And to be used and discarded in my own fashion, just like these other young women.
As I retrace my route back to the lodging house, I almost hope I cross paths with whatever stepped in behind me. Though I ran from what stalked me earlier, my own truth cannot be ignored.
I am one of the things the villagers fear in the dark.
And with me in this mood, they’re right to be afraid.
FourA Stranger Arrives.
The pub is especially loud. The village men are waving their tankards around, their heads flipping back as they project their laughter like cannonballs at what Mr. Cavenish’s intrusion forced them to confront earlier. The air is thick with the stench of sour sweat and pungent ale, and as I skate over and pick up another empty tankard, I check the door. Since I returned, I’ve been able to sneak into my hovel under the stairs a couple of times and prepare more of the chews that will help Elly.
That husband of hers better show.
Grimly turning away, I weed back through the tables and chairs, which take up most of the floor. The bar runs down the far side, and I go to the end of its pitted, stained counter, adding my lot to the dozen or so I will have to clean before the end of the night—
There’s a shout, and a crash of chairs falling over. Then an explosion of laughter, as three men who can’t walk straight start to navigate toward the exit.
“Don’t just stand there, get the mop,” Mr. Lewis says.
He’s emerging from the doorway in the corner, the one that opens into his private quarters. In all his grumpy disapproval, he is the opposite of the wife he lost a couple of years ago. I tried to save her, but didn’t catch the timing right. I might believe he resents me for this, but the truth was, he didn’t like me even before he became a widower.
“Yes, Mr. Lewis.”
The mop and bucket are behind the bar, and the tender, who’s yanking at the barrel pulls like he wants to tear his arm out of its socket, glares at me as I enter his territory. He is the one person I take no offense at when he shuns me. He doesn’t like his job, doesn’t like the pub, doesn’t like Mr. Lewis. Doesn’t like anybody or anything.
There’s a water pump and a drain right by our employer’s private door, and I steer the bucket with the mop into place under the spigot. The iron grip is warm as my hand as I throw my shoulder into the work of—
“Aye! Do it!”
“Do it—”
“—it!”
A chant starts up, and then the chatter calms a little. Sallae Mae casts a flirty glance at the sweaty, bearded man who’s called out to her the loudest. She’s wearing a sky-blue dress that’s so low-cut, a deep breath would fully expose the top half of what she barters with, and that long blond hair of hers is a peekaboo shawl around her bare shoulders.
“A copper, then,” she taunts as she goes over to him, lifts her skirting and plants an arched, stocking foot between his legs on his chair seat.
When the coin is in her hand, she holds it up and the customers hush into murmurs. With every eye in the place on her, she tucks the penny into her cleavage and sashays over to the bar. The tender looks as though he’s about to quit, but he ducks under the counter and produces a thin glass on a slender stem.
“Thank you,” she says with an exaggerated curtsy.
“Those aren’t cheap,” Mr. Lewis mutters.
Sallae Mae holds the flute high as she sits herself up on the bar. “Neither am I.”
I’ve seen this parlor trick before—well, we all have, but the men like to watch her take a deep breath and I don’t care about her respiration—so as she clears her throat, I take advantage of the crowd settling. Pushing my bucket over to where those drunken departures spilled several tankards, I flop my dirty mop on the floorboards. Over on the bar, Sallae Mae opens her mouth and projects a high note at the glass. The tone pierces like a knife into the ear, and she goes even higher and louder. Higher. Louder. Higher—
The glass shatters with a spray that shimmers in the lantern light.
The gasps and cheers are loud and prolonged, as if she’d lifted a plow horse up over her shoulder. Sallae Mae is delighted with the attention and stays right where she is, holding the slender stem while she fluffs her hair—
The front entrance opens.
What comes inside sucks all the sound and air out of the pub.
The man of war stands over six lengths high, at least. His heavily muscled upper body is clad in a drape of corroded mesh and a padded black leather surcoat, and his thick legs are wrapped in black leather as well. He has a dirk at his hip, a dagger upon his opposite thigh, and over his shoulder, the thick handle of a broadsword is within ready reach.
Nobody moves, not even Sallae Mae to slip off the bar.
