“We’re here for your mother as well,” I say.
Ransom flinches and pulls at his hair. “Right, that too. Though she was never one for the alehouse.”
Bram grumbles something about Ransom’s mother not being one for anyplace and starts back for the hill. Rascal bounds after him. I lock eyes with Ransom when I pass.
“Behave,” I hiss.
He smiles and shrugs. “I’ll try.”
I have never seen so many dead people in my entire life. Even when the bodies piled high in Rixton, all the murdered girls, nothing could prepare me for this. Scattered amongst a lane of ruined buildings and red-leafed trees, the alehouse sticks out like a fungus on bark. The air smells sickly sweet, of slurried earth and decaying fruit. But also like roasting meat and golden, buttery potatoes.
“Bloody hell.” Ransom sighs, his eyes feasting on the scene before us. “Is there food here?”
All we have had in the last few days are bottles of communion wine and the rotting apples we found in the church, our teeth careful not to ingest any of the ruined flesh. The notion of hot food and drink sloshing around in my belly makes me forget all thoughts of the dead women.
Bram winces. “It depends on what you call food. Nothing really grows here, and if it does, it grows wrong. The dead don’t need to eat, but there are those who like the remembrance of taste. Even if that taste is poison. Just be careful. We’re here for information more than anything else. Don’t take anything you’re offered, only what I say is okay to eat or drink.”
“I don’t care if it’s made from old chicken liver and brambles. If it’s hot, I’ll eat it.” Ransom huddles down deeper in his coat.
That word again,liver.
I look to Bram, but his eyes are on the alehouse. The moon scatters coins of silver light over us when we push through the doors and stumble inside. Before I can look around, Bram’s hand is at my wrist, and he hisses in my ear.
“Don’t go making deals with these people.”
I nod, almost feeling as though I am back in Rixton. But our village never had an alehouse. The closest one was—
“This is Kinnington?” I whisper to Bram.
He nods. “Of a sort.”
The ceiling slings low, like the hull of a ship, and cobwebs flutter like lace in every corner. A fire blazes merrily in the stone hearth, and there is a scent of cooking pots and yeast on the air. But beneath it all, I sense the rot. The decay.
Ransom, who does not seem to notice, sidles up to the bar and places down a silver coin.
“An ale, please. Strongest you got.”
Silence sifts into the alehouse, and every eye turns to us. By my side, Rascal whimpers.
The bartender, a man in a black cap pulled low over sallow hair, turns slowly and flings a stained cloth over one shoulder. My breath catches in my throat when he makes eye contact with Ransom.
Half his left cheek is missing, flesh like a gourd chewed away by hungry mice.
“Your coin is no use here, boy.” His words come out funny, the sound of them slurring through the space between blackened teeth and missing skin.
Ransom curls his lip. “Then what would you have in exchange?”
The bartender leans closer, and my skin prickles with unease. “How about your soul, lad?”
The silence sticks in my ears like knife points, and I struggle to swallow. Behind me, Bram stiffens, his hand coming to find mine.
And then the alehouse erupts in laughter.
For a moment, shock washes over me like cold water, and all I can do is stare. But then Ransom’s face breaks with that wicked grin.
“You almost had me there, good sir.”
Almost, I want to scream. Almost? I could strangle Ransom, who does seem to be the type to barter his mortal soul for a tankard of bitter ale. The bartender produces three chipped glasses and fills each one with a frothy, golden brine I want nothing to do with. He pushes them across the bar to Ransom.
