Nettle had thought there’d never be a time when she’d be grateful to Jazz, but here she was showering her self-absorbed cousin with a smile smacking of utter gratitude. She had to give her cousin kudos, Jazz was the master at manipulation.
“Well…” said Claudine a little unsure, looking from Jazz to Nettle. “As long as it’s alright.”
“Perfectly alright,” beamed Nettle. “Jazz will make the perfect queen.”
Bram almost choked on his mouthful of drink. “Huh?! But-”
“But nothing, Bram,” Nettle said, giving him a long hard stare, daring him to object.
“Oh, OK then,” Bram replied with a look that said you-are-so-going-to-be-in-trouble-with-Dad.
Nettle instead found herself stupidly smiling gratefully at her cousin. And he’s so right, Nettle thought, Dad’s going to flip out. But she resolved to deal with the fall out then, for by the time he got back home it’ll be far too late to pull out of the festivities.
Dolcie clapped her hands enthusiastically. “Splendid!” She pirouetted, her skirt and apron flaring out around her, and started pacing the floor fanning her flushed cheeks with a dainty hand. “There’s so much to do and so little time left. There’s the dress fitting… and we’ll need to talk to Old Man Snow and make sure the circlet fits properly… and…”
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
O’Grady’s Book Store
An hour later, after the trio had eaten and Jazz had her fill of being fawned over, they left the tea house for home. On their way back down the hill the trio passed O’Grady’s Book Store. Nettle lingered at the shop window fascinated by the old leather books on display. Some had gold gilt leaves; others - thick tomes with bound parchment and blotted ink - looked positively ancient and rare. An interesting thought popped into Nettle’s mind.
She quickly caught up to Jazz, Bram had disappeared on ahead. “What was the name of that man you came across in the Forgotten Wilds?”
Jazz gave her a curious glance. “Winston Sanders. Why?”
“I want to see if I can find mention of him in the bookstore.”
Jazz gave an exaggerated sigh. “Come on,” she whined, stamping a foot. “I want to go home.”
“Just give me ten minutes,” Nettle implored. “Wait for me down by the bikes. I promise I won’t be any longer than that.”
In lieu of an answer, Jazz turned on her heel and marched off down the hill.
When Nettle entered the bookstore, a small bell above the door announced her entrance, but no one appeared at the counter where a clunky old fashioned cash register sat. The bookstore was small and poky; a maze of dark wooden bookshelves from floor to ceiling requiring a small ladder to reach the top shelves. A large orb hung from the ceiling. A small round table with a knitted tea-cosy covering a silver tea pot had a little handwritten sign propped against chipped china tea cups inviting customers to sip raspberry and thyme tea while perusing the books.
There seemed to be no order, just clusters of books grouped in such a way it appeared only the store owners understood their commonality, if indeed there was any. As time ticked on, Nettle began to fear she’d never find the local section before her ten minutes ran out. To her relief, in an alcove tucked near the back of the store, Nettle found what she was searching for. She ran her fingers across the spines, her head cocked slightly so she could read the small fading titles. “Ah-hah!” she exclaimed, her voice seeming very loud in the empty bookstore. She guiltily glanced about, feeling as if she was about to be scolded by a fanatical librarian. And still, no one appeared behind the counter.
It wasn’t until he moved ever so slightly that Nettle realised another customer stood near her. He was tall with neatly cut brown hair in a mid brown suit and ordinary brown shoes. The man’s left suit arm was pushed slightly up, along with his white shirt. He absentmindedly scratched at his wrist. The nails against his dry skin made a noise that sent Nettle’s shoulders writhing. From what she could see of the patch of irritated red skin, he must have been scratching for some time.
She pitched him a little rueful smile for her earlier outburst, but he was too busy inspecting the books to even pay her any attention. With a shrug, Nettle drew out a slim ledger that listed the births, marriages and deaths of Olde Town. She carefully flicked through pages of the book, which were very old and tatty. The handwriting varied throughout the ages with the person in charge of recording the information changing every so often. A few names were smudged beyond recognition, but mostly the flourishing penmanship was legible.
Nettle carefully scanned the pages looking for the name she sought. It wasn’t long before she found it: Winston Claus Sanders was born 25 September, 1752, the first child to Feyora and Declan Sanders, a watchmaker. Within the deceased section, he was officially declared dead on 1 November 1799. Winston, who followed his father’s occupation, left behind his wife Nora Cathlene Cuthbert, of 22 years. They had no children. The cause of death: in absentia.
Satisfied, and somewhat disappointed not to find out anything else about Winston and the unfortunate incident that led to his disappearance in the Wilds, she found she still had a few minutes left before needing to meet Jazz and Bram. Nettle went on to search for information on Olde Town itself and hoped there might be something more to Winston in this blue leather book she had found.
The doorbell rang and someone entered the book store with a sauntering stride. Nettle was too engrossed in her book to pay any attention. Nor did the owners of the book store for she heard no one come out from the back to attend to the new customer. She continued to skim read the first few pages. It was a fascinating read. Nettle quickly learnt that Olde Town had been founded by Thomas Cornelius several centuries ago when he led a pilgrimage of like-minded souls seeking a better life than the cities festering with corruption, disease, and poverty could offer. Fifty years later Olde Town flourished into a busy little village with homes and businesses hewn from stone from the hill. But with the strangeness of the surrounding forest, folk began to disappear...
A voice in the bookstore called out, “Bristol!”
Nettle froze. She peered out from behind the alcove.
What the..? Ugh, she mentally groaned, just my luck. She pulled the peak down of her baker-boy hat and shrunk back into the shadows of the alcove determined not to be spotted.
An old lady entered the store from the back room, rubbing her eyes as if she’d just woken from a nap. She was short and slight and clutched a worn crocheted shawl about her hunched shoulders with a bony hand. When she saw the boy with the violet eyes at the counter, she squinted at the nuisance. Her voice crackled with annoyance. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Smilla,” greeted the boy with a cheeky grin. “Lovely as ever to see you.”
The old lady glared. “Wish I could say likewise, Jack.” And she pronounced his name as if it was something particularly distasteful.
For some reason Nettle wasn’t expecting his name to be Jack. She’d considered something hoity-toity like Sebastian or Hugo or even Chester; but not Jack, it was a little ordinary.
Smilla’s iron gray hair was severely coiled into a bun, but a few wisps had escaped. She smoothed them back down with knobbly fingers. “Is it that time again?” she asked, sounding a little defeated.
Jack shifted his messenger bag around so he could access the main compartment. He removed a large bundle and placed it on the counter. Whatever was inside was wrapped up in a soft material to protect it, and the reason why he’d placed the bag down so carefully earlier up at the picnic area.
Smilla bent down disappearing behind the countertop. A moment later the old woman reappeared, hobbling around the counter with something in her hands. Nettle rose on tippy-toe, peeking around the bookshelf to see what was revealed. It was a small ladder.
She shrugged away Jack’s offer of assistance, her hand swiping at him like a tetchy cat. She set the ladder up in the middle of the store and climbed upward. Nettle’s breath caught in her throat as the old lady teetered a little on the top step,
but she righted herself and very carefully unhooked the bulb.
Jack had unwrapped the large bundle that she’d left on the counter and inside the soft material was an identical bulb. Jack and Smilla exchanged bulbs, and Smilla hooked the new bulb into place before gingerly stepping back down from the ladder.
Nettle’s brows crooked in bafflement. What was so important about a bulb it warranted special delivery?
Jack held the bulb up to the light. Nettle could see there was something faintly shimmering inside. The boy’s eyebrows hooded over his violet eyes, as he gave Smilla a quick displeased glance. He dug his hand into his pocket and slapped on the counter a handful of coins with their centre punched through; the same currency Nettle saw exchanged at the tea house between the town-folk and Pippa.
Smilla poked at the coins and snorted. “What’s that? Hardly anything, is what that is. You’re swindling us.”
Jack humoured her with a crooked smile. “Smilla, it’s not even half-full. I’ve been more than generous. Far more than I ought to.” Albeit reluctantly, Smilla’s glare dissolved, and she pocketed the coin.
Jack used the same soft cloth to wrap around the bulb he’d taken from Smilla, slipping it into his messenger bag, and shrugging the strap over a shoulder. “Now, to why I’ve been sent here,” the boy said in a derisive tone. “Where is Bristol?”
“Bristol’s not yet returned.” Smilla huffed, her knobbly knuckles fidgeting with her shawl and she purposely averted her gaze from him.
“He’s cutting it fine.”
Smilla’s small head snapped around and her eyes blazed with indignation. “It’s not as if my Bristols’s been sent off on an errand to pick up a common ingot or the likes of such.”
Jack innocently snapped his fingers as if the memory eluded him. “Yes... what was it again?” Nettle’s mouth shrewdly pinched together as she realised, he doesn’t know.
Smilla bristled. “As if I’d tell the likes of you. No, we’ll be talking to her direct when Bristol returns. If...” she choked up a little, “he returns.”
“I’m sure he’ll be home soon...” Jack’s voice trailed away, and he asked sharply, “Who is that?”
Nettle’s stomach lurched. She’d been caught. She felt the distinctive flush of heat searing her cheeks a brilliant red. OMG he really is going to think I’m stalking him!
Jack strode toward her. She took an small involuntary step back, her spine hit the edge of a bookshelf. She frantically thought of what she could say to explain herself. Her mouth fell open to speak, but her mind was a blank canvas. He raked a hand through his wild hair as he approached. Nettle swallowed and braced herself. Except, he wasn’t looking at her, he was looking at the man in the brown suit. Nettle then realized the man wasn’t even looking at the books, he was staring vacantly ahead at nothing in particular.
Jack said to Smilla, “She’ll be annoyed to find him wandering around aimlessly.”
Smilla answered shrilly, “He’s not my responsibility.” She jutted her chin out resentfully and sniffed. “It’s Madam Bawdsworth’s. Where he wanders about got nothing to do with me or Bristol.”
“Even so, she won’t be pleased.” Jack remarked. As he departed the bookstore, he left Smilla with one last disparaging warning. “I’ll return tomorrow. I certainly hope, for both your sake’s, Bristol’s returned with what he promised.”
Smilla remained at the counter staring forlornly up at the bulb. She gave a sigh that sounded like the wind whistling down a chimney and then hobbled out the back.
Nettle let out a pent-up breath, her taut muscles relaxing. She was mostly relieved that Jack hadn’t spotted her. She pushed the book back into place on the bookshelf in between the ledger and a book entitled: The Accursed Witch of Olde Town. Nettle gave a curious glance up at the orb. It wasn’t as smoky as the pendant lights in the tea house, but she could see a small amount of gas swirling inside the glass. I don’t get it, what’s so important about it? And the man in the brown suit, who is he? And what does that boy want with the O’Gradys? He’d come across like a bully and it infuriated Nettle. What’s he doing pushing an old lady around?
The man’s nails raked his skin, rattling Nettles nerves further. She leaned slightly forward, her gaze narrowing to focus on the man’s red wrist. It was more than a rash, it was a raised welt, in a shape, a symbol of some sort. Nettle straightened. It was unmistakable. The rash on the man’s wrist was the number nine.
Suddenly the man became animated, completely taking her by surprise. His empty gaze became intent and focused, and there was something unnerving about it. He was staring out through the bookshop’s front window at a woman walking past with striking red hair and red striped stockings. Claudine. Nettle’s stomach sunk. Of course, she would have other admirers. She’d always worried her father might have competition. Claudine was a catch, clearly beautiful and successful; there were bound to be others with their eye on the Balfrey woman.
The man in the brown suit sprung into motion. He was so fast he’d leapt out the bookstore before Nettle had even time to think. He was yelling at her, calling her name. Claudine walked on down the hill, without even realizing she was being pursued. Nettle watched from the bookstore’s front entrance, using it to shield her presence. She didn’t want to be caught out by either Claudine or Jack. The man called out again, but there was something not quite right about it. Hang on, what’s he calling her?
“Alice!”
That doesn’t make any sense.
“Alice! Wait!”
The man in the brown suit caught up with Claudine, grabbing hold of her arm. Claudine spun around, caught unawares. The words tumbled from his mouth. “Alice, I love you. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He pressed himself close to her, his hands went to her waist, and he smiled in such a way that made goose-bumps rise all the way down Nettle’s spine. Nettle felt ill, he’s in love with her...
Claudine indulged the man with a smile, and rubbed his arm. “Of course you have, my lovely.” Her smile then gave way to an impatient sigh, as she glanced about the small crowd of tourists and town-folk making their way up and down the path. “Really, should it be this hard to get some decent help around here?”
A large woman in a satin dress with a frilly bodice and ample bosom approached nervously. She was out of breath from quickly making her way up the steps, her face flushed with a sheen of perspiration. She wrung her hands, gasping, “Oh... Miss Claudine... I’m terribly sorry... he got away from me.”
Claudine gave her an exasperated glare. “Well lucky for you, all is not lost.” Her tone was ice cold. “Madam Bawdsworth, this man is very important, and certainly should not be misplaced.”
The woman’s face was stained beetroot red with embarrassment. “I know, Miss Claudine, but he just-”
Claudine cut her off. “Now, if I’ve been misguided in my opinion of your reliability…”
“Oh no, you haven’t, I assure you.” Her hair was puffed and teased into an elaborate up-do and the tiny hat that perched atop lurched about as the woman shook her head in protest.
Claudine considered her with narrowed eyes. “Well then, good. I’m sure you understand the gravity of the situation. There’s barely time for anything to go wrong. And I’d really wouldn’t want to be in your shoes… if it does.”
Madam Bawdsworth gave a simpering half-smile. “No, no, of course. You can count on me.” But the look the younger woman gave her, suggested she thought otherwise.
Claudine pried herself free from the man in the brown suit.
“Alice… please don’t go…”
She cupped his face. “Dearest, I’ll be with you shortly. In the meantime, go with Miss Bawdsworth and stay there until I come.”
He went to protest, but she cut him short with a chaste kiss on the lips.
Nettle’s stomach pitched. She felt sick. She wasn’t sure whether she had actually witnessed that. She kissed him? Nettle was astounded. Claudine already had someone special in her life? Why did she l
ie to me? To Dad?
The man didn’t look like he wanted to go, but he did. Madam Bawdsworth hurriedly waved at her daughters who were waiting a short distance away. Younger plump versions of herself hurried over and sandwiched themselves either side of him. As they escorted him to their abode, he kept looking back at Claudine, but she had already pirouetted on the heel of her silver buckled shoes and was heading back up the hill without a backward glance.
Nettle, her mind sunken into a quagmire of sticky speculation regarding Claudine and the man in the brown suit, trudged solemnly back down the hill where there were several tour buses getting ready to depart. Mr. Fussbinder was ticking off the passengers as they entered one of the buses, impatiently griping, “Hurry, hurry, time to go. Come on, come on, things to do, places to go.”
A bus was leaving, and as the doors slid shut Nettle caught a glimpse inside. It was enshrouded in shadows but she could see for the most part the bus wasn’t full of passengers, there were plenty of empty seats. Her mind briefly untangled itself from Claudine’s personal status, to wonder - that’s not right. Claudine had said their tours were always fully booked out. Not without some bitterness she concluded that maybe most things in Olde Town weren’t quite as rosy as Claudine had implied.
“Hurry up!” Jazz’s irritated voice ground out, dragging her attention away from the tour bus. Jazz gave her younger cousin an impatient glare as she waited astride the bike. It was much cooler down here in the cul-de-sac and she’d zipped up her jacket right to the collar. Bram had wrapped his arms about him as he huddled in the wagon, waiting for his sister.
Surprisingly, Jazz wanted to bike home. There was, of course, an ulterior motive for the volunteered exercise. “I have to look my best for my performance as Lysette,” she said, convinced there was going to be a gaggle of paparazzi wanting to take her photo on Halloween. As Jazz cycled back down the dirt road toward home, Nettle bounced around on the back of the bike’s carriage mulling over the strange occurrence in the bookstore and the giant guarding the mine. She needed to talk to Bram as soon as they got home. There were some very odd things to discuss, but what mainly disturbed her thoughts was the fact that their father may not of ever had a chance with Claudine.
Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters Page 22
