The silence in the room grew lengthy.
Jazz moved sluggishly, her brow furrowing. “I was just thinking about your mother.”
Nettle almost gawped. Jazz had never before spoken about Briar to her. That was the one redeeming feature of her cousin. Jazz, no matter their differences, had been thoughtful and mindful not to mention Briar… up until now. “I remember visiting the cottage when I was very young. Your mother, she was lovely… so beautiful.” She gazed at Nettle’s reflection in the mirror. “You remind me of her, but you don’t look like her at all, not one bit.” There it is, Nettle thought wryly, that back-handed compliment. “But there’s something about her in you. In your eyes, the way you look at things and make decisions. You’re so confident. And you’re kind, like she was too.”
Nettle had no idea how to respond to Jazz. Aside from the things she was saying about her mother, Jazz had actually said something nice to her. It was unsettling.
“Did something happen to her?” Claudine asked, still concentrating on Jazz’s hair.
“I don’t know for sure,” Jazz said. “My mother only told me that she’d gone.” Claudine cast a sympathetic glance Nettle’s way. “She never used the words, left, only gone. Though my mother had been expecting it. She’d always said there was a hint of the Wild about Aunt Briar, and she was bound to break Uncle Fred’s heart. It was inevitable.”
Nettle felt her throat begin to close up, and warm salty tears threaten. Why did Jazz have to tell Claudine that? She would have kicked Jazz’s ankle if she’d been able to get away with it. She blinked away the tears, curling her fingers into fists to dig her nails into the soft fleshy part of her palms. Why on earth do I care, she berated herself fiercely. But it wasn’t nice to hear their family never had a chance. Nettle didn’t know what to do apart from change the subject. So she just blurted it out. “Dad’s not come back.”
“Hmmm?” Claudine pulled a heavy section of hair and twisted it up, securing it with a bobby-pin.
“Dad,” Nettle repeated, tugging at the frayed cuff of her jersey. “He’s not come home yet. I mean, I guess he’s got all day to get home. But what if he doesn’t?”
Nettle expected Claudine to be panicky, or at least a little anxious for her father. But she merely gave her a distracted glance before replying, “I’m sure he’ll be home soon. There’s no need to worry.” She went back to playing with the wig, deciding on a Grecian hairstyle, pinning most of the hair up and leaving a few long locks to curl over Jazz’s shoulder.
Nettle picked at the quilt’s loose threads, disappointed in Claudine’s reaction. She said, sounding a little hollow, “It’s just. Well. He wants us to go to our Aunt’s.”
That got Claudine’s attention. She glanced up sharply. “Your Aunt’s?”
“Jazz’s parents. He told us to go to Aunt Mae’s if he wasn’t back home today. That’s why I’m here. I thought… Well, I guess I wondered...” She hesitated, she really wanted to ask – can we stay? Instead she said, “If we might be able to catch a ride on one of your tour buses?” Please ask us to stay, Nettle thought, trying to relay her hopes telepathically. She looked at Jazz in the mirror, imploring her to ask what she couldn’t. But Jazz was too busy gazing at her own reflection.
Claudine looked a little mystified but not devastated, which was what Nettle was hoping she might feel on learning they were soon to leave Olde Town. “I suppose you could,” she replied, then shrugged nonchalantly. “A lot of our guests are staying longer for All Hallows’ Eve so there’s plenty of seats at the moment.”
Nettle mentally groaned, why can’t I just ask her if we can stay?
She went back to fussing with Jazz’s hair and without looking up, Claudine inquired, “Where had your father gone? I didn’t even think to ask, when you said he was away for a few days.”
“Ah… he headed into the forest with some friends of his.”
Claudine shot a perplexed look at Nettle. “The forest? Why ever would he go in there?”
“Ah… Hiking?”
Claudine’s eyelashes batted with bewilderment. “Do you think he’s missing?”
“Oh no,” Nettle said, shaking her head. But then, she wondered, if he hasn’t returned in time, what else could he be but missing?
“No, of course, you’re right,” Claudine hurriedly said, bestowing a quick comforting smile. “I’m positive everything will be alright. Your father seems to be a capable type of person.”
“I guess,” Nettle replied, not exactly sure if she’d describe him as such. She gave a little shrug. “He’s not the greatest time keeper.”
Claudine turned back to Jazz, leaning down to look at their reflection in the mirror. “There you go, perfection. If I didn’t know any better I’d swear you were Lysette herself.” She stood back up and addressed Nettle delivering a heartening smile. “Go home Nettle and wait for your father. He’ll be home in no time. I promise.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The Crone
Nettle followed Jazz down the staircase and out the swing-door that led to the beauty annex. No one was behind the counter, but as she passed by the opening that led from the annex to the dining room, Pippa appeared. She was carrying a tray of dirty plates, which clattered to the floor making a horrendous racket. Thankfully, nothing broke.
Nettle bent down to help the other girl. “I do stuff like that all the time, totally clumsy,” she said attempting to make light of the situation. Nearby diners had heard the slight ruckus and had paused in conversation to see what had happened.
Nettle collected the dirty plates and forks and knives. She’d never noticed before that trails of footprints were strewn all over the floor. Obviously the staff had walked in flour from the kitchen. Except these ones, she thought, raising a quizzical brow, were footprints with six toes...
She hadn’t been able to give it any further thought, as Pippa picked up the salt-shaker, turned it upside down and poured salt all over the floor in front of her.
Nettle’s brows drew together and she gave the other girl a perplexed glance. Pippa was writing something in the salt with a stubby finger.
Nettle had to cock her head to the side to read it.
JAZZ IN DANGER
Nettle rocked back on her heels. She whipped her head up to stare at Pippa and her troubled hazel eyes, her own gaze clouded with shock and fright.
Nettle felt as if the earth had tipped beneath her. What does she mean Jazz is in danger. Who from? She went to ask, but the panicked look Pippa shot her made her shut her mouth.
Footsteps approached Pippa from behind, and the girl quickly messed up the message scribed in the salt as she picked up the last of the mess from her tray.
“Stupid girl,” hissed Dolcie, shocking Nettle. It was a pretty mean thing to say when it was just a silly accident, and she didn’t like the domineering way Dolcie stood over Pippa, slapping her wooden spoon in her open hand in irritation.
This new attitude from Dolcie wasn’t the only thing Nettle noticed – she also looked different. Her chin seemed more prominent and she now saw stubbly hairs on the youngest sister’s jaw-line.
“I’m sorry,” said Nettle, rising to her feet. “It’s my fault. I bumped into her and knocked the tray from her.”
Dolcie was genuinely startled by her presence. She tucked away that simmering rage and replaced it with a cool smile. “I suppose accidents do happen. I just don’t like them happening in my tea house.” She gave Pippa a tight-lipped smile. “Come along then. Quickly.”
Dolcie waited for Pippa to gather her tray and took it through the swing-doors. As she left the dining room, Pippa kept her head downcast, refusing to meet Nettle’s imploring gaze. Dolcie gave Nettle a slight inclination of the head and followed Pippa back into the kitchen.
Nettle reluctantly left the tea house. The message written in salt filled her with all sorts of dread. Danger from whom? And why did Pippa write it in the salt? Who was she afraid of in the tea house? Why didn’t Pippa want Dolcie to see
it? There was so much more she wanted to ask.
The Crone lingered in the shade of the trees on a grassy knoll near the tea house. Nettle approached cautiously. Jazz had taken one look at the old woman and refused to leave the stone path, scurrying on ahead to wait for her at the foot of the hill. Nettle glanced over her shoulder, wondering if Margot or Dolcie were watching, but couldn’t see either Balfrey sister.
The Crone fidgeted, rubbing her knobby fingers together. “Come on then, come on…” her craggy voice urged.
Nettle kept her distance. She slipped the vial of Dryad’s Breath from her pocket. “This is the only time I’m doing this for you,” she said in a distracted manner. Unnerved by Pippa’s message she kept glancing back at the tea house.
The Crone nodded. “Of course, of course.” There was a feverish look in her eye. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the purplish vial. “You’re a good girl to be so kind to such an old lady as I.” Her thin fingers stretched for the vial. “Go on girl, give it to me.”
Nettle’s attention snapped back to the old woman. She found herself wondering if maybe the Balfrey sisters had it all wrong. The Crone didn’t seem that dangerous, how could she be? She was just a stick of a woman easily snapped in two. Nettle held the vial out of reach, her curiosity winning out over prudence. What happened, to reduce her to begging in the village?
“Um, I don’t mean to be rude, but why do they call you the Crone?”
Nettle had the Crone’s attention immediately. The old woman reared back, and her expression became cruel. “Cos they aint bothered to call me by my real name is why,” she snapped. “They never cared for me, neither of ‘em. Embarrassed is what they are. Just stuck me with a name to suit them, an’ hope I go away, or die, whatever comes first.”
Her blustering didn’t scare Nettle. She asked gently, “What is your name?”
The woman’s coldness faltered. It had been so long since anybody had been nice to her, she seemed like she didn’t know how to react. “It’s…” the old lady’s crinkled face withered up even further, in deep concentration. “It’s been a long time it has. But I remember, ”she said with a happy snap of her fingers, “it’s… Lu- Luc- Lu-” Her expression clouded and doubt seeped in. “Starts with L, that I know for sure.”
Nettle felt sorry for her, imagine not being able to remember your own name. She worried at her bottom lip with her teeth, she wasn’t sure if she should mention anything, but decided to anyway. She needed to know. “Margot said to watch out for you.”
The old woman looked at her, bewildered. “Me?” She looked at Nettle thoughtfully. “Did she now?” And suddenly broke into a chortle, her gummy mouth bereft of quite a few teeth. “Ha, me? Watch out for me? It be the other way around girl. Ha, like I’m some kind of worry. I used to be a worry, yes I was. Me and my fair girls…” A startled look appeared on the old woman’s face, she glanced nervously over a hunched shoulder and drew her cloak tightly about her. But no one was near enough to have heard her. The Crone gave Nettle a hard glare. “I don’t want to talk anymore. Not to you, Miss Busybody.”
“I’m sorry,” Nettle said, feeling rotten, and held the vial out to the old woman. “I shouldn’t have been so nosey.”
The Crone drew her shoulders up. She scowled. “No, you shouldn’t be.” She snatched the vial from Nettle and continued to glower at her. Nettle felt the frostiness radiating from the shrivelled frame of the woman and shivered. She dipped her head and began to walk away. She didn’t mean to offend the old woman, but things were getting really eerie. She was also starting to worry about her cousin. She’d shouldn’t have left Jazz to wander alone down the hill and now she was probably waiting for her by the bike, alone and vulnerable.
Nettle didn’t get far. The Crone had her by the wrist again. This time when she faced the old woman, she met a more remorseful expression. The old woman leaned close to roughly whisper, “You be careful. They’ve taken a fancy to you, a shine if you like. They want something, and they’ll take it from you even if you don’t offer it.”
Nettle’s brow creased. Who was she talking about? The Balfrey’s? “They’ve been nothing but kind to us since we arrived.” And as soon as she said it, she felt uneasy and troubled and a wintry sensation struck her chest like frostbite.
A fleeting expression of sadness swept over the old woman’s face. Nettle felt something small and hard being pushed into her palm. “Here. My thanks. You ever have need of something, something small and needful, just crack the nut and ask for it.”
Nettle looked at what was nestled in her palm. The old woman had given her an acorn. Crazy, bonkers, she thought with a bleak smile. When she looked back up, the Crone was gone. Nettle pocketed the acorn without thinking anything further of it.
She walked off and just as she left the knoll, a commotion broke out behind her. Two big burly men - one of them dressed in chef’s whites, the other, the man she’d spotted guarding the mouth of the mining operation - had the Crone. What did Claudine call him? Dresden? They were dragging her out from the woods. Nettle ran back, fear-stricken. The old woman was struggling futilely, her face pinched white, eyes wide with fear, screeching. “Get your hands off me! LET ME GO!”
“Hey what do you think you’re doing! Let her go!”
The Crone went to shout something to her, but Dresden took his meaty hand and covered her mouth.
Margot stepped in and blocked Nettle’s path. Nettle ran right into her, stumbling a little with the impact. Margot’s hands righted her, her fingers bit into her shoulders, effectively stilling her. She was astonished at Margot’s strength. There was no way she could slip free. Her worried gaze slid over to the Crone. “What are you going to do with her?”
“Don’t worry,” Margot soothed. “We’ll take great care with her.” But there was something in her gaze that belied the words she spoke. “Thanks to you, we’ve been able to acquire her.”
Nettle gave her a startled look. “Thanks to me?” What was she talking about? But there was only one sickening conclusion. “You were using me as bait?” She felt horribly ill.
“Look at her Nettle. Really take a good long look at her,” Margot said. And she did. The old woman looked undernourished and frail. “She needs help. She can’t carry on living this way - begging from our visitors, raiding rubbish bins for food. She’s old and she needs to be looked after.” Nettle looked hesitantly from the Crone to Margot and back again. The old woman was pleading with her eyes. Yet what Margot said made sense. It was for her own good. “You’re doing her a great service,” Margot continued softly. “She may live a little longer, in comfort, just because of you.”
“You’ll take care of her?” Nettle met Margot’s gaze, her voice barely a whisper, feeling horribly guilty at betraying the old woman.
Margot nodded and smiled the warmest most genuine smile Nettle had ever seen on the middle sister’s porcelain face. It didn’t fill her with any sort of reassurance; in fact, it had the opposite effect. It filled her with a sort of creeping dread. But what could she do? Dresden had already lifted the Crone in his arms, carrying her toward the Three Wicked Sisters’ Tea House, his companion lumbering on ahead.
Margot guided Nettle back toward the path. “Go home Nettle.” And she swept inside the tea house without a backward glance.
Nettle’s shoulders slumped and she felt physically sick. Though it was true Claudine had been nothing but kind, her younger sisters hadn’t taken to her. And there was Pippa’s message in the salt, warning her that Jazz was in danger, but that didn’t necessarily mean it was from the Balfrey sisters. But why would Margot use her to get to the Crone? She said they would look after her but she knew without a doubt the Balfrey sister was lying. But why would they want a harmless old woman? She was so confused.
There came the sound of lazy clapping. Nettle slowly turned around and saw Jack leaning against the trunk of a magnolia, deep in the shadows where the Crone had lurked. He didn’t look pleased. He wore a dark and sullen face as he
clapped. “Well done.”
Nettle approached and Jack pushed himself from the tree to meet her half way. The magnolia tree’s boughs were heavy with glossy green leathery leaves. “Thanks to you,” he said his lips curling angrily, “they’ve got what they’ve wanted. I’ve kept her out of harm’s way, kept her safe, and there you go blundering about, without thought, getting her caught.”
Nettle shifted uncomfortably, splaying her hands. “I didn’t-”
He didn’t give her a chance to explain, glaring down at her, his violet eyes stormy. “Didn’t what? Didn’t know?”
Her bottom lip wobbled. “Margot said they were going to look after her.” He gave a short sharp laugh that sounded less like laughter and more like a bark. To her own ears her voice sounded wan and empty. “What do they want with her?”
He gave her a grim smile. “Nothing good, I can tell you.
“I don’t understand. What’s going on?”
His mouth puckered and he glanced away as if he had only just managed to curb himself from saying something quite nasty. Instead, he said coldly, “You need to wake up, and get smart. They’re not who they’re pretending to be.”
Nettle recoiled, her stomach pitching. “Who are they then?”
He leaned down and muttered, “Why don’t you find out.” Then he strode past her, his arm brushing her shoulder and rocking her balance.
Later that night Nettle was on edge. Bram and Jazz had gone to bed and the spriggans were either curled up in bed or drunk in the kitchen after finding one of her father’s bottles of wine. Nettle couldn’t eat or sleep, her stomach was a twisting pit of nerves. She kept thinking of Jack, his warning and his edict. Just who were the Balfrey sisters? And what did they want with the Crone?
She sat on the swing-chair, the sword lying beside her, the basket of fireflies casting a golden light across the porch steps. Every little noise had her straining to see if it was her father who made it. But as the night deepened to a deep blue that reminded her of Jack’s velvet jacket, her hope dwindled. It was obvious her father wasn’t going to return home when he promised. As her eyelids grew heavy and her head lolled, Nettle fleetingly thought back to Claudine. When Claudine had learnt Fred hadn’t returned home, she wasn’t surprised at all. And why had she asked - where had he gone, instead of has?
Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters Page 28
