Chapter 14
Mistel
A cross mood could always be mended with the right dress.
Not that Mistel was cross. Just cold. And ready to sing. But as they stood in the smelly stable, ready to ride back to the Ivory Spit to meet Cole and Kurtz, Mistel had a short detour in mind.
“Take me to that Ice House place,” she said.
Zanna, frost-dusted and stone-faced, glared as she boosted Mistel onto Bart’s new side saddle and handed up the reins. “Whatever for?”
Mistel fumbled with her skirts, tugging and twisting them until they lay properly. “I heard Jol Quimby say Renshaw Thusk owns it and has an office upstairs. If I can get us hired to play there, we’ll have a reason to be on the premises once Cole gets the keys.”
He could be stealing them this very moment. The least Mistel could do while Cole risked everything was figure out a convenient way to use them.
Zanna mounted her black-and-white horse and nudged it forward. The woman had to have some giant blood in her. She’d stood nose to nose with Kurtz in the Ivory Spit, sinew and steel in every line of her body, and a glare that could curdle milk.
Mistel nudged Bart to follow. After a month riding astride, her body welcomed the change in position the side saddle afforded, but she keenly felt the loss of control, like she could, at any moment, slip clean off.
“Is the Ice House far out of the way?” she asked.
“Not really.”
Chatty woman, this Zanna-called-Anna. Mistel steered Bart after her.
Mistel had chosen the enchanting green dress for tonight, though none of her new gowns resembled the ones Cole had commissioned in Armonguard. This clothing was practical—thick wool dresses, scratchy stockings, a flannel petticoat, and a hooded wool cloak—enough to keep her from freezing when outside.
Thankfully, it wasn’t long until they were tying their horses to a hitching post outside the Ice House.
They entered a cramped, dimly lit den, its low beams and soot-streaked walls pressing in like a crypt. The sour tang of stale ale and unwashed bodies hung thick in the air, though the warmth was a welcome reprieve from the cold. Two withered patrons hunched over their drinks, barely glancing up as Mistel and Zanna approached a narrow counter where a balding man wiped a grimy tankard with an equally filthy rag.
Mistel squared her shoulders and said, “I’m looking for Master Thusk.”
The man looked up, eyes widening. “He’s gone to Lytton Hall for the festivities.”
Just as Mistel thought. “Oh dear,” she said. “I’d hoped to get permission to sing here with my band tomorrow night.”
The man grinned, gaze drinking her in. “Well now, I handle the hiring. No need to bother Thusk. What’s the band called?”
Called? Mistel had no idea. “What luck! Mistel Wepp is my name, sir, and we’re called the…uh…Wandering Songweavers.”
“I’m Bower Renwall, miss. You can play here tomorrow. We pay by occupancy, so I can’t promise you a lot of coin, it being the middle of the week. But you keep your tips. Some regulars are real generous, especially if they take a liking to you.”
“Don’t you want to hear them play first?” Zanna asked.
Master Renwall shrank under Zanna’s glare. “No need. A pretty lass like this could crow and still draw a crowd.” His gaze peeled away Mistel’s woolen layers.
She clenched her teeth at the grimy hunx and forced a smile. “That’s very kind of you to say, Master Renwall, but I assure you, our band is quite good.”
“Glad to hear it,” he said. “Tomorrow, then.”
“Yes,” Mistel said, eager to get upstairs into Thusk’s office. “I look forward to it.”
The sun had set by the time they reached the Ivory Spit, which was so crowded it felt like a different place than before.
Someone whistled. “Fancy a dance, lassie?”
Mistel searched the crowd for her new admirer but couldn’t tell who had spoken.
