Stranger:. Zoe Archer
with the Heirs than fumble his way through another attempt at flirtation with this sharp-eyed, forthright woman.
He whirled around with his shotgun ready as he became aware of a close, noiseless presence. Gemma gave a small yelp when Astrid appeared, like a dryad, from behind a nearby tree. Yet there was no magic in Astrid’s stealth, only a lifetime of experience that had taught her hard lessons. Catullus’s heart ached for the pain she’d had to endure. There wasn’t a Blade or soldier, however, who could match Astrid for strength and skill. Suffering had forged her. Now she was ready for combat.
“The main road is watched,” Astrid said without preamble. She strode toward him and a rising Gemma. “I saw a coach stopped and searched just outside the nearest village. Apparently, the Heirs have convinced the local law that we’re fugitive thieves.”
Catullus feared as much. The authority of the Heirs easily awed village constables and magistrates. “We stay off the arterial roads, then.”
“Getting all the way to Southampton will be a challenge.”
“But we must manage it.”
“I found an inn ten miles from here,” said Lesperance, also emerging silently. Catullus saw Gemma’s observant gaze fix on Lesperance’s necktie, which showed itself to be not completely knotted, as if only just put on, and a few buttons undone on his waistcoat. She did not miss much, this journalist.
“Safe?” Catullus asked.
“Looks like it was built before the train line, and the village it’s in isn’t on the main road.”
The man had done his reconnaissance well. Meanwhile, the sun traced its path closer to the horizon. Nightfall approached. They needed shelter. Catullus had spent countless nights sleeping on the ground, but he’d try like hell to spare Gemma that discomfort. For all her strength and bravado, this world—the world of Heirs and dangerous magic and pushing oneself to the brink of physical collapse—wasn’t hers but his.
“Good,” Catullus said. “We need to reach there before the sun sets.”
Lesperance’s information proved correct. The village they walked into was barely more than a handful of cottages, the high street unpaved, without even a church or grocer. Catullus saw not gas lamps but candles burning inside the houses that lined the street. Some of the cottages stood dark and moldering, and weeds pushed their way through cracks in walls. The few people out were, to a one, elderly and dressed in the fashions of King George.
The technological glories of the century meant nothing in this forgotten little town. Catullus could well imagine that he and his traveling companions had somehow penetrated the veil of time, journeying at least fifty years into the past.
Some misfortune had befallen the village to see it slowly grind into nothingness. Within a decade, the streets would stand empty, and no one would mourn the village’s surrender to obscurity. The deepening shadows of dusk crept through the lane, sweeping the small town further into darkness.
Yet, amidst this quiet and decay, stood an inn. It seemed so perfectly incongruous that the four travelers could only stand outside and marvel for a moment.
“Is this place real?” whispered Gemma.
“Let us hope so.” Catullus strode through the open door, with everyone following. “For I’ve need of food, ale, and a bed, in whatever order they are given to me.”
He and the others stood alone for several moments just inside the doorway, until, finally, Catullus called out, “Hallo the house.”
A wiry man with equally wiry white hair scampered forward, hastily donning an apron. He stood gaping at them, momentarily shocked to have actual guests.
“We’ll need three rooms for tonight,” said Catullus.
The innkeeper started. “What’s that? Rooms?”
“Three,” said Catullus again.
“Oh, sir “—the innkeeper wrung a handful of apron in his hands—” only two are available.”
Catullus glanced around, dubious. It wasn’t a large inn, or even medium-sized, but it boasted two floors and a taproom, where three equally white-haired men were sitting and watching the new arrivals with no attempt at disguising their interest. No one had the look of a traveler, save for Catullus and his companions. “Surely there are more than that.”
The innkeeper smiled in embarrassment. “Yes, there are four guest rooms in all, but one of ‘em, it’s full of things. When the Denbys moved away, they sold us the lot of furniture. Chairs, tables, Sarah Denby’s loom—though me and my wife can’t use it. And then the Yarrows moved to Gloucester, so we took their furniture. Same with the Cliffords, only they moved to Birmingham, not Gloucester. But we didn’t know where to put everything, so it all got shoved into one room, you see. And it’d take days to clear it out.”
“And the other?” Catullus asked, fighting weariness. The day had been long. He wanted an English beer, and he wanted it now.
“That’s where we keep the cheese.”
“The cheese?” Gemma repeated.
“My wife’s cheese. She makes it herself,” the innkeeper said with pride, “and the room is cool, so it works quite nicely as a pantry. So you see, sir “—he made an apologetic shrug—” there are only the two rooms.” Seeing their expressions, he added hastily, “But each of ‘em has a nice, big bed, so they can sleep two all nice and comfy.”
At the mention of beds, it took more self-control than Catullus knew he possessed not to glance over at Gemma. The possibility of sharing a bed with her lay waste to his fatigue, his entire self sharpening with alert awareness. “So, will you be staying, sir?”
Catullus, after a silent conference with Astrid, nodded, and the innkeeper leapt forward to take everyone’s luggage. “Put the ladies’ bags in one room,” Catullus said.
The innkeeper froze as he bent to retrieve the baggage, startled, then regained his professional demeanor. “Very good, sir. If you all will follow me, I’ll take you up right now. And there’s supper, if you’d like it. ‘Tis plain country food, not the sort of fancy stuff you might get in the city,” he said with a concerned look to Catullus’s stylish, though now somewhat travel-worn, clothing.
“I’m sure whatever you serve will be more than delightful. Especially the cheese.”
The innkeeper ducked his gratitude and pointed them up the stairs. “Just this way, please.”
As everyone climbed the steep stairs, Gemma asked, “Do you get many guests?”
“Gramercy, no!” The innkeeper chuckled. “You fine folks are the first guests we’ve had in four months.”
“Isn’t that hard for business?”
“’Tis,” came the cheerful answer as he stopped on a landing, “but this inn’s been in my family for four generations. It stayed open after the mail route changed, taking most of the travelers—and townsfolk—with it. And then when the trains skipped this corner of the shire, well” —he smiled, fatalistic— “that about killed us, it did. I reckon the inn won’t be able to stay open after me and Sarah pass on.”
Gemma gently touched the old man’s hand. “I’m very sorry.”
“Ah, obliged to you, miss.” He reddened to be the recipient of a pretty young woman’s sympathy. “But ‘tis the way of things. We all must leave this world at some point, even inns. And, now,” he continued, taking the stairs again, “just a little farther, and here we are.”
A single, narrow corridor ran the length of the story, floorboards warped by the passage of years, a framed drawing of London Bridge the only adornment on the walls. Four doors faced each other across the passageway, two on the left, two on the right.
“The ladies will take the free room on the left,” the innkeeper