Gwen glanced once more at Tabitha, who had lost her paralysis and looked back at Gwen with an expression of such appeal that Gwen moved from the window and approached the innkeeper. ‘What can you tell us about that time? I would be interested to hear the story from you – to learn about what happened, which people were most affected …’
The innkeeper wiped her palms on her dress again. ‘My lady … sir … Miss Dragonslayer, there’s not much to tell. The truth is, most of us tried to ignore what was happening, keep our heads down. You’ve nothing to fear now, though, only the—’
She stopped speaking. The most extraordinary change came over her – her face reddened, her eyes widened, and her very breath stopped in her throat, as if some giant, invisible hand had reached out and closed around her windpipe.
For a moment no one moved.
Then Rosamund cleared her throat. Her teeth came out again in that distressing grin that contorted her friendly face, and she bowed. ‘Enjoy your afternoon settling in, ladies. The taproom is open downstairs if you find yourselves seeking refreshment. I must go see to the welcome banquet – the meat must roast all night, and all day tomorrow! Please ring if there is anything, anything at all you need.’ And with that, she vanished.
The girls all stood, blinking at one another.
‘Well,’ said Isobelle, breaking the silence. ‘That was certainly odd.’
‘That’s one word for it,’ said Sylvie dryly. She seated herself on a divan, her black skirts gleaming dully in the afternoon sunlight. ‘Lord Bingleton hardly seems like a man to inspire such fear and control in his people.’
‘No,’ Gwen murmured thoughtfully. ‘It was more like … like someone stopped her speaking, right then and there.’
‘Like a spell!’ breathed Jane, who had, with the innkeeper’s departure, gathered up her skirts so the fire could warm her stockinged calves instead. ‘Bingleton did say the sorceress had a lover, who’s still up at the tower. Maybe he’s cursed the people of the town.’
Hilde joined Sylvie on the divan, her brow wrinkled. ‘But that part of the story was a fairytale, no? Bingleton wants to make the tower into accommodation for visitors.He would hardly do that if some evil necromancer still haunted the place.’
‘I’m not convinced there even is such a thing as magic,’ muttered Sylvie, inspecting her fingernails with a frown. ‘It’s all just herbs and manipulating the gullible. Headology.’
Hilde frowned at her. ‘Um, do you not remember us fighting adragona few months ago?’
Sylvie rolled her expressive dark eyes. ‘Dragons are animals! Admittedly, quite a bit different than a dog or a falcon, but … an animal nonetheless. Magic is … ridiculous. No offence intended, Tabitha.’
Gwen, who was inclined to agree with Sylvie, shifted her gaze to Tabitha, who had gone to the window and was looking out at the tower.
‘Well?’ Gwen asked softly. ‘Tabitha? Could there be magic at work here?’
Tabitha glanced over her shoulder, her eyes troubled. ‘It’s certainly not magic I could do. I’ve never heard of such a spell. But I suppose it’s possible.’
‘Good thing we’re not here for long, then,’ said Gwen. ‘All we need to do is endorse these hot springs, scare off whatever seal or oversized fish has them worried, and then we can be on our way.’
‘Surely we can’t endorse the hot springs without trying them out extensively,’ Isobelle replied, showing her dimples.
‘Hot water already impresses me,’ Gwen told her, though with a hint of a smile.
The longer they stayed here, the more time Isobelle had to come up with a new plan. A letter of appeal to her parents. A forged reply.Something.
She straightened her spine, and smiled again. ‘Rosamund did say the taproom was open. Girls, let’s go grab a drink. I think it’s time we met some of the good people of Galanty-Uponne-the-Sea.’
Conversation hushed when their party swept into the inn’s taproom, and all eyes turned towards them. Gwen was beginning to grow accustomed to that – Isobelle made quite an entrance, whether clad in dusty travelling clothes as she was now, or in her finest shimmering ball gown. But, as she had when realising the innkeeper had set aside the finest room in the place for her, Gwen discovered she was just as much an object of interest as Isobelle. She still found the experience unnerving.
In Darkhaven, during the tournament, her alter ego of Sir Gawain had been the centre of attention in the jousting lists and the centre of conversation off of them. But Sir Gawain wasn’ther, not really – he was a figment of her imagination, a creation she and Isobelle had put forth to confound Darkhaven society long enough for Gwen to ride in the joust. Now, she foundherself longing for the armour neatly packed away in her room.
Isobelle led them all to a long table near the hearth, and as they seated themselves, a girl in an apron bearing the inn’s name – the Paladin’s Rest – came hurrying over to wipe the table’s surface with a cloth only marginally cleaner than the table itself.
‘Mein Gott, I miss the Siren’s Sting,’ sighed Hilde, plunking herself down next to Isobelle. And it was true, this taproom hadn’t a fraction of the charm of the tavern they frequented in Darkhaven.
Sylvie gave a low chuckle. ‘Somehow, I doubt there are many taverns like that one.’
The young man behind the bar – Rosamund’s son, by the look of his friendly but anxious smile – sidled over to take their orders.
Isobelle greeted him with a cheerful hello that seemed to unnerve the lad, then proceeded without pause to ask, ‘Can you perhaps tell us about this legendary sea monster we’ve heard so much about? Perhaps it’s not real, after all.’
The young man’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, it’s real enough, miss. Me brother’s friend’s auntie saw it a few days past. Silhouetted against the sunset, it was.’
