Page 6 of House of Furies
“Turn off, then, Foster. Let us see this broken wheel for ourselves.”
The driver obeyed, cracking a short whip and urging thebowed-head horses off the road. The animals looked as drenched and exhausted as I felt.
When they had stopped, the driver leapt to the ground and muttered his way to the carriage door, kicking down the stand and opening the door for his charges. He had taken the lantern, and I watched two men descend, their collars flipped up against the deluge.
It was an old fellow with thick gray hair and a heavy brow, and behind him came a young man so bright of face, curious, and golden, I forgot all about the hunger in my belly and the rain soaking my hair.
Chapter Four
“You’ve dropped your spoon.”
“Sorry?”
“There’s no need to apologize, only—”
“Oh. Yes. There it is, isn’t it?” The spoon had landed scoop down in the mud right next to my shoe. A tiny glob of porridge dotted the leather toe, as if to punctuate this gloomy introduction. I knelt to retrieve the spoon, not anticipating that the young man would do the same. His far larger hand closed over the handle and then we both stood at the same moment, and he produced a handkerchief to wipe both mud and porridge from the wood.
“Rawleigh Brimble,” he said, giving me the spoon. “Which is my name. Bit of a mouthful. Usually just go by Lee.”
“Louisa,” I replied. My surname held so little value, I almost never offered it in these situations. The shock of his appearance had worn off, and I managed to grasp the spoon and deposit it safely in the bowl. I turned to put it back near the fire, where the crone was slopping out a meager portion into a bowl for the older gentleman. The driver strode off with his lantern, interested foremost in the state of our wagon.
“Are you often in the habit of rescuing maidens and their spoons?” I asked.
His smile widened at that, a feat which seemed impossiblegiven how widely he already beamed. “I’m afraid not, but I should be! I do feel awfully gallant now.” His turquoise eyes squinted into the darkness. “Have you been stranded here long, Louisa?”
“Not very. With any luck we’re on to Coldthistle House soon. Do you know it?”
Those very turquoise eyes widened in surprise and perhaps delight. “How extremely funny. Yes, in fact. That is our destination, too. What a chance this is! Uncle, did you hear? These ladies are destined for Coldthistle also!” He perched one fist on his hip and laughed, turning back to me. He wore a fine suit under his overcoat, but the wool had worn through in places and been artfully mended. “Are you boarding there as well? Uncle and I have business in the area.”
“Oh! No...” I could feel the crone’s eyes on me. They burrowed. Nothing but the truth would suit, and it felt strangely embarrassing. Somehow my destitution, my anonymity, felt suddenly harsher. “I’m taking a position there.”
“In the scullery,” the old woman helpfully finished.
I did not glare. I had no idea yet if she was to be my employer, and perhaps I had annoyed her enough for one journey. “Exactly so,” I said softly.
This did not seem to bother or offend Lee Brimble, whose smile dimmed not a jot. “Then you will know all the secrets of the place,” he said in a whisper too bright to come off as conspiratorial. “And you are honor-bound to share them with me,hm? Now that I have so bravely rescued your spoon.”
“Magnanimous of you,” I said drily, but without irritation. “Somehow I feel I am gaining the more advantageous side of the bargain.”
“Without a doubt,” he said, taking a few steps away from the fire. “Ho there, Foster, what do you see?”
“A simple job,” the driver called back. He stomped back toward us, appearing like a yellow ghost under the lantern light. “We should all be back on the road in an hour, perhaps two. What the devil are all those birds doing in your wagon, old woman?”
“Foster, manners,” Rawleigh Brimble corrected him sharply. Then he cringed. “And here I’ve forgotten mine—introductions! This is my uncle, George Bremerton, and that of course is Foster. We never call him anything else.”
The driver snorted.
“And what do we call you?” the uncle asked, staring with bold suspicion at the crone. His coat buttons flashed in the lantern light, gold, an intricate Celtic cross pattern worked into the metal of them.
“Why, me?” Her voice, still softened, quavered like a plucked harp string in the gloom. “You can just call me Granny. Now eat up and get to work. It’s still a long way to Coldthistle House.”
“Shall I call you ‘Granny,’ too?” I asked, helping her dish up what was left of the porridge for the men. The tattered sleeve of her coat slid up her wrist as she stirred the pot, and, though butan inch was revealed, I saw several strange markings. Tattoos, perhaps; symbols I didn’t recognize. She quickly fixed her coat, but she had seen my wandering eyes.
“Not with that attitude,” she muttered. “There are hungry travelers to feed and a wagon to fix. Vexing me should be the last of your priorities this night.”
“Yes, Granny,” I replied, still with a smirk. Let her keep her secrets, I thought—as long as she delivered on her promise to give me employment and shelter, I would count her as a friend. Or an ally, at least.
A shiver ran through the buckthorn and birch crowding the road. Trees shaking at night always filled me with dread—it was a sound that made me long for a warm bed and thick walls. The others heard and felt it, too, shrinking down into their collars. Foster had left the safe yellow ring of the firelight without eating, choosing instead to rummage in their coach for tools.
