the
wagon had been driven through a battle and only just made it to the other side. A crooked chimney issuing smoke poked out from the roof like a mushroom.
The narrow arched windows and grotesque gargoyles leering from each corner gave it the look of a miniature gothic cathedral – albeit one with a dragon-shaped swivel cannon mounted on the
roof.
David opened the back door and climbed up the steps. ‘Come in; close the door behind you.’ He bent down by a pot-bellied stove and gave the embers a stoke. ‘You’ll soon
warm up in here.’
Hazel gawped at the cluttered interior. Lanterns cast a buttery glow on the walls and arched ceiling. Labelled trunks were stacked in piles: ‘Tools and Accoutrements’, ‘Powders
and Tinctures’, ‘Traps and Snares’, and one mysteriously called ‘Misc’. Half-open drawers overflowed with clothes and blankets.
A barrel stood in one corner, stuffed with rolls of parchment – maps, Hazel guessed – a brace of swords, a musket and a huge soup ladle. On the far wall was a workbench strewn with
tools, doubling as a step to a hatch leading out to the driver’s seat.
She perched on the lower bunk bed and examined shelves and cabinets filled with books, papers and scrolls.
What a wondrous mess
, she thought, breathing in the smell of woodsmoke and
stew.
‘Can you see any apples?’ Bramley whispered, having settled in his usual place behind her left ear.
Hazel jumped as what she thought was a misshapen pile of hairy cushions in front of the fire turned out to be shaggy dog of indeterminate breed. He opened a brown eye and appraised Hazel in a
friendly way before clambering to his feet and giving her a thorough sniff. She endured the examination, mindful that the dog was nearly as tall as she was.
‘Don’t worry about Samson,’ David said, giving the dog a scratch behind the ears. ‘He may be as big as a pony, but he’s got a heart of gold.’ Samson gave
Hazel’s face an appreciative lick. ‘There, see? He likes you.’
A shadow appeared by the door. ‘Never mind the dog, boy.’ Titus glared at David, his eyes glittering behind a curtain of straggly hair. ‘Where the devil’s my hip
flask?’
‘You’ve only just got out of gaol,’ David said. ‘Now is not the time for drinking.’
‘Hip flask!’
Hazel flinched as Titus banged his fist against the doorframe, causing a painting of a sailing ship to crash to the ground.
‘Have you tried your
hip pocket
?’ David said with a sigh.
‘Don’t be a fool. Of course I tried . . .’ Titus felt in his pocket and withdrew a battered flask. He downed the contents in one swallow.
‘Boss, listen, we’ve got a job. Paid work.’
‘Work? What work?’
David spoke slowly, as if to a child. ‘Hazel’s mother has been kidnapped by bandits in the forest. She’s employed us to find her.’
The furrows on Titus’s brow deepened. ‘Hazel?’ he said. ‘Who in the devil’s bloody name is Hazel?’
David rolled his eyes.
‘I am,’ Hazel said, drawing herself up to her full height. ‘And you, Mr White, owe me an apology.’
David stared at her, shaking his head ever so slightly. Hazel ignored him, giving the old Witch Finder her fiercest glare.
Slowly, like a bear anticipating a meal, Titus turned his shaggy head towards her. ‘Apologize? What the hell for?’
‘For strangling me,’ she said, cheeks flushing with anger. ‘
And
calling me a slop-sprite.’
‘Don’t lose your temper,’ Bramley hissed. ‘You’ve got to control your magic. If you don’t, we’re both for the pyres.’
‘You’re still breathing, aren’t you?’ said Titus. ‘And you look like a slop-sprite to me.’ He held out his hand to David. ‘Give me the money.’
‘But . . . it’s all we have left.’
Titus climbed up the steps and loomed over David, who backed away until he fell into a chair. Despite his age, the old Witch Finder was still strong. ‘Money,’ he growled.
David poured a few coins into
wagon had been driven through a battle and only just made it to the other side. A crooked chimney issuing smoke poked out from the roof like a mushroom.
The narrow arched windows and grotesque gargoyles leering from each corner gave it the look of a miniature gothic cathedral – albeit one with a dragon-shaped swivel cannon mounted on the
roof.
David opened the back door and climbed up the steps. ‘Come in; close the door behind you.’ He bent down by a pot-bellied stove and gave the embers a stoke. ‘You’ll soon
warm up in here.’
Hazel gawped at the cluttered interior. Lanterns cast a buttery glow on the walls and arched ceiling. Labelled trunks were stacked in piles: ‘Tools and Accoutrements’, ‘Powders
and Tinctures’, ‘Traps and Snares’, and one mysteriously called ‘Misc’. Half-open drawers overflowed with clothes and blankets.
A barrel stood in one corner, stuffed with rolls of parchment – maps, Hazel guessed – a brace of swords, a musket and a huge soup ladle. On the far wall was a workbench strewn with
tools, doubling as a step to a hatch leading out to the driver’s seat.
She perched on the lower bunk bed and examined shelves and cabinets filled with books, papers and scrolls.
What a wondrous mess
, she thought, breathing in the smell of woodsmoke and
stew.
‘Can you see any apples?’ Bramley whispered, having settled in his usual place behind her left ear.
Hazel jumped as what she thought was a misshapen pile of hairy cushions in front of the fire turned out to be shaggy dog of indeterminate breed. He opened a brown eye and appraised Hazel in a
friendly way before clambering to his feet and giving her a thorough sniff. She endured the examination, mindful that the dog was nearly as tall as she was.
‘Don’t worry about Samson,’ David said, giving the dog a scratch behind the ears. ‘He may be as big as a pony, but he’s got a heart of gold.’ Samson gave
Hazel’s face an appreciative lick. ‘There, see? He likes you.’
A shadow appeared by the door. ‘Never mind the dog, boy.’ Titus glared at David, his eyes glittering behind a curtain of straggly hair. ‘Where the devil’s my hip
flask?’
‘You’ve only just got out of gaol,’ David said. ‘Now is not the time for drinking.’
‘Hip flask!’
Hazel flinched as Titus banged his fist against the doorframe, causing a painting of a sailing ship to crash to the ground.
‘Have you tried your
hip pocket
?’ David said with a sigh.
‘Don’t be a fool. Of course I tried . . .’ Titus felt in his pocket and withdrew a battered flask. He downed the contents in one swallow.
‘Boss, listen, we’ve got a job. Paid work.’
‘Work? What work?’
David spoke slowly, as if to a child. ‘Hazel’s mother has been kidnapped by bandits in the forest. She’s employed us to find her.’
The furrows on Titus’s brow deepened. ‘Hazel?’ he said. ‘Who in the devil’s bloody name is Hazel?’
David rolled his eyes.
‘I am,’ Hazel said, drawing herself up to her full height. ‘And you, Mr White, owe me an apology.’
David stared at her, shaking his head ever so slightly. Hazel ignored him, giving the old Witch Finder her fiercest glare.
Slowly, like a bear anticipating a meal, Titus turned his shaggy head towards her. ‘Apologize? What the hell for?’
‘For strangling me,’ she said, cheeks flushing with anger. ‘
And
calling me a slop-sprite.’
‘Don’t lose your temper,’ Bramley hissed. ‘You’ve got to control your magic. If you don’t, we’re both for the pyres.’
‘You’re still breathing, aren’t you?’ said Titus. ‘And you look like a slop-sprite to me.’ He held out his hand to David. ‘Give me the money.’
‘But . . . it’s all we have left.’
Titus climbed up the steps and loomed over David, who backed away until he fell into a chair. Despite his age, the old Witch Finder was still strong. ‘Money,’ he growled.
David poured a few coins into
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