.”
She stared at the blank wall, her back to him, and wondered if she’d be able to fall asleep with him so close.
Chapter 21
Maeve slept better than she could remember having slept in ages. It was still dark when they departed The Hanged Man the following morning. The sun was only beginning to make its rise. Hues of purple and orange lined behind the trees.
They made their way through the village, just as the earliest shops were showing signs of life. Fresh newspapers were being dropped on each doorstep by a young boy. At the edge of the village, the cobblestone turned to dirt. The trees became scrawny. The path darkened and narrowed into a dense wood.
“Is this the way?” Said Maeve, with a glance over her shoulder.
Ragsling Village had nearly disappeared behind them in the morning mist.
“Of that I am certain,” said Mal. He pointed ahead, where thick fog lingered over the path. “It’s calling to me.”
Maeve squinted ahead, and through the mist and wood was a flickering yellow light. As they drew closer, the outline of a small stout house came into view.
Once through the fog, Maeve could feel there was magic close by. Nature had mostly reclaimed the Gagner’s home, which was overgrown with vines and its frame sinking into the hill on one side.
A rickety low-lying fence scattered before them, with a metal mailbox nailed to a post. It was covered in dirt and cobwebs. Maeve snapped her fingers to clear the dirt.
Carved in primal writing was GAGNER.
“This is it,” she said.
Mal looked back at the house and continued up the winding stone path. Maeve followed closely behind. The house looked nothing short of abandoned. Shattered windows, rotted boards and a slumping frame. Without hesitation, Mal opened the front door of the house. Maeve’s hand shot to her face at the smell. It reeked of death.
There was a ripped chair in the corner. It was occupied.
“Who are you?”
A brutish man leaned forward, his eyes slipping back into his head.
“My name is irrelevant. I’m assuming yours is Gagner?”
The man smacked his jaw together a few times, drool slipping out at the corner. He didn’t answer.
Maeve looked at the picture frames that ran along a small table. They were covered in years of grime and dirt. She bent close to one. Written in elegant handwriting was “Thaddeus Gagner, age twenty.”
She looked from the photo and then to the man. It was him.
“Your name is Thaddeus,” she said.
He tried to push himself out of the chair, and failed, resigning himself to his position. He laid limply in the torn chair.
“Thad. Me Mum called me.”
Mal moved towards him calmly. He took a seat in the chair opposite Thad.
“I’m not here to harm you,” said Mal. “I’m looking for someone.”
Empty bottles of Human liquor littered the floors. Maeve glanced back down at the photos. She blew on them, dust flying up into the air. There were many pictures of the Gagner family. They had been living in squalor for some time, it seemed.
Thad shifted in his chair, as if to get a better look at Mal. “What time is it?”
