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Authors: Margaret Miles
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more like Jack’s story. But this phenomenon rarely caused harm to those it touched … and she’d not heard that it made anybody disappear.
The bright morning sunshine had turned a tray of cut-crystal glasses on a sideboard into several miniature suns. For a few seconds, Charlotte stared into their brilliance. Then, realizing her thoughts had run away with her reason, she looked down to open a drawer and search for paper and ink. At first, because her eyes were dazzled, she saw nothing within. Just like the night before, in the kitchen doorway, when she’d been unable to see anything outside—
Light? Could that be the answer? Coming from the lighted tavern into the darkness would have made it difficult for Jack to see clearly. Further, blinding flash could have kept him from seeing the stranger in the scarlet cloak jump off the road and run away. Thinking again of lightning, she recalled there had been nothing like it in the sky the night before—just steady moonlight, which should have shown Jack what he expected to see … an old man running away. Still, if the stranger carried asource of light
with
him … it might be part of a reasonable explanation. The thing simply called for more thought, and more questions. At least, it was something.
Now, what about the other show, the one put on by Mary Frye? Could her fainting have had anything to do with the evening’s first act? At any rate, it was probably fortunate for Mary that Nathan had been there to lead her out of harm’s way. She wondered what excuses Mary had made, while the girl and the smith walked back to the inn. Well, she could soon find the answer to that easily enough.
Finishing her cup of coffee, Charlotte decided on a course of action. She wrote out a list of tasks for Hannah, who would arrive before long.
After that, she embarked on a journey of her own, not knowing that it would raise far more questions than it would easily, or safely, answer.
THE FRAGRANT HALLWAYS of the Bracebridge Inn were quiet when Charlotte Willett entered softly through a side door. No one, she was glad to see, was about.
Unlike the Blue Boar, the Bracebridge Inn was a refined establishment that frequently housed distinguished guests … patrons who would appreciate a good wine, a meal of several courses, and a bed without bugs. Its landlord was both tolerant and pleasant. He was also insightful, well informed on regional gossip, and more than a little fat. Together with his wife, Lydia, he was quite able to maintain the atmosphere of safety and comfort demanded by his clients.
Jonathan Pratt took a pocket watch from his protruding vest when Charlotte knocked on the door of the tiny room where he kept his accounts. At his urging, she came in and sat delicately.
“You’re very early this morning, Mrs. Willett. Especially considering the hours I hear you’ve been keeping.
“I came to see if you could spare me a sack of coal,” she began innocently.
“A sack of coal,” Jonathan repeated slowly, pinching his nose.
“I ordered some to be delivered next month,” she replied, “but the nights are already so chilly—”
“That you need some coal today. Certainly. We wouldn’t want you to freeze. Would you care to go and make the arrangements with our smith, or shall I speak to him for you?” The innkeeper already knew the answer. He also knew that it could be extremely tiresome for a single woman in a small village to follow convention, but that it was often necessary if she wanted any peace. This was especially true when one entered the home of a stickler for propriety in others—like Lydia Pratt.
“I think,” said Charlotte, after considering, “that it would be just as well if I spoke to Nathan myself.”
“It would be a great deal simpler,” the innkeeper agreed with a nod. He had met this grown and respectable woman as a forthright girl of ten, when he was the inn’s new owner. In those days, Charlotte Howard came and went as she pleased, bringing
The bright morning sunshine had turned a tray of cut-crystal glasses on a sideboard into several miniature suns. For a few seconds, Charlotte stared into their brilliance. Then, realizing her thoughts had run away with her reason, she looked down to open a drawer and search for paper and ink. At first, because her eyes were dazzled, she saw nothing within. Just like the night before, in the kitchen doorway, when she’d been unable to see anything outside—
Light? Could that be the answer? Coming from the lighted tavern into the darkness would have made it difficult for Jack to see clearly. Further, blinding flash could have kept him from seeing the stranger in the scarlet cloak jump off the road and run away. Thinking again of lightning, she recalled there had been nothing like it in the sky the night before—just steady moonlight, which should have shown Jack what he expected to see … an old man running away. Still, if the stranger carried asource of light
with
him … it might be part of a reasonable explanation. The thing simply called for more thought, and more questions. At least, it was something.
Now, what about the other show, the one put on by Mary Frye? Could her fainting have had anything to do with the evening’s first act? At any rate, it was probably fortunate for Mary that Nathan had been there to lead her out of harm’s way. She wondered what excuses Mary had made, while the girl and the smith walked back to the inn. Well, she could soon find the answer to that easily enough.
Finishing her cup of coffee, Charlotte decided on a course of action. She wrote out a list of tasks for Hannah, who would arrive before long.
After that, she embarked on a journey of her own, not knowing that it would raise far more questions than it would easily, or safely, answer.
THE FRAGRANT HALLWAYS of the Bracebridge Inn were quiet when Charlotte Willett entered softly through a side door. No one, she was glad to see, was about.
Unlike the Blue Boar, the Bracebridge Inn was a refined establishment that frequently housed distinguished guests … patrons who would appreciate a good wine, a meal of several courses, and a bed without bugs. Its landlord was both tolerant and pleasant. He was also insightful, well informed on regional gossip, and more than a little fat. Together with his wife, Lydia, he was quite able to maintain the atmosphere of safety and comfort demanded by his clients.
Jonathan Pratt took a pocket watch from his protruding vest when Charlotte knocked on the door of the tiny room where he kept his accounts. At his urging, she came in and sat delicately.
“You’re very early this morning, Mrs. Willett. Especially considering the hours I hear you’ve been keeping.
“I came to see if you could spare me a sack of coal,” she began innocently.
“A sack of coal,” Jonathan repeated slowly, pinching his nose.
“I ordered some to be delivered next month,” she replied, “but the nights are already so chilly—”
“That you need some coal today. Certainly. We wouldn’t want you to freeze. Would you care to go and make the arrangements with our smith, or shall I speak to him for you?” The innkeeper already knew the answer. He also knew that it could be extremely tiresome for a single woman in a small village to follow convention, but that it was often necessary if she wanted any peace. This was especially true when one entered the home of a stickler for propriety in others—like Lydia Pratt.
“I think,” said Charlotte, after considering, “that it would be just as well if I spoke to Nathan myself.”
“It would be a great deal simpler,” the innkeeper agreed with a nod. He had met this grown and respectable woman as a forthright girl of ten, when he was the inn’s new owner. In those days, Charlotte Howard came and went as she pleased, bringing
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