“No. I always have tea in the afternoon. It helps keep my blood warm.”
Grandmother Fey was a fragile little old thing. If a leaf had fallen on her, it might have shattered her bones. Her sunken-in face may have made her resemble a corpse when she slept. Many dark liver spots dotted her pale and deeply wrinkled skin. Dark rings surrounded her dull, lifeless eyes as if she hadn’t had a proper rest in centuries, and her long hair, which she kept braided, was thin and appeared brittle.
“I must say, this is quite a surprise,” she admitted, pouring tea into her own cup. “I was expecting your mother.”
He cringed.
“Aye, but Mum and Dad hit a bit of a snag on their way to the lawyer.”
“Ah, oui. Monsieur Ainsworth, a regrettable decision on my part.”
“How do you mean?”
“I hired him because he was cheap, and he was passing the cemetery where Denis’s tomb is. It wasn’t until after I sent him off to England with the clues that I later learned he had a very poor and untrustworthy reputation amongst his clients. It was one of the reasons why Ainsworth left the country. I feared he wouldn’t deliver on his part and read the fake will to Nona when she came to him.”
“Leading Mum to believe her brother was dead was a tad cold, Grandma,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Oui,” she admitted. “But I wanted it to be a surprise when she found me.”
Even so . . .
“Is Christopher in on it, too?”
“Only about me being alive. I told Ainsworth my son was dying, and because of the history between him and Nona, François had a separate will drawn up. When March came—the time when the troupe usually went to Newcastle—I sent a messenger to deliver the false letter from François to Nona.”
“You should have sent Nico. He wants to meet the family.”
“Nico?” she said with astonishment. “How do you know about him?”
Once again, Pierce’s foot had found its way into his mouth.
“Erm. He . . . uh, brought me here.”
Grandmother Fey stared at him, mystified. “What about my clues? Did they not lead you here?”
Under the pressure of saying too much, Pierce quickly grabbed his teacup and raised it to take a sip. “Let’s talk about you. You haven’t died, I see.”
Poor choice of words, but she didn’t seem to mind.
“Died? Non. My son lied to Nona about that to keep the family from returning to his house.”
She sat across from him and sipped her own tea. “I tried writing letters for a messenger to bring to Newcastle every March to inform that I was still alive, but François never delivered them to the post office. My son was so ashamed. He would rather keep me segregated from the family than risk being linked to them, especially after he married.”
A gunshot rang out in the distance.
“Ca c’était quoi?”
She hurried over to the rear exit and opened it to peer out.
“Nico,” Pierce answered. “He wanted to bring you a hare to eat.”
“Oh,” she said. She returned to the table, leaving the back door open. “I was ill for many years after I was brought here. It seemed every day was going to be my last, and I was forced to remain in my son’s care. Even if Nona had come for me, I wouldn’t have been able to rejoin her.”
“And now you’re well?”
She removed her spectacles and used a napkin to clean them. “I haven’t been feeling as sick as I used to. A few years ago, I recovered enough to have my own place—this place—and François bought it for me. It was the first time in a long while since I had regained some of my independence. And now, since François has gone back to France, I think it’s time I reunite with my daughter.”
“And you got Nico to hide the clues, eh?”
“Nico returned home from boarding school shortly after I moved into the cottage,” Grandmother Fey said, putting her eyewear back on. “He visited me frequently. Without his father’s knowledge, I filled him in about the Gypsies and who I used to be.” Then she added mysteriously, “Well, almost everything I used to be.”
“Were you someone other than a nomadic woman?”
She sipped her tea. “Oui. I was. It was a great part of me that I was forced to surrender to stay alive.”
Pierce wondered what it was that she had had to give up.
Grandmother Fey set down her teacup and folded her wrinkled hands in front of her. “You’ve mentioned Nona and Jasper hit a snag? What happened?”
Pierce snorted. “Dad was caught picking a lieutenant’s pocket, which got him and Mum arrested and sent to Newgate Prison.”
She clutched her chest, and he believed her old ticker might have stopped.
“Newgate? Is she . . . ?”
“She’s out,” he quickly reassured her. “They’re both safe.”
The worry in her pale eyes diminished.
“She’s all right? My Canary is safe?”
“Canary? It that her nickname?"
“Oui.”
“Does Mum sing?”
“She did as a child, but not very well. We never had the heart to tell her, so we started calling her ‘Canary’ to encourage her.”
Oh, bloody hell, Mum. I got you now if you ever call me Bunny Boy again!
“Aye. Your Canary is perfectly fine.”
Grandmother Fey sighed with great relief.
“Why the clues, Grandma? Why not inform her where you are?”
“To surprise her, as I explained. Also, I had planned for her to journey through her own past and discover pieces of herself that I never told her about.”
He had no idea what those pieces could be, but it did nothing to stop the guilt from swelling in his chest.
“Oh? Damn. I’m sorry, Grandma. It should be Mum sitting here, not me. I didn’t mean to steal this from you both.”
Her old irises glittered.
“You stole nothing. You have every right to learn the truth about your own family, just as your mother does.”
“Were you going to talk to her about her father?”
Grandmother Fey stared at him wordlessly for a few heartbeats.
“Let me have a look at your palms,” she commanded, reaching for him from over the table.
He was perplexed but did as she requested. She engulfed his hands in hers and gently grasped them. Her touch was warm and familiar. Then something particular occurred. Her wrinkles smoothed out like an iron over a bed sheet, and a glowing radiance burned through the dullness of her eyes. Through touch alone, time seemed to tick backwards for her. The sight made Pierce wonder if there was something dodgy about the tea.
Grandmother Fey closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. “You’re in love,” she observed, opening them.
“Erm,” he said, his cheeks flushing. “Are you a fortuneteller?”
“In a way, I am. Although much of myself is lost, I can still taste the flavor of love, especially love as strong as yours. Does she also care for you?”
“I, er, think so. We had an argument this morning.”
She snorted. “Arguments are unpleasant, indeed, but they can also be a gateway to a deeper relationship.”
“Reckon I’ll find out when I return to Amsterdam. Are you coming with me? I can bring you to England to see Mum.”
“You would do that?”
“Of course.”
Her face wrinkled a little more when she smiled.
“You’re a good boy, Pierce. You always have been.”
She pulled away, and in the moment she did, her age ran over her like the sands of time, returning her to the old, frail woman she had been. It was definitely a curious sight.
Grandmother Fey stepped over to a bookshelf behind her and took down a statuette of a red fox and something made of copper. “But first, there is a matter we must attend to.” She carried the figurine over. “You did bring the pieces, right?”
Her tone sounded a tad urgent.
“The pieces from the hunt? Aye
. They’re in my saddlebag outside.”
She sighed. “Oh, thank goodness. You will need them to locate the inheritance.”
“Eh?”
She placed the sculpture down. There was a hole that had been chiseled in the fox’s back. Pierce wondered why until Grandmother Fey grabbed the candleholder and smashed the statuette to bits under its base.
“Another clue?” he asked as pieces of the ceramic figurine flew everywhere.
“And you will need this,” she told him, holding up the copper piece.
It was half-moon shaped with three jagged parts like bits in a key, sticking out.
“Why? I found you. Aren’t you the final stop?”
“I don’t have it with me. Follow the clue and it’ll lead you to it,” she instructed, cautiously sweeping away the shards. “François swore to me that it’s very close to here.”
Pierce was taken aback.
“François hid the loot? I didn’t think he had any part in this. Why a clue, though? Don’t you have any idea where it is?”
“No.”
“Did he not entrust you with it?”
“It wasn’t just that. I’m simply not allowed to know its whereabouts. If I do, it will be lost forever.”
Pierce was utterly baffled.
“It’s a story for another time,” she promised, sliding the paper over to him. “Whatever you do, do not read the clue out loud, s’il vous plat.”
Pierce picked up the clue and read it silently.
Go east toward the river.
In a place where the wind catches in old sails is what I promised to deliver.
Then it strangely added:
Turn first piece counter-clockwise.
Turn second clockwise.
“Did François write this?”
“Oui. Before he left, he gave me the statuette and told me about the clue he put inside it. It sparked the idea of using clues to bring Nona to me.”
“I see,” he said, standing to shove the paper and iron piece into his trouser pocket. “I reckon rhyming runs in the family, eh?”
She looked at him, gobsmacked. He laughed and was about to explain when a voice demanded, “Hand it over, Landcross.”
Pierce looked to the open back door and to his utter disbelief, saw Christopher Ainsworth, and to his horror, the bounty hunter, standing on the porch outside, looking in. They were aiming guns at him.
Grandmother Fey gasped with shock. “Monsieur Ainsworth? What are you doing here? Who is this man?”
“Shut your mouth, hag,” Ainsworth snapped. “We have business with Mr. Landcross.” He switched his deadly sights back to Pierce. “Come. Come. We haven’t all day. Bring it here.”
Pierce’s entire body went numb, and his blood pounded in his ears. He had convinced himself that when he’d hacked the bounty hunter’s hand off and left him in the forest, bleeding, it marked the last he would ever see of him. How the hell did he find him? Pierce quickly decided the cocker must’ve found the clue when he had searched his jacket pockets. Pierce never realized it was missing.
“I swear, I will shoot her if you don’t cooperate,” Christopher threatened, cocking back the hammer of his flintlock pistol.
Pierce looked over to his grandmother, who stood in the crosshairs. With little choice in the matter, he approached them. The fear of being at the mercy of the same knobhead who had tried to rape him weighed him down with dread.
Christopher held out his free hand, eagerly waiting for the clue. Pierce was reaching into his pocket when Nico ordered, “Drop your guns, monsieurs. Do it, or I’ll shoot!”
Through the rear window, Pierce saw Nico holding his flintlock rifle on them. If Pierce had had his own damn gun, he could help contain the bastards. He only hoped Nico could hold his ground long enough to force them to lower their weapons. Unfortunately, the one-handed hunter had other plans. With no concern for Christopher’s safety, he aimed his revolver across behind the lawyer’s back and opened fire at Nico. The shot missed, but the threat made Nico jump, spoiling his aim. The lawyer ducked as Nico fired. With no more shots left in his rifle, the lad darted off. The bounty hunter chased after him.
Pierce wasted no time. He charged out of the house as the lawyer rose and pushed Christopher against the porch railing. Christopher dropped the pistol into the bushes below. Pierce held confident he had the upper hand until the lawyer threw a fist across his face. The blow sent Pierce a few steps back into the house. Christopher balled both hands into tight fists and held them up.
“Ever stood against a pugilist, boy?” he taunted.
Pierce shook off the dizziness and tried to put up his own fists when Christopher stepped over the threshold and clocked him dead in the face. The sod was quick, Pierce sadly realized as he fell backward. He almost believed his feet left the ground. His back crashed against the floor, his spine feeling as if it had been broken into bits. He groaned miserably while the taste of blood rolled over his tongue. His initial thought past the pain was that the pugilist would likely tackle him. He sat up, ready to kick, bite, or even scratch the bugger, but he wasn’t there.
“Shite!” Pierce yelled, springing to his feet. “He’s going for the gun.”
He couldn’t simply go after the lawyer without ending up with a mouth full of broken teeth.
“I need a weapon,” he said urgently to Grandmother Fey.
She pointed to the swords over the fireplace mantel.
“Bloody hell,” he moaned.
He had no idea how to use a sword, but it was better than his fists. He snatched a blade from its post and bolted outside. The lawyer had already fled down the stairs leading into the backyard and was searching for the gun in the bushes. Pierce skipped the stairs and jumped the railing. The overgrown brush was wider than expected, and he landed hard in them. Each little branch carved through his skin like a wire cutter through clay. It hadn’t been the first time he’d fallen into an angry shrub. Pierce refused to allow this to hinder him for long, as his life—as well as the lives of his grandmother and cousin—was in peril.
Swinging the sword to cut himself free, Pierce managed to get out. He charged at Christopher, while holding the sword like a cricket bat and screaming insanely. The back area of the cottage was a patchy mess of trees and more bushes before it thickened into the forest beyond.
Christopher rushed around a wide tree trunk and vanished. Pierce rounded the tree and immediately leaped away when the head of a rake swooshed across his stomach. Christopher came at him, swinging the gardening tool that some lazy groundskeeper had left out. Once Pierce had regained his footing, he swung the sword, striking the teeth of the rake. He swung again, hitting the handled when Christopher held it up sideways in both hands. The dull blade barely made a scratch. That didn’t stop Pierce from his assault. He pushed forward, striking the handle over and over with everything he had until, finally, he broke the blasted thing in half.
While Christopher stood, distracted by his broken weapon, Pierce pushed the tip of the blade against his throat.
“Ha!” he laughed proudly. “I bloody got you, you peckerwood pugilist!” He gritted his bloodstained teeth and commanded, “Let’s go retrieve your dog, eh?”
“Landcross!” someone called out.
Pierce’s eye twitched. He knew that voice and didn’t fancy the cocky tone. When he steered his sights toward the porch, he hated what he saw even more. The would-be rapist had Nico at gunpoint. What made matters worse was that Grandmother Fey had rushed out and gasped in terror at the sight.
“Let him go, Landcross,” the bounty hunter ordered.
Pierce couldn’t see how a hostage tradeoff would be beneficial. The hunter had nearly gotten Christopher killed with his little stunt to scare off Nico. Bugger. He knew the game was up, however, he needed to secure their survival. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the clue.
“You see this?” he exclaimed, holding it up. “I’m the only one here who has read it.” He crammed the paper into his mouth an
d chewed. “If anything”—Pierce pointed to Nico’s captive—“and I mean any-thing, you sick bastard, happens to them, I won’t tell you shite!”
With much effort, he swallowed down the clue. He almost choked on it. Pierce returned his sights to the lawyer at the end of his sword. “You want the inheritance?”
Christopher nodded sincerely.
“Call him off, and I’ll take you to it,” Pierce promised.
To the bounty hunter, Christopher said, “We leave them unharmed, Swansea.”
With a devil-may-care shrug, Swansea withdrew the gun from Nico and held it up.
Christopher looked to Pierce. “Satisfied?”
No, but it was the best he could do for the moment.
“Right,” he huffed, tossing the sword.
Chapter Twenty-two
The Inheritance
The lawyer tied Grandmother Fey and Nico back to back on two separate chairs with the rope he found in the shed beside the cottage.
“Where are we going?” Christopher demanded, rising to his full height.
“East,” Pierce answered simply, standing at gunpoint in front of Swansea.
“Let’s move,” ordered Christopher.
They mounted their horses and rode out. During their journey through the woods, Pierce expected Swansea to speak to him, threaten him, or something like that. Instead, the cocker maintained his eerie silence as he rode alongside him, his pistol held in his only hand. Pierce tried to think of a plan to get himself out of this mess. Once they had the inheritance, there was nothing to keep Christopher and Swansea from returning to the cottage to murder everyone there. Perhaps his grandmother and cousin would free themselves before Christopher and Swansea reached them. That gave Pierce hope, yet it still left him in a dire situation. What would Swansea do once they had the fortune?
The woodland ended near the waterway ahead.
“Where to now?” Christopher asked.
In a place where the wind catches in old sails is what I promised to deliver.
He mulled it over right before he spied the tower mill down yonder in the distance. It seemed like the logical place to look, especially since it was pretty damn close to the cottage, just as François had promised.
The Reunion Page 27