Since she seemed to be his only patron—this was her third visit and she’d yet to see another customer in the tiny shop—she didn’t let the compliment go to her head. She liked Mr. Khan. The friendly widower had wrinkles that rivaled those of a prune and kindly eyes that sparkled behind spectacles thicker than her own. His thick, white hair and eyebrows stood out like fluffy clouds against his skin.
“Good afternoon,” she said with a smile. “Have any new books arrived since my last visit?”
Truth be told, her visit was prompted out of a desire to support the business rather than a need for reading material. She’d started going through the trunks in Lord Ethan’s library, and it turned out that he owneda lotof books. So many, in fact, that it would take her weeks to unpack the trunks. Curiously, they shared a similar taste in reading material. She’d unearthed gothic novels and volumes of poetry. FromFrankensteinandJane Eyreto collections of verse by Keats, Wordsworth, and Blake, Lord Ethan’s interest in the romantic was unexpected…and intriguing.
Men with artistic inclinations were, unfortunately, her Achilles’ heel. She’d fallen for Tony after he’d told her about the novel he wanted to write. Unlike the stories he penned for coin, this story was about the common man’s struggle, and the passion of his convictions—the way his green eyes had smoldered in his wan face—had hooked her like a fish. He’d only been her follower for a few months before his untimely demise. Her sorrow had dulled with time, but it was a reminder that forming attachments was dangerous. Especially for a woman like her, who would always be on the run. She could enjoy the moment, but she could never set down roots. That was the price of freedom.
“I set these aside, hoping you would come by.”
As Mr. Khan bent to retrieve something from behind the counter, his bones creaked like a hinge in need of oiling. He straightened slowly, vertebrae by rusty vertebrae. Although Xenia had read the titles he set on the counter, she thanked him and paid the borrowing fee.
When Mr. Khan deposited the money into his cash box, the coin made a solitary clank.
“Business hasn’t been flourishing of late,” he said sadly.
By “of late,” she wondered if he was referring to the last twenty years. The novels sitting on the shelves of the shop’s single weathered bookcase were at least that old.
Not that it’s any of your business,she told herself.
Nonetheless, she tried to cheer him up. “Perhaps this is a temporary slump, and business will improve.”
“I’ve lived in Chuddums for over thirty years, Mrs. Wood, and things have only gone in one direction.” Gloomily, he jabbed a finger downward to affirm the direction he meant. “Given the curse, I suppose there’s nothing that can be done about it.”
Despite Xenia’s fanciful nature, she also had a practical streak. She wouldn’t have survived her upbringing otherwise. The sensible part of her questioned whether everything bad that happened to the village could be attributed to a curse.
“Mr. Bailey told me about the legend concerning Thomas Mulligan,” she said. “Do you think it is responsible for all of Chuddums’s misfortunes?”
“I do, Mrs. Wood, and I’ll tell you why. Every bad thing that has happened here has been foretold in an old poem about Bloody Thom. Have you heard it?”
She shook her head.
Clearing his throat, Mr. Khan intoned,
“Beware, beware the rattling chain
The flapping robes stained red and bold
Beware the moans and wails of pain
For ’tis Bloody Thom they do herald.
He brings death to all who cross his path
Be they creatures with feathers, fur, or skin
Green will wither and fortunes dwindle until his wrath
Is quenched by a true reckoning.
He plays a mournful ballad of blame
Shaking the manor with his ire
His cry for justice is like a flame
That scorches all with unholy fire.”
“That is rather, um, dramatic.” Xenia’s eyes rounded. “Who wrote that poem?”
