Black Locust Letters

by Nicolette Jinks

  “Now, the stealing of the bell. What do you know of it?”

  Betty admitted what she had been told, and the man nodded.

  “To this I have a bit more to add, to make your visit worthwhile. This letter you have shown us,” at this, he raised up the letter so she could see. “It is addressed to The Bell. He is calling you the bell, the thing which is to be protected and stolen, embellished and defiled.

  “While you think on that, let me tell you what it means to have a bell. They are instruments, chiefly used to drive away evil spirits. It is the clapper, the bit that makes the noise, which releases its power. It is metal, good, solid metal being an alloy of copper and tin, which is particularly potent because it is what was made by the dwarves of The Beneath. The power of the bell is related to the bell's size, to its shape, and the purity of sound.

  “Have you heard the church bells ring through the streets, echoing off buildings and falling to silence in the woods? These bells, they are what keep us safe, what keeps the darkness at bay. You must be cautious. And bear in mind the warning that Exica befell for the sake of an infatuation so terribly unrequited.”

  With that, he looked to the others, who nodded, and he gave the letter back to Betty. When she took it, she sensed an air of finality about them, so she voiced her appreciation and left, going back the way she came.

  Her heart trembled against her rib cage, and for a horrifying moment, she saw herself as Exica and Slim as Tate. What a fool she had been, to put so much thought into him, after he'd proven himself to be made from the same mould as her father. Yet, who was she to blindly let a story—for that was all it was, a story—to mislead her life?

  For some time, at least five more races, she milled about the crowd, losing track of her own thoughts in the cheers and cries of the crowd as the urged on the hot rods. She sat, mostly numb and exhausted, and lost herself to the vibrations through the metal bleachers, the vigor of the crowd, and decided to leave when five people down front started a fist fight which threatened to ripple up the bleachers.

  While the crowd was occupied trying to break up the fight, Betty slipped away and followed the shadows towards her bicycle, feeling exhausted and glad that she could soon be home in bed where she could warm herself up.

  She'd nearly convinced herself that the stories were that—stories and not secret messages—when she heard voices around the other side of a moving van parked between her and the bike rack.

  Remembering the way the fight had broken out over seemingly nothing, Betty decided to remain hidden until the tense voices were gone, but while she stayed there, she realized that she couldn't go back, either, without getting involved in the brawl which seemed to have spread instead of calmed. And while she stood there, shivering a little in the night, Betty overheard their louder words.

  “I told you I can do my job. It's what I'm known for, isn't it?” the voice was male but the frustration in it was the most noticeable characteristic. Betty instantly felt she was eavesdropping and glanced nervously back towards the bleachers.

  “I'm not questioning if you can do it. I'm asking if you will.”

  There came an angry protest, something that she couldn't make out, from a third party, which was cut off by the second, a woman. “Hush, you. I'm talking to him.”

  The night was chill, and even with the loud speakers, the brawl, and the cars in the distance, she could hear gravel crunch underfoot, so she didn't dare to make a noise while this other quarrel was going down.

  “What do you have to say to me? Will you take your duties seriously, or will I have to assume duty over your watch?”

  There was silence in answer. The woman pressed on, “The Thin Man, for sky's sake! Even you know this is true, not just some lie spread about.”

  “I will do it, if need be.”

  As though Betty had stepped into cold water, she realized with astonishment that she knew that voice. Betty just didn't want to believe it.

  “Say that again,” the woman challenged. “Say it like you mean it.”

  “You know full well I can and will silence any voice. Even a pretty one,” said a man who was undeniably Clarkin.

  With that, the woman snorted and strode off towards the bleachers, not looking back where she would have seen Betty hiding in the shadow next to the van's mirror. Betty waited with bated breath as the brunette moved out of her vision, then the same happened to the other male, a man built like a mouse and with all its scurrying tendencies.

  Of Clarkin, she saw no sign, even when minutes passed and she finally walked, pretending to be calm, to her bicycle. It was as though he had never been there, and as Betty rode home, she felt the sting of betrayal, although she shouldn't have counted on his loyalty to begin with.

  Chapter 19

  Betty sat in her drawing room crocheting a new set of mittens using the spun wool that Liza had bought for her when Betty heard a faint whistle in the street.

  Her heart stilled and while her head placed the whistle, her hands misplaced the next stitch. Irritated, Betty tugged on the string, only to have it bind itself into a tight little knot. The frustrations with her father and the nearness of Christmas made her anxious and crabby, particularly as the neighbours had brought home a small tree not long ago.

  The whistle would pass by, she told herself firmly and tried to pass by this one stitch, thinking that one mistake wouldn't be noticed amid the other rows. She could hide it.

  Then the whistler came nearer, and she heard her gate squeal. She froze, her nerves quivering. Slowly, she put her work down on the coffee table. A shadow fell over her window, then came a light, brisk rap at her door. Betty took her time finding the keys and unlocking the door, half-hoping he would go away.

  Then she opened the door, and there Clarkin stood, a slight smile on his lips, snow on his shoulders and on the fedora he held in the same hand as a bushy wreath speckled with holly berries. His eyes skimmed up her shawl-clad shoulders and lingered on her lips, his dark lashes flicking with the motion of his eyes. He seemed utterly at ease, as though he hadn't disappeared from her life for weeks.

  Betty's heart thudded, and she resisted the urge to either scream him off the porch or throw her arms around him. Heat seared her cheeks and she realized she was blushing again.

  “Decapitaria Clarkin Hannah.”

  Clarkin quirked a brow. “No more first-names?”

  He lifted the wreath and stepped inside, his body filling the petite entryway as he first hung the wreath on her door, then closed it and took off his boots.

  Betty's jaw dropped and her pulse soared—then her indignant objections caught in her throat as he passed a smaller bag into her hands.

  “Hot chocolate, coffee, and the best of China's tea.”

  Betty said stiffly, “What are you doing?”

  Clarkin ignored her question and took one of her hands, rubbing his thumb over the back, his eyes serious. “Won't you accept my apologies for my absence as of late?”

  Betty pursed her lips. “Hannah. Why are you here?”

  Eyes searching hers, Clarkin stepped nearer. “Would you send me out into the cold?”

  “I ought to,” Betty snapped, pulling her hand out of his, looking away but not moving. She would not drop a hint of what she'd overheard. It would do no good to let him know what she knew. Let him think she was mad at him for neglecting to pay her attention.

  The tips of his fingers touched her chin, turning her face towards him. “I am sorry, I know I shouldn't have left you like that.” His voice had gone from melodic to low and raspy. “I have missed you. I didn't want this any more than you did, but I couldn't walk away from it. Though I tried.”

  One thumb flicked over her lips then slid back along her jaw to cradle her head, and the other hand encircled her waist and drew her to him. Her breath shuddered out of her lips, and she wrapped her own arms around him, entwining one hand into his short hair and wrapping the other around his shoulders. His lips covered hers. A stifled moan left her body a
nd he responded, drawing her closer still so their bodies pressed one against the other.

  Their kisses grew hot and wet, and her breasts became hard and heavy, and she pressed them against his chest, wishing that he would caress her. Long-repressed desire flooded her senses, and she eagerly felt his tongue on hers, his hands in her hair and on her back, and she ran her fingers down his coat, wishing all at once that he was wearing much, much less.

  Something boiled over in the kitchen, causing a great hiss and corresponding stench of burning food. Betty jumped and broke away, reaching the kitchen in time to take the pot off the stove and saving the fire in the tray underneath.

  For an instant, Betty gripped the counter and swayed on unsteady legs, placing a hand over her thudding heart. Clarkin stood behind her, nuzzling the crook of her neck. He murmured, “I meant to ask if you would join me on a sleigh ride.”

  “With Froglips?”

  His chuckle warmed her all the way through. “Charles Smith. Yes. He just received his order of a jingle-bell sleigh, made by none other than the finest Amish woodworkers.”

  “It sounds beautiful.”

  “It's the first snowfall which has covered the roads well enough to use it,” Clarkin said. “I thought we could warm something to drink and put it in a thermos before he comes.”

  Betty grinned at the thought. “I've got a throw we can put in our laps, too.”

  “Then you will go?” Clarkin's happy tone made her think that he was perhaps not so confident in his eventual victory as he had made her believe.

  “I should tell you no.”

  “But will you?” There was that playful grin, and he kissed her again before she could deny him.

  Somehow, they found a thermos and warmed up hot chocolate for their ride, but by the time Charles knocked on her door, their lips were plump and swollen and Betty had a hard time breathing for the giddy kisses they'd been sharing.

  The sleigh was out of a movie set with its high, elegant rails polished to a gleam, its sides a swooping curl of scrollwork. Lanterns hung on the front and back, and bells decorated the horses' bridles and harnesses. A red bow was tied to the blinders of each horse, and the smaller one nibbled on his friend's ribbon before Charles scolded them with a “heeey” that sent both horses forward. The jolt sent Betty plopping down into her red-velvet clad seat, laughing, while Clarkin hastened to get in before he got left behind. Charles wore an oversized Santa hat, and he nodded to Clarkin while Betty sorted out the lap blanket.

  “Where are we going?” She asked, suddenly realizing that it had never been mentioned.

  “Tulles? It's a good jaunt, plenty enough to give my beauties a stretch. They've felt cagey since it got cold,” said Charles, then gave the reins a quick snap which sent the two horses into motion. “What do you think of her? A real gorgeous bit of work, right?”

  “Never seen anything so fine,” Betty said, and Clarkin launched into a lengthier praise of the sled which made both Charles and Betty smile. Charles wasn't truly satisfied until he drew excited points and exclamations from children they passed.

  Happily situated snug under Clarkin's arm, Betty let her head droop off to the side and sighed contentedly, relishing the heat uncoiling in her abdomen.

  “You are very quiet,” Clarkin commented after a few streets had gone by.

  “It's the noise the snow makes as it crunches beneath us. Only fresh stuff does that, and the steady beat of horse hooves. You don't get that when you're in a motorized rig.”

  “And certainly not in a jetpack. Or dirigible.”

  “You've been in those?” Betty asked, reminded of his service. Before Liza's warnings could intrude on the moment, Clarkin muttered a word then pulled her lips to his.

  This time, their kiss became rough and unrestrained. The desire behind it made Betty soften her lips and let his tongue claim her mouth possessively. She surrendered to the touch of his hand on her cheek, the thorough kisses revealing a deeper passion. He pulled back and she buried her face in his neck, kissing it then blowing on the moisture teasingly. She still had his striped scarf at home, in a hatbox so she wouldn't have to look at it and be reminded of him.

  Clarkin gave her a squeeze and said, “Remember our thermos.”

  “Forget the thermos,” she whispered back, nipping lightly on the lobe of his ear. His breath froze and he shuddered.

  Satisfied with her work, Betty sat forward again and took the thermos, pouring a bit into the lid and pretending that she hadn't intentionally given him ideas. It was the better part of two minutes before Clarkin found the voice to whisper, “Flirt.”

  “You have no idea,” she said back.

  “You've met your match, Hannah,” Charles said over his shoulder, his voice thick with laughter. “Tulles is just up here. The beasties aren't tired in the least. I'll take a pierogie33 to go, and by the time we're done with our loop, you should be ready to go home as well.”

  When they stopped in front of the entrance to Tulles' parking lot, Clarkin got out of the sleigh first and extended his hand to Betty. “Shall we?”

  But there was more to his question than met the eye. Behind the words, there was another question, one that was asking what sort of hunger she wanted to sate. With a wicked smile, Betty feigned ignorance. “You say the locals think this place is pretty good, huh? I think it's worth a try.”

  Apparently they weren't the only ones who thought so. Though the parking lot was relatively empty, the restaurant itself was full. Clarkin managed to lay hands on a table up in the loft next to the window, granting them a view of the forest under a blanket of fresh snow.

  A busty waitress came to take their order, shooting Betty a scathing glare when Clarkin was not watching. Betty lifted her chin and acted as though she hadn't noticed, but it felt as though someone had taken a fork to her insides. How many women had he enchanted? How many others had he seduced with his smooth words and abundant kisses? The pang of jealousy tainted the evening. By the time their main course had come, with it was the return of Welch's advice, Liza's warnings, and her own misgivings.

  “You said before that you returned to me despite your best efforts not to.”

  Clarkin sighed. “And you are wishing to know why I left in the first place.”

  Betty took a sip of red wine and waited.

  Clarkin looked as though he had been caught in a lie. “Perhaps this is a topic for another time.”

  “If you wish,” Betty hissed and leaned back in her chair with an angry huff.

  Clarkin shut his eyes and suppressed a groan. “What would you have me say?”

  “If you're with me on business of some sort or if you...if you...” She trembled into silence, her words falling to nothing but meaningless stammering.

  Clarkin leaned forward. “Or if I what?”

  She looked down to her plate. “Nothing.”

  Another silence spread between them. At last Clarkin nodded slowly. “If you do not wish to speak of it, then we won't. Not yet.”

  Her throat seized closed. How could she ever talk about it? How pathetic it sounded to ask if someone was interested in her, or just interested in using her. She would have thought that by now she could tell the difference, but she was too worried to think on it.

  The waitress paused by their table and said, “Hannah? Olivia's here to see you.”

  Clarkin shot the girl a sour expression, frowned and said, “I'm sorry, Betty. I'll be quick.”

  Despite herself, Betty watched as he made his way to the bottom of the stairs, where he met with the brunette from the diner. Neither one looked happy with the other. There was that sinking feeling again, of a fork turning over in her gut, but this time it hurt worse. The waitress, who Betty belatedly realized was a Never Were by the presence of a fox tail swishing out from the hem of her skirt, shot Betty a knowing smirk and went away. When Clarkin returned, he did not look bothered anymore.

  “Business or personal?” Betty asked.

  This made him check the wine on
the way to his lips. “Just nosy.”

  Betty was quiet. Clarkin took her hand in his. “You're thinking about something.”

  Betty smiled and nodded. “It has just been a tiring day, that's all.”

  His thumb rubbed over her knuckles, his brow narrowed in thought. Then he breathed, as though it were a revelation to himself as well, “I'm falling in love with you.”

  Her throat tightened and she stared at him, chilled with shock. “You can't say that.”

  A boyish grin spread over his face and he laughed. “Why can't I? Do you deny feelings for me?”

  His eyes were so, so happy. It made her heart swell and a smile transfer to her own face, but she had to stifle it down. She had to. She had to tell him, right here and right now, in the nicest way possible, that she did like him, that she did want to have something with him, but that she didn't trust him. That she didn't dare to trust anyone. Her throat constricted and the only thing that she could say was, “I can't give you what you want. I...I can't give that to anyone.”

  “So this day was an act?” Clarkin's voice was strained.

  “This is happening so fast. I don't know what's happening around me or who is where.”

  “I know that look.” Clarkin sounded stunned as he fell back into his chair. He rubbed his chin. “You're scared of me.”

  Betty didn't dare to raise her gaze to his and reveal that he was exactly correct. She was terrified.

  As if Betty couldn't have felt worse, the next morning, Tetrametrius met her when she left Tango Lima Romeo. Supposedly he had come to discuss the next month's advertisements, but soon it was clear that wasn't his primary objective.