Bristol was still talking. “Would have left my darling penniless and heartbroken, if I was to have lost my life.”
What was going on here? Nettle shrunk back into the alcove holding the book tightly across her chest. Maybe Jack was right about Claudine.
Claudine gave a bored sigh. “Now come, Bristol, enough with the dramatics. I think you have something for me.”
“Indeed I do,” Bristol replied. The bookstore’s dim light exaggerated his smug expression. He plucked the leather pouch from his breast pocket and placed it on the counter in front of Claudine. Nettle, as well as the Balfrey sister, noticed he kept a withered hand possessively beside the pouch.
“Can I?” Claudine asked, a hint of steel in her tone.
Bristol slowly untied the drawstring on the pouch with large calloused fingers. Unused to such delicate work, it took an age. When he finally completed his task, he started to jiggle out whatever was inside.
Claudine warned, “Careful.”
Nettle heard a muffled chink of something that tumbled onto the wooden bench. Bristol quickly cupped his hands around it, and splayed his fingers slightly so Claudine could see what he’d trapped. But both he and his wife looked away.
Claudine peered between his fingers. Nettle heard her soft intake of breath. “It’s beautiful.” But for some reason Claudine looked a little stricken. The veins on her throat were tensed and strained, and she’d turned pale.
Bristol shut his fingers and tucked whatever it was into the leather pouch and slipped it into the breast pocket of his suit, with a light pat when it was safely back in place.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Claudine asked. The colour had returned to her cheeks.
Bristol hackled when his wife silently sent him a chilling keep-your-mouth-shut look. Bristol chose not to observe her advice. “The Gadfinch Crystal is yours...” his voice trailed off, but the way he spoke said there were strings attached.
There was a long drawn out silence before Claudine frostily replied, “I hope you’re not suggesting you want to renegotiate?”
“No... no, of course not,” Smilla hurriedly answered. “What you offered is good enough for us.”
“Smilla!” barked Bristol. He glared at his wife, who closed her mouth into a tight pout. Bristol turned back to Claudine and continued, “I think there is perhaps more you can offer us, in exchange.”
There was a powerful crackle to Claudine’s tone, an underscore of warning. “I certainly hope you know what you’re doing.”
Bristol gave a sharp nod of his head.
Claudine departed without saying anything further, the brisk sound of high-heeled footsteps retreated on the wooden floor. The bell signalled her exit.
“You greedy old fool, what have you done! You should have given her the crystal when she asked! You’ve signed our death warrant!” Though her words were rough, she slipped closer to her husband, pressing against him. She clutched his jacket lapel and was trembling. “You need to give her what she wants, and we need to leave, now, tonight!”
“Oh no we’re not! Not after everything I’ve just been through.”
Nettle still lurked in the shadows of the alcove, her mind racing. It was like someone had tumbled a box of puzzle pieces on the ground and there was no picture as a guide. Claudine and her sisters are mining the hill, just like Lysette. And Olde Town’s a goblin mound, one that Quary insists hoarded treasure. Trolls and Gadfinch Crystals and orbs filled with filament...
Realisation dawned on Nettle, creeping slowly. The sisters do know about the Wilds! They know of this world of faerie! She was such a fool not to have realised it earlier. The memory of Jack’s voice, spoke in her head: They’re not who they’re pretending to be. But what was going on, who were they, what were they after? And again, Jack said: Why don’t you find out.
Yes, why don’t I. Spurred on to discover the truth, Nettle made to move, hungry to find out where Claudine was off to next, the book slipped from her and made a loud thumping noise upon the floor.
“What was that?” inquired Bristol. He found Nettle crouched on the floor hastily trying to put the book away. His fat dry lips smacked together in anger. “It’s not a library!”
Smilla reached the alcove. “Who is it?”
Bristol peered down at Nettle, his tiny eyes squinting behind the thick lenses. “I don’t know, just some little girl.”
Nettle darted around the O’Gradys.
“Hey, you get back here!” yelled Bristol.
Nettle bolted from the bookstore, quickly scanning the cobblestone path for Claudine, but she was gone.
A midnight blue velvet jacket!
There he was, the boy with the mysterious violet eyes and the nasty rude streak disappearing up the winding flight of steps. Nettle sprinted after Jack and saw him entering the Three Wicked Sisters’ Tea House. Surely he could tell her what was going on at the bookstore between Claudine and the O’Grady’s.
She slipped through the tea house’s yellow lacquered doors.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The Tea House Kitchen
Nettle pressed her hand to her nose. What is that smell? Where’s it coming from? It smelt putrid in the tea house, something akin to rotten flesh, like that time she’d come across a dead possum on the road, half squished and a couple of weeks old. She’d moved closer to inspect the remains and the smell emanating from the dead creature was a dense stink of rottenness that she’d never forgotten.
Nettle was surprised the patrons were still sitting inside eating.
Philanx, the Balfreys’ cat, stalked past, hissing at her. She drew back giving him a wide berth. He was so thin, almost skeletal. He looked like he’d gone weeks without any food, yet she knew only a few days ago when she’d first met him he’d appeared healthy and full of life. Is he coming down with something horrible? Ugh, is it him? Is he the one who stinks? Philanx had disappeared back to his basket by the cauldron but the stink still lingered.
She pushed her way past a group of people who were leaving the tea house and wound her way through the dining room, hearing snippets of conversation as she passed patrons who had gathered to eat breakfast. A pretty girl, only a few years older than Nettle, complained to one of the wait-staff with a miserable pout. “But we’ve been sitting there all week. Why can’t we sit there now?”
The table she was referring to was the central table set in front of the bay window. Now seated at the crisp white linen table was a rather large family with a brood of five children ranging from perhaps ten to seventeen.
Nettle pushed past, intent on reaching the boy in the velvet jacket. She couldn’t help but hear as she wriggled through, the whining girl’s mother whispering to her husband, “I have no idea where these wrinkles have sprung from.” She was pulling at the delicate skin around her eyes, trying to smooth the crows feet. “Look at me, I’m far too young to look this old.”
Her husband grinned and jokingly said, “Probably the caffeine from all that tea you’ve been drinking.”
His joke went flat. His wife gave him a scathing look and nodded to the beauty room. “I’m going to have a look in there.”
Jack was just ahead of her and he slipped behind the counter and went right through the swinging doors to the kitchen. Nettle steeled herself, well, here goes, if I’m going to find out what the sisters are up to, I may as well throw myself into the fire. She entered the kitchen, the hub of the Three Wicked Sisters’, and slowly came to a standstill, transfixed.
It was big; really big. There was a wall of ancient wood-burning brick ovens with cast iron doors and long paddles to pull loaves of bread or trays of scones out; stainless steel benches and deep porcelain sinks; copper pots and pans stacked haphazardly near the hotplate stoves; big tubs of flour and sugar and rows of spices and herbs. That in itself wasn’t surprising - what was, was the lack of chefs and bakers. She fully expected to see a busy staff of bakers industriously at work. Instead she saw a vast collection of children. They all look li
ke little kids. They could be easily mistaken for Pippa’s siblings except they were only as old as Bram. Nettle was mystified. Why does Claudine have children working for her?
Curly-haired workers stood on small stools to reach the benches so they could mix dough and knead bread, shape scones or cut sandwiches; some were sprinkling cinnamon and shredded coconut or dusting pastries with icing sugar; chopping herbs and vegetables; hovering over the hotplates toasting spices or stirring bubbling stock; or hauling out of the brick ovens sausage rolls and sesame crusted buns.
A pair of girls were in charge of the tea and coffee but instead of the types of espresso machines Nettle was familiar with in the big cities, it was some strange metal contraption with pipes the curled around like a French horn that fizzed and spluttered big puffs of steam, and they added into every single pot of tea or cup of coffee, a single drop of amber liquid. What is that, Nettle wondered, a black eyebrow arched, the tea version of MSG? And the expediter, a young boy with a piggish-nose, was sprinkling a fine dusting of herbs onto every single meal, no matter if it were a savoury scone or a cream filled pastry. Unease caused a wave of fine hair to prickle down her neck. Something was very wrong here. More than wrong, she thought, as she wrinkled her nose, pinching her nostrils tightly. It was like the dining room, beneath the fragrant smell of frying oils, baking breads and pungent crushed herbs, there was a rank odour that smelt of rotting meat.
One by one, the kitchen staff stopped what they were doing, completely astonished to see a strange girl in their midst. Nettle took a nervous step backward.
Pip flitted in carrying a silver tea service, the swinging door banging behind him. As he moved past her, his tawny eyes grew big and his mouth gawped wide. The silver tea set wobbled as his grip grew limp. He very nearly bumped into Pippa, who was unloading a row of golden orbs from Jack’s black messenger bag. Finally realising something was up she turned around and took in Nettle. All the colour drained from her face, leaving her freckles standing out like muddied raindrops against her pale complexion.
There was one adult in charge. A great big burly man with a fat bottom lip and long white apron that reached the floor. Belying the cumbersome appearance of his fingers, he curled tiny fruit pastries daintily pinching them into circles. He blinked small poky eyes at Nettle, his massive thumb accidentally pressing a pastry flat.
Nettle quickly realised why he looked so familiar. He was the other man who had apprehended the Crone. An icy chill ran down her spine. The man yawned his gigantic mouth open to grunt something in the direction of the side-entrance. Nettle couldn’t make out what he’d said, but assumed it had to do with her.
The side-entrance to the kitchen was open. Though sunlight drenched Olde Town, not a single ray of light was admitted through the tree-top canopy that shaded the tea house. In the sheltered doorway Margot pushed back a man. She had in her hand her old fashioned quill, its sharp nib coated with a dark red ink. Nettle had a brief moment to wonder why she’d never noticed Margot used red ink, instead of black, before the man pressed forward, his hands about Margot’s waist, his lips puckering for a kiss. “Come on Eliza, we’re almost married. Just one little kiss.”
Nettle nervously fidgeted, shifting about on the balls of her feet, one hand pulling at the cuff of her shirt. Who was this man? She had no idea that Margot was engaged; and why did he call her Eliza? She fleetingly remembered the man in the bookstore racing after Claudine, calling her Alice. She suddenly felt angry. Was this some sort of sick game the sisters played with visitors?
“I’m not Eliza,” Margot replied firmly and shoved him back through the doorway. He stumbled a little, but his dreamy expression didn’t falter. He righted himself, his hands stretching for her. “Come on sweetheart. Stop playing games and give me a kiss.”
A start of recognition ran through Nettle, goose-bumps rippled down her back. The man’s sleeves were rolled halfway up his arm and she saw the same type of rash she encountered on the strangely vacant man in O’Grady’s Bookstore. But this time, it was the number twelve in raised welts on this man’s wrist. And her father... the last time she saw him, he had the number thirteen... Her heart skipped a beat, this can’t possibly be coincidental...
The man lurched forward, ensnaring Margot in an awkward embrace. Just before he pressed his lips upon hers, she flicked the feathered quill toward him and something made a loud cracking noise that thumped the man right in the middle of his forehead. His head jerked back and he staggered against the doorframe loosening his grip on her.
He didn’t know what hit him, and neither did Nettle.
Nettle’s eyes flared wide. Her thin lips gaped as she tried to make sense of what had just happened. She hadn’t even realised she’d taken a few steps backward until her hipbone hit the edge of a bench. A small shock of pain burst down her side. She hadn’t seen what the Balfrey sister had struck him with. Margot had been far too quick for her. It hadn’t sounded natural.
He shook his head slowly as if he’d been stunned, and Nettle could see some soot on his forehead where a bruise was blossoming. Margot’s sleek features drooped with mock disappointment. “I told you to go back to Madam Bawdsworth and stay there until we called for you.”
The man dully blinked as he hesitated briefly.
“So go!” Margot said with an exasperated flick of her fingers.
The man’s dazed look gradually melted away as a dreamy goofy expression, that reminded Nettle of her father, took its place. “Yes, Eliza, whatever you wish.” He turned and walked out the door, a stiffness to his gait.
Margot closed the side-entrance door. She swivelled around, smoothing down her skirt and adjusting her bodice. “Madam Bawdsworth is going to find herself less one daughter if she doesn’t watch out,” she complained to the sous-chef. When he didn’t reply she looked up and her gaze slid in the direction he was looking and met Nettle’s bewildered expression. Her sharp angular features became even more knife-like as displeasure washed over her.
Before either of them could speak, a sudden noise erupted from the back of the kitchen. Several sounds - a high-pitched wailing and several panicked screeches woven together in discord - assaulted Nettle’s ears, like shards of glass stabbing into her eardrums. Her gaze whipped from Margot’s to where the horrendous noise was coming from: a door was opening.
The door looked out of place in the kitchen. It was a bright shiny door, thickly lacquered in a blood-red paint. Who is in there? Who’s making those wretched sounds? As Nettle looked on in horror, Dolcie, dressed in a butchers apron slick with fresh blood, walked out carrying a bucket. As the door closed behind her the shrieks and wails were instantly cut off. Apart from the sounds of water bubbling and spices sizzling, silence reigned in the kitchen.
Dolcie lifted the heavy bucket onto the kitchen bench. Its contents slopped about, but didn’t spill. She gave her sister a curious glance, noticing everyone was looking in one direction. She slowly turned. Nettle stood pressed against the bench just as frozen as everyone else. Bafflement fleetingly slid over Dolcie’s features and slipped quickly away to be replaced with an irked expression. She said what everyone was thinking. “What are you doing in here?”
Nettle felt horribly ill. Her bottom lip wilted and she shifted her weight from foot to foot. Everyone was staring at her. Only two people weren’t - staring at her - was the violet eyed boy standing at the sink with his hands lathered up to his elbows with soapy bubbles, and Pippa. Jack’s gaze flitted from Dolcie to Margot and back again, trying to gauge their reaction to the girl’s presence. She could see Jack looked troubled, just as Pippa wore an expression of ghastliness. Oh, this isn’t going to go well, is it?
Margot swiftly approached, flanking her sister. “How did you get in here?!”
“Through there...” she said, pointing to the black swinging doors. Dolcie and Margot shared a look, as if what Nettle had said was utterly preposterous.
Dolcie slid her wooden spoon from the pocket of her butchers apron and levelled it
at Nettle. “You just walked in?”
Nettle’s thoughts were fragmented between why the sisters were being so threatening, why wasn’t the boy saying anything, and why did she feel rooted to the spot, almost as if she’d been turned to stone. She nodded, nervously rubbing her hands together as anxiety erupted and coursed through her. She chastised herself, why did I go and do such a stupid thoughtless thing? She hadn’t thought, that’s what. She just barged in when a more subtle way of discovering what the sisters were up to would have been a far smarter course of action.
The youngest sister stalked up to Nettle who involuntarily shied away. Besides the fact Dolcie’s features had twisted into a mean expression, she looked haggard, her brow deeply lined and she noticed again the bristles of hair sprouting from her chin. Dolcie flicked Nettle’s cap with a swift stroke of her wooden spoon, knocking it from her head. It fell to the ground with a soft thump. Nettle’s hair fell about her shoulders in heavy tangles. “What were you thinking, just striding on in here?” Nettle almost physically stumbled at the magnitude of rancour directed at her from Dolcie. The atmosphere in the room was tense, to say the least. The sisters’ response to her presence in the kitchen had caught her completely off guard. She knew she would run the risk of offending them by entering the kitchen uninvited, but they were livid. What are they up to?
Then Nettle remembered what Jack had said yesterday – nothing good. Was it the Crone? Was she locked behind the red door? What were they doing to her? Nettle gulped. Her throat felt like sandpaper and her tongue went thick and sluggish as she tried to think of an appropriate answer. Why? Why? She asked herself. Barging in here seemed such an insignificant thing to do at the time, and now in hindsight she realised she shouldn’t have presumed she could get away with having preferential treatment just because she supposed Claudine had a fondness for her father.
Margot arrived alongside her younger sister as silently as mist creeping across the surface of a lake. “Are you spying on us?”
Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters Page 31