All the villagers who can rotate in and out of service, and I aim to retain all their names in time. “Thank you, Elspeth.”
She steadies me as I don a clean chemise, stays, petticoats, and tights. On the outside, I look again like a lady. In fact, as I am fastened into a deep-blue dress with a high bodice and cap sleeves, I look far more suited to my station than I did this morning when I met with the Maudites. The stitches that pull my arm’s skin into a red slash stand out. That is my exception.
I can hide that, though. My sister has sent a slick cloak of oiled leather. Inside, a warm sheep’s wool keeps me cozy, and the oiled exterior repels the rain. Stitched into it are several large pockets—one specifically for carrying the steel boxes I use for samples.
“Cloak, please.”
Elspeth settles it over my shoulders.
Maria makes a disapproving noise. “It will be painful if the stitches catch, and if it catches ... there will be blood on the wool.” She pushes the cloak away again and wraps a dark muslin cloth over the stitches, hiding them and protecting me.
“Thank you.” I look at her, at Elspeth, at the younger apprentices watching and learning from each time I or Father appears at their door.
“We’re doing our part for Alveus.” Maria pats my hand once she resettles the cloak. “None of us are going to be offended by a few stitches, m’lady Huntress.”
“I am not the Hunter yet.”
“May his lordship stay hale and well,” Maria says with a hasty sign over her face, a gesture meant to send a prayer to wherever prayers are wont to go. The sign is repeated by every soul present. To me, then, she adds, “I remember when he was the child in training. He was softer then.”
I have nothing to say to that, so I nod.
My hair is still damp when I touch it, but my hand no longer comes away bloodied. Fortunately, it is the warmest part of the day, so I will not be cold even with my wet hair. The younger woman squeezes my hair with a towel, careful not to tug on it lest the gash on my head start bleeding again.
Dressed and as presentable as I can be, I step into my boots and collect the steel box from the satchel, intending to tuck the box inside the large pocket in my cloak. When I pick it up, no noise echoes inside. No clank or clatter.
Panicked, I unlatch and open it. The box is empty. Every clue we gathered has been taken away. All I am left with are the samples I had hastily shoved in my pocket, vague memories of my attack, and what Father and I gleaned before he burned the body. There will be no microscopy. I step outside, feeling more battered by the realization that all our clues are gone. Did my attacker steal them?
I stand outside and let the comfort of the village ease my worry. Fleuriste is alive with the sounds of everyday life. I suspect it was the same when I arrived, but pain has a way of blocking out the world. Children play, and women hang linens on lines strung out in the sun. The scent of warm bread wafts from the village bakery, and the smells of cooking meat and onions drift from the hearth fire that sits under a roof beside the tavern.
“Lady Gabrielle.”
“Miss Gabri.”
“Afternoon.”
“Good day.”
I am greeted in nothing but kind voices as I make my way across the village center. Unlike most small towns, our lodgers pay little or no rent to the Fleuriste family, and the result is a prosperous village that guards the family’s secret well. Any crime here is quickly managed, and those who cannot work are still given a hearth and meals. Magic prevents them from spilling my family’s secret to anyone not born here or bonded here.
That same magic tends to make strangers feel like not overstaying their welcome. Visitors pass through, but within three days, they are gone. The result is that the village is a safe haven for my family.
Walking through the village is also a welcome reminder that not only my family but also the citizens of Alveus benefit from the work of the Hunter.
“Lady Huntress.”
I cannot convince the villagers to stop addressing me as Lady Huntress, even though I am not yet the Hunter. The magic prevents them from uttering the word when any nonvillagers are near, but right now, we are alone. Locals only.
One man, Henry, stops and asks the question that many of them undoubtedly are pondering. “What know you? Did you find the beast?”
“Not as yet,” I say. “The Hunter and I gathered what we could, and he goes now to seek information.”
“Smart man. Hopefully the duke will know more ... or Her Majesty.” Henry, like most of the pensioners, is a fount of gossip. The consequence of being comfortable is that a fair number of the older residents of the village fill their time with chatter. “The traveler—Hugh was his given name—was a good lad. A little too friendly after he was in his cups, but not in a way that anyone was hurt.”
I refuse to answer his remark, not wanting to clarify whether Father has gone to see the duke or the queen, partly because I don’t want to hear the inevitable talk of—
“It was good of Ashmore to see you home. That one hasn’t been around this way for years.” Henry has already latched on to one of his eternal interests. If there were a village matchmaker, Henry would be at the front of the list of applicants.
“You’ve forgotten your washerwoman basins if you want to gossip, Henry,” I needle.
