Read Online Elevation of the Marked (The Marked Series Book 2) by March McCarron - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: March McCarron
Ads: Link
ground beyond the platform into a great, muddy puddle. Dalyson was not an attractive city at the best of times. Under the drear of storm clouds it painted a decidedly dismal picture—an excellent representation of Arlow’s mood.
The slap of hooves against the wet road drew Arlow’s attention. He braced himself to stand, but paused when he caught glimpse of the new arrival: not a horse, but a mule pulling a ramshackle, two-man gig. Clearly not his appointment.
The carriage came to a halt before the platform, the pitiful mule bowing its head against the deluge. A slight man vaulted clean over the pool, landing on the stage with a delicate thump. He wore a floppy, wide-brimmed hat that had surely never been in style and slacks that were plainly several sizes too large, cinched at the waist.
The man whisked his ill-begotten hat from his head. “You Arlow?”
Arlow swallowed down his surprise and stood, offering a shallow bow. “Arlow Bowlerham, at your service.”
The man snorted. “Isn’t you a fancy one?”
Arlow’s smile faltered as the man stepped closer and revealed himself to be…well, a woman. The mistake was, he thought, rather a forgivable one given her dress and general demeanor. Her dirty blonde hair was cut at chin-length, for some Spirits-forsaken reason, and she had a strong jaw that gave the impression of a masculine face, though the shape of her lips and dainty nose—as well as several other parts—were distinctly feminine.
She proffered her hand. “Mae Bearnall.”
Arlow removed his glove and she shook his hand with uncultured heartiness.
“You ready to be off, then?” she asked.
Arlow glanced at the sky. He didn’t much like the idea of riding open-gig in the rain, but as she had done just so to collect him, he could hardly protest. He climbed into the passenger’s seat.
She leapt back into the carriage with a sprightly grace, took up the leads, and clicked her tongue. The mule disembarked at an unimpressive speed, trudging up the road away from Dalyson.
“Are we not going into the city?” Arlow asked, shaking against the wetness.
“Naw.”
He frowned. “Then where, may I ask, is our destination? Your headquarters cannot possibly be in the plains.”
Mae guffawed. “You think I’m takin’ you to headquarters?” She shook her head, spraying him with raindrops from the brim of her hat. “You must be about as smart as Ol’ Poppy Seed Muffin here,” she said, gesturing to the mule’s chestnut rump, “if you’re thinking the Pauper’s King’ll invite a total stranger to his home.”
Arlow sat up straighter, the very picture of injured dignity. “Quade Asher arranged that—”
“This Quade fellah ain’t nobody to us and neither are you. The King’ll meet you and decide if you’re trustworthy or not, an’ that’s that.” She gave a nod as if that decided the matter. He supposed it did, in fact.
Arlow folded his arms before his chest, his robes soaked through and mood steadily souring. “What kind of name is Poppy Seed Muffin for a mule?” he grumbled.
Mae offered him a grin so wide it revealed every tooth in her head. “It’s ’er favorite flavor muffin, you see.”
Arlow knew not what to say to this, couldn’t decide if he was amused. He could distinctly recall thinking to himself, whilst in Accord, that he’d prefer the company of a less polished lady. He watched the young woman hawk and spit over the side of the carriage. A superlative example of ‘be heedful what you hope for.’
Mae guided the mule off the main drive onto a narrow wooded pass. The wheels of the gig seemed to seek every tree root. Arlow clutched the side of the carriage with one hand, his bowler to his head with the other, as he was jostled within an inch of his life. A low-hanging bough smacked him full in the face, leaving him, if possible, even wetter.
Mae burst out laughing, transferring the reins to one hand so she could clutch her stomach. “You
The slap of hooves against the wet road drew Arlow’s attention. He braced himself to stand, but paused when he caught glimpse of the new arrival: not a horse, but a mule pulling a ramshackle, two-man gig. Clearly not his appointment.
The carriage came to a halt before the platform, the pitiful mule bowing its head against the deluge. A slight man vaulted clean over the pool, landing on the stage with a delicate thump. He wore a floppy, wide-brimmed hat that had surely never been in style and slacks that were plainly several sizes too large, cinched at the waist.
The man whisked his ill-begotten hat from his head. “You Arlow?”
Arlow swallowed down his surprise and stood, offering a shallow bow. “Arlow Bowlerham, at your service.”
The man snorted. “Isn’t you a fancy one?”
Arlow’s smile faltered as the man stepped closer and revealed himself to be…well, a woman. The mistake was, he thought, rather a forgivable one given her dress and general demeanor. Her dirty blonde hair was cut at chin-length, for some Spirits-forsaken reason, and she had a strong jaw that gave the impression of a masculine face, though the shape of her lips and dainty nose—as well as several other parts—were distinctly feminine.
She proffered her hand. “Mae Bearnall.”
Arlow removed his glove and she shook his hand with uncultured heartiness.
“You ready to be off, then?” she asked.
Arlow glanced at the sky. He didn’t much like the idea of riding open-gig in the rain, but as she had done just so to collect him, he could hardly protest. He climbed into the passenger’s seat.
She leapt back into the carriage with a sprightly grace, took up the leads, and clicked her tongue. The mule disembarked at an unimpressive speed, trudging up the road away from Dalyson.
“Are we not going into the city?” Arlow asked, shaking against the wetness.
“Naw.”
He frowned. “Then where, may I ask, is our destination? Your headquarters cannot possibly be in the plains.”
Mae guffawed. “You think I’m takin’ you to headquarters?” She shook her head, spraying him with raindrops from the brim of her hat. “You must be about as smart as Ol’ Poppy Seed Muffin here,” she said, gesturing to the mule’s chestnut rump, “if you’re thinking the Pauper’s King’ll invite a total stranger to his home.”
Arlow sat up straighter, the very picture of injured dignity. “Quade Asher arranged that—”
“This Quade fellah ain’t nobody to us and neither are you. The King’ll meet you and decide if you’re trustworthy or not, an’ that’s that.” She gave a nod as if that decided the matter. He supposed it did, in fact.
Arlow folded his arms before his chest, his robes soaked through and mood steadily souring. “What kind of name is Poppy Seed Muffin for a mule?” he grumbled.
Mae offered him a grin so wide it revealed every tooth in her head. “It’s ’er favorite flavor muffin, you see.”
Arlow knew not what to say to this, couldn’t decide if he was amused. He could distinctly recall thinking to himself, whilst in Accord, that he’d prefer the company of a less polished lady. He watched the young woman hawk and spit over the side of the carriage. A superlative example of ‘be heedful what you hope for.’
Mae guided the mule off the main drive onto a narrow wooded pass. The wheels of the gig seemed to seek every tree root. Arlow clutched the side of the carriage with one hand, his bowler to his head with the other, as he was jostled within an inch of his life. A low-hanging bough smacked him full in the face, leaving him, if possible, even wetter.
Mae burst out laughing, transferring the reins to one hand so she could clutch her stomach. “You
Similar Books
