Installment I
in which our lonely Heroine is forced to endure the company of a Person with a most Roguish reputation!
In the village of Chippingwich was a confectionary shop where sweets of unparalleled deliciousness were sold by a woman who had not long been a resident. Tallulah O’Doyle’s arrival in the picturesque hillside hamlet had gone mostly unnoticed until she opened her shop and became quite quickly a favorite of many villagers. She created and sold peppermints and taffies, anise candies and sweets with soft cream centers. She included cakes and biscuits in her offerings and showed herself quite adept at all that she made. Indeed, she had no equal in the matter of confectionary delights.
Alas, her life was not nearly so honeyed as the sweets she sold! Tallulah was quite alone in the world, without parents or siblings, without the dear friends she’d known when she was young, without the beloved granny who had raised her on tales of the Fae and warnings of creatures lurking somewhere between myth and reality. Tallulah now lived far from her childhood home in Ireland, far from the familiar paths and fields she’d daily traversed. To England she’d come to build a new life, and, for all her show of bravery and determination, she was lonely and terribly uncertain.
“Lemon drops, please, Miss Tallulah.” Seven-year-old Belinda Morris clinked a ha’penny onto the shop counter, the top of her head barely visible.
“Not peppermints?” That was Belinda’s usual choice of sweets.
“Marty likes lemon drops.”
Tallulah leaned forward across the counter, the better to see the dear child. “And he has convinced you to try them?”
She shook her head. “He don’t have a ha’penny. I’m sharin’ with him.” Her eyes darted toward the shop window.
Little Marty, near in age to Belinda, stood on the other side of the glass, watching with a look of earnest worry. She knew his family was not particularly flush; the sweets he purchased now and then came dear to him. That this girl, whose situation was not much better, would buy his favorite in order to brighten his day . . . Dear, kind Belinda!
“Perhaps I could give you three lemon drops and three small peppermint sweets,” Tallulah said. “Then you would both have your favorite.”
“How many candies is that?” Belinda asked.
“Count them on your fingers, dear.”
Belinda did, her lips moving silently. “Six! But I usually only get four with a ha’penny.”
Tallulah simply smiled. She pulled three of each candy from the glass display jars on the nearby shelf and wrapped them in a small bit of paper. “You are a good-hearted girl, Belinda,” she said, handing the prized sweets over the counter. “And a very good friend, indeed.”
“Oh, thank you, Miss Tallulah!” She skipped from the shop. Her exchange with Marty was visible through the windows, an innocent bit of kindness. A mere moment later, Marty rushed into the shop and behind the counter.
He threw his arms around Tallulah’s waist. “Thank you, Miss Tallulah.”
“Make certain you thank Belinda. ’Twas her ha’penny.”
“I will, Miss Tallulah. I promise!”
He rushed out and rejoined his friend. Tallulah smiled at the sight and, after they’d slipped from view, at the memory. She’d once had dear friends like that as well. She was gaining acquaintances in Chippingwich, but she was often lonely. And far too often alone.
As she wiped down the counter, she allowed her thoughts to whirl in the winds of time, carrying her back to Ireland and the life she’d lived there. It had always been home to her. Could this tiny village feel that way? Could she find home again? How heavy was her heart with so difficult a question resting upon it!
The shop door opened once more, and the local squire stepped inside. Tallulah did not know him well. He spent far more time at the pub than the confectionary shop, a not unusual preference amongst the men of the village. Mr. Carman was a man of great influence and importance in the village.
Tallulah greeted him in a tone of deference. “Welcome, Mr. Carman. How may I help you?”
With a flick of his red cape, the squire placed himself at the counter but somehow seemed to fill the entirety of the shop. He wore a hat in the same shade of crimson. Tallulah had never seen him without either accessory. It made him quite easy to identify. As did the almost putrid smell of him. Tallulah struggled against the urge to hold her nose when he was nearby. Yet, no one else seemed the least bothered.
“I am hosting a fine family who are passing through the area, and I am in need of a very elegant cake.”
“Of course.” Tallulah jotted down his requirements for flavor, size, and style, and the time and date he would need it.
While they discussed the particulars, the door opened yet again. For a moment, she was entirely distracted from her purpose. The man who had just entered was known to her by reputation, and that reputation was not an entirely angelic one.
Royston Prescott was known for two things. First, he was the local haberdasher and quite good at what he did. Second, he had a reputation for being a rogue. Not a true scoundrel or someone a person ought to be afraid of. Rather, he was playful and mischievous. He made trouble, but in a way that people liked him all the more. Liked him, but perhaps did not entirely trust him. He was known to flirt with any and every female he came across. He was known to joke when he ought to have been serious, to take lightly those things which ought to be taken quite seriously.
Tallulah was not afraid of him. She doubted anyone truly was. But he was a rogue and a flirt. Men of that sort were best taken with an enormous grain of salt.
“I will be with you in a moment,” she said.
He smiled a very personable smile and accepted his lot.
To the squire, she said, “Have you any other requirements for—”
A sound echoed off the walls—a gurgling noise that sent shivers down her spine.
Neither the squire nor Mr. Prescott seemed to have heard it. Odd.
She gathered her wits and tried once more. “Have you any other requirements for your cake?”
“Let me see your list, and I will make certain it is correct.” He reached for the paper.
For just a moment, Tallulah thought she glimpsed, not a hand, but a claw. She looked again and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Her gaze shifted to his face, but the shadows of his hat hid most of it. An uncomfortable sensation tiptoed over her, but she dismissed it. Her mind, no doubt, was playing tricks on her.
“All is in order,” the squire said. “How fortunate the village is to have you. Do you mean to make your home here permanently?”
“I do hope so,” she said.
The squire, despite having posed the question, did not seem entirely pleased with the answer. Odd, that. He had said the village was fortunate to have her.
He stepped back from the counter and past Mr. Prescott. The two exchanged looks that were not easily discernible. Tallulah couldn’t tell if the two men were on friendly terms or if ’twas animosity she sensed between them. The squire’s crimson cape fluttered behind him as he left the shop.
Mr. Prescott stepped up to the counter. Even his swagger held a heavy hint of self-admiration.
Fortunately, Tallulah was rather immune to such things. She too could flirt and make lighthearted conversation. And she was known to toss about an expert bit of banter. But she was unlikely to fall under the spell of a scoundrel.
“You seem to have secured the patronage of our most significant local personage,” Mr. Prescott said.
“And it appears I’m soon to have the patronage of our town’s most flirtatious local personage.”
He tipped her a crooked smile, one complete with a twinkle of the eye and a raise of an eyebrow. “My reputation precedes me.”
“And what reputation might that be?”
The man chuckled lightly, far from offended. “You cannot deny that I have a reputation.”
“I don’t intend to deny any such thing. I simply wondered if you are aware of what is said of you.”
He leaned an elbow against the counter, watching her with a gaze that was at once curious and assessing. “Let me see if I can sum it up. I am a man of exceptional taste. I run a successful business. I am quick with a word of praise, predisposed toward finding beauty in everything around me. I enjoy banter and flirting, but all the women in the village are warned not to take me too seriously.”
It was, in all honesty, a good summary of what she’d heard.
“You’ve left something off,” she said.
He tipped his head to one side, clearly attempting to sort out what he might have left out.
Tallulah went about her business, wiping the counters and removing finger smudges from the glass displays about the shop, not offering him the least clue.
“You have baffled me, Miss O’Doyle,” he said. “What aspect of my rumored character have I omitted?”
“You neglected to mention the weakness you have for sweets, and”—she motioned to the colorful display on the wall behind her—“your intention to buy a great many confections while you’re here.”
That brought the smile to his face once more. Oh, he had an intriguing smile indeed! His reputation was widely spoken of, as was his ability to cut quite a fine dash. The fact that he was handsome and personable was mentioned at every opportunity. Yet, even with all of these warnings, Tallulah found herself ill-prepared for the impact of his roguish smile and knee-weakening good looks.
She would do well to be on her guard with this one.
Installment II
in which an Unkind Deed causes sorrow in Innocent and Roguish hearts alike!
Royston Prescott could not understand why he was so very bothered that the local confectionery merchant didn’t seem to care much for him. He’d heard talk of Miss Tallulah O’Doyle and had been intrigued over the weeks since her arrival. At long last, his curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he had slipped in to discover for himself if what he’d heard of it was true.
The children in the village adored her, proclaiming her the kindest lady of their acquaintance. Many throughout the area applauded her generosity. A few expressed some concerns that her tender heart would make it more difficult to turn a profit, but overall, she was declared an excellent addition to the shops at the market cross.
He had seen her about town, always from a distance. She was lovely, animated, and seemed a decidedly happy sort of person. He also saw in her something he recognized: loneliness. There was a certain melancholy resting deep in her eyes that spoke of someone who felt out of place, longed for someone to recognize what she struggled with.
She had taken up his banter readily and had thrown back as many quips as he had tossed at her. She was funny and clever, and he appreciated that. But it had become quickly obvious that she saw him as everyone else did—as he made certain everyone else did—dismissing him as little more than a hopeless scoundrel bent on shallow and meaningless interactions.
It shouldn’t have bothered him, but it did.
He stepped inside her shop two days after his initial visit and found the place quite busy. She, of course, had children inside staring longingly at the jars of colorful candies and displays of petits fours. This was a place of dreams for young, poor children. How easily she could have made it torturous for them, but she didn’t. When a child produced a ha’penny or, if they were particularly blessed, a pence, she helped them select the very best assortment of candies.
“You’re very kind to our little ones,” Mrs. Morris said. “We’ve never before had a confectionary shop in town. Your corner of Chippingwich has become a place of dreams.”
“My dreams as much as anyone else’s,” Miss O’Doyle said. “I like the baking and making, and the children are a delight to have about. And the town is proving right friendly, which I’m needing being so far from m’ home.”
“Perhaps this’ll become a home to you.” Mrs. Morris echoed the words of the squire from two days earlier, but she sounded sincere.
“Miss Tallulah.” Georgie Kent, one of many children in Chippingwich seen pouring in and out of the shop, held a ha’penny up to her. “Anise candy, please, Miss Tallulah.”
She accepted the coin. “You are in luck, Georgie. Anise candy is reduced in price today. You’ll get an extra piece.”
Georgie bounced in place, his eyes pulling nearly as wide as his grin. He left, as so many did, utterly delighted with their local confectioner.
“Mr. Prescott,” Miss O’Doyle greeted, his turn having arrived. “What may I do for you?”
“I have heard quite a lot of praise for your petits fours.” He offered what he knew was a very winning smile. “I simply must judge for myself.”
“You realize, of course, I will charge you the full price.”
He pretended to be affronted. “Am I not endearing enough to be granted the Adorable Village Youngster price?”
She made quite a show of regretting the necessary answer. “Even were you endearing, you would be disqualified on account of your advanced age.”
Oh, she was a delight!
“Do you not offer generous pricing to the exceptionally aged?”
“The shock might send you into your somewhat early grave.”
He tipped her a flirtatious glance. “I’d be willing to take the risk.”
She quoted him the usual price, but with a laugh in her eyes he felt certain was answered in his. He purchased two petits fours and sat at one of the two dainty tables in the establishment set there for the use of the customers. He would enjoy watching her interact with the villagers as he ate the tiny cakes. There was something very calming and pleasant about Miss Tallulah O’Doyle. Even one such as him could appreciate that.
Before any of the little ones or their parents could request their preferred sweet or baked good, Squire Carman slid inside, making his way directly to the counter. He was not one to wait his turn. Neither was he one for any variety in his clothing. Always the red hat and cape. At times, like this day, he wore a crimson waistcoat as well.
“I’ve come for the cake I commissioned,” he said.
“Of course.”
Miss O’Doyle turned to the curtained cooling cabinet in the corner and pulled from a low shelf a queen cake, dusted liberally with confectioners’ sugar and decorated with candied fruit. Sugar came dear. This offering, elegant and no doubt delicious, would not be inexpensive. Of all the people in Chippingwich, only Clancy Carman could afford such an indulgence.
The cake was set on the counter before him. The other customers looked on in awe. It was a beautiful creation, one sure to inspire envy in the hearts of everyone not permitted to partake. The squire’s lofty guests would be duly impressed.
Was Miss O’Doyle? Or did she see the squire for what he truly was?
“This is not what I asked for.” Mr. Carman eyed the baked marvel in much the way one would a decaying corpse.
“It is what you asked for,” Miss O’Doyle replied, calm yet firm.
Mr. Carman raised his chin to an authoritatively arrogant angle. “I remember my requirements precisely.”
She opened the drawer directly beside her and pulled out a slip of paper. “And I wrote down your requirements.” She held the paper so he could see the writing thereon. “Which of these demands does the cake fail to meet?”
The shop had gone quite still and as near to silent as two children and four adults could be. The squire was not known to be a generous man, and many people whispered a warning about his temper. Miss O’Doyle might not have known that.
“If your list”—he sneered out the word—“matches what you have just placed on this counter, then you wrote down my requirements incorrectly.”
“I did not.”
“Are you calling me a liar?”
The snap in his tone silenced Miss O’Doyle. She watched him, brows drawn, expression both confused and concerned.
“The cake is a disappointment,” Mr. Carman said, an infuriating veneer of satisfaction touching every inch of his face, “but I haven’t time to obtain a replacement. I’ll pay you half.”
“Half?” Miss O’Doyle’s eyes opened so wide one would not have been surprised if they simply fell from her head. “I paid more than that just for the ingredients.”
Carman was unmoved. “You are fortunate I am willing to pay you at all.”
Miss O’Doyle’s eyes darted about the room, clearly searching for someone who could help her make sense of this turn of events. Royston left his petits fours on the table and moved with feigned disinterest to the counter, stopping behind it, beside her, and addressed the baffled woman in a low voice.
“He has done this before. I doubt we’ve a merchant in the entire market cross that hasn’t had him balk at some purchase or another.”
She kept her voice to a whisper like his. “He’s claimed disappointment at your haberdashery? I find that difficult to believe; you do have a reputation.”
A corner of his mouth tugged in an unfeigned show of amused pleasure. “Let us simply say he has saved a great deal of money in my shop.”
“And no one ever fights him on it?” she asked.
“He is powerful. It has generally seemed best not to rock the boat.”
“Until the boat capsizes,” she said.
“What are you two whispering about?” Squire Carman demanded.
Royston looked over his shoulder at the weaselly man. “I was telling Miss O’Doyle that I am enjoying the tiny cakes I just bought from her.”
The squire’s gaze narrowed on him, and a chill washed through the room. Mr. Carman had that effect. The people of Chippingwich could not say precisely why, but he made everyone uncomfortable in eerie and disconcerting ways.
“Does he ever grow violent?” Tallulah asked in an even quieter whisper than they’d been employing.
“No one doubts him capable of it,” Royston said.
She released a small, heavy breath. “I suppose some payment for the cake is better than none. And it would afford me time to decide what I mean to do moving forward.”
He nodded, not necessarily to give approval of that particular course of action over any other but as a means of acknowledging that she had chosen a path.
Miss O’Doyle looked once more to the squire; Royston got out of the way.
“Have you come to your senses?” Mr. Carman asked.
“I have come to the realization that I am neglecting my other customers by prolonging this transaction.” Miss O’Doyle held her hand out for the meager coins she had been offered.
The squire dropped the coins not in her upturned palm but on the counter before taking up his ill-gotten cake and leaving with a smug air.
The other villagers present in the shop stood frozen on the spot. Carman held enough sway to inspire wariness, and he was enough of a fiend to inspire fear. He was not missed when he left a place and gained few friends by arriving.
How would their relatively newly arrived confectioner respond to the man who’d been making life miserable in Chippingwich for years? Would she rant and rage? Weep and crumble? Loudly decry the unfairness of it all? They were reasonable reactions, each and every one.
She did none of those, however. She simply looked out over the gathered customers, her dignity firmly in place, and said, “Next, please.”
Installment III
in which our Heroine makes a most shocking Discovery about the Town in which she lives!
The squire’s refusal to pay for his cake put Tallulah’s ledgers in tremendous jeopardy. Two nights in a row she spent hours searching for a means of recovering from the financial blow he’d dealt her. If she was quite careful, she could manage it, but she could not endure another swindling from the man. And yet, Mr. Royston Prescott had indicated this was a common practice for the local squire.
Under normal circumstances, she would not have selected a known tease as a primary source of information on such serious matters, but Mr. Prescott had shown her a degree of support that had surprised her. He’d not told her what to do, neither had he defended the squire. He was the closest thing to an ally she had.
She closed up her shop a little early, two days after the incident with the cake, and made her way down the road to the haberdashery shop where she knew she would find him.
She stepped inside and found the establishment empty, though she knew he did excellent business. But Fate was smiling on her. She’d found him at a time when he was not overly busy.
He looked up as she entered. A flirtatious smile spread across his face. “Miss O’Doyle. Have you come to purchase a waistcoat?”
“Wouldn’t I be quite the sight? Walking up and down the market cross while dressed in men’s clothing?”
The twinkle in his eye told her the possibility did not, in fact, horrify him. Why this brought her pleasure, she couldn’t say. Most any other man would have offered words, however hollow, of horror at the idea, accompanied by lofty praises of her femininity. He simply looked more roguish.
Her first impressions of him were proving accurate: he was a rogue, but not the threatening or dangerous variety. In fact, she found herself sorely tempted to smile along with him.
“I’ve come to ask you a question,” she said.
“As I’m not currently inundated with customers, this would be an excellent time to ask any and every question you might have.”
“You say that as if you hope my question will be something overbold.”
He shrugged elegantly and walked with careful and graceful strides to where she stood. He leaned a hand on the table, tipping his posture ever so slightly askew, granting him a casual connectedness to her that might’ve been a touch too familiar for an ordinary man. It seemed almost subdued for a rascal.
“What is your question, Miss Tallulah O’Doyle?” He even said her name in a way that was a touch scandalous. And, heaven help her, she liked it.
Forcing herself to focus on the business at hand, she asked, “Why is it that the squire has been permitted to mistreat so many for so long? Why has no one tried to stop him?”
His eyes narrowed, and his head tilted. “Why do you assume no one has ever tried?”
How had she come to that conclusion? “At my shop when the squire declared he meant to cheat me, not a single person looked surprised or outraged. And you said he’d done this before. I suppose I assumed it’d been ongoing long enough that it would’ve been stopped by now if enough effort had been made.”
Royston shrugged. His posture and expression remained quite casual for one discussing a tortured town. “Your assessment, then, is that Chippingwich hasn’t tried hard enough.”
“Or that even the best efforts haven’t managed the thing.”
“Well sorted,” he said.
She folded her arms, not in a show of defiance but in a match to his playful posture. “I believe you will find I’m terribly clever.”
“Are you?”
She took the slightest step closer to him, lowering her voice a bit. “Clever enough to know that you’re not telling me everything.”
The smile he offered was playful. Was he ever anything other than devil-may-care? He’d shown her concern in her shop while the squire was there, but that had been fleeting and not without a heavy hint of impishness.
He motioned her toward the table not too far distant. It was where he, no doubt, took orders from his customers and offered his customers’ companions a place to rest while they waited.
She took the seat he offered her. He sat beside her, sitting with as much swagger as he employed when on his feet. “What would you like to know? Your every wish is my cherished command.” Had her hand been within reach, he likely would have kissed it. The man never stopped flirting. Tallulah hoped he’d be serious long enough to explain a few things about Chippingwich.
“Am I the only one who finds the squire’s company . . . rattling?” She wasn’t explaining her feelings very well. “He makes me feel as though I’m about to crawl out of m’ skin.”
“I don’t know a soul who doesn’t find his presence uncomfortable,” Royston said.
“And not merely on account of his odor?”
That brought confusion to the man’s expression. “Does he smell strange to you?”
“Doesn’t he to you?”
Royston didn’t answer, but narrowed his gaze further, as if trying to make sense of her confusion. She didn’t dare ask if he heard noises when the squire was about. Tallulah did quite regularly. Mostly, it was a gurgling sound, but sometimes, though, she heard a distant, echoing laughter that sent chills down her spine.
“Someone has obviously tried to stop the squire, but hasn’t succeeded,” she said. “What was tried? And who did the trying?”
“I’ve been here two years now, and there’s only been one attempt I know of to thwart Mr. Carman,” he said. “His reign of terror was a well-known and well-established thing by the time I arrived.”
“And who was the person who stood up to him?”
“The man who owned the shop that you now claim as your own.”
A weight settled on her heart. Her shop had become available, she knew, not because the previous owner had grown too old for running it, nor because he had moved to a larger or different location. It had been available because it had been empty.
“Was his opposition to the squire the reason he lost his shop?”
“Not exactly.”
Not exactly. “What happened to him?”
Mr. Prescott released a breath before he answered. “No one knows.”
“He disappeared?”
A slow nod answered her quavering question.
Cheating the local merchants was not, then, the true threat they all faced. ’Twas little wonder Squire Carman held such power over them all.
“I’d not realized how difficult the situation was.”
“I did tell you that day in your shop that he’s believed to be violent.”
She rubbed at her forehead. “I didn’t take your warning entirely seriously.” She felt her cheeks flush at that admission. She did try not to judge people too quickly, yet she’d done precisely that with him. He seemed to be a rather shallow, swaggering blatherskite, so she’d assumed everything he said was somewhat empty.
The shop door opened, pulling both their eyes in that direction. Kirby Padmore, the proprietor of the local pub, shuffled inside, his expression as weary as ever yet still maintaining kindness and welcome. He was the reason his pub was so popular a destination.
Mr. Prescott rose and crossed to the new arrival, strutting as always. “How may I help you, Kirby?”
“I’m in need of new shirtsleeves,” he said. “I’ve ruined my last.”
Mr. Prescott crossed to the ceiling-tall shelves along the back wall, shelves that held a tremendous amount of fabric, but he did not pull out a bolt. Instead, he reached behind one particularly wobbly pile and removed an already sewn shirt.
Kirby accepted it.
“What did he toss at you this time?” Royston asked.
“Guinness.”
Mr. Prescott looked to Tallulah. “I hope that doesn’t pain you too much, hearing of this senseless waste of a drink your country holds in such esteem.”
“I might be pained, were I not so confused.”
Kirby sighed. “The squire’s temper can run a touch hot. When he’s put out with me, he has a tendency to douse me with whatever happens to be in his glass.”
’Twasn’t difficult to imagine that scenario. “Does he grow ‘put out’ with you on account of you asking him to pay his bar tab?”
“That’s generally the trigger.”
A plague, indeed. “You must miss the years before he was the squire.”
“I’ve never known a time when he was not,” Kirby said.
The man was noticeably older than Mr. Carman. Kirby, like Mr. Prescott, must have come from elsewhere.
“How long have you been in Chippingwich?” she asked.
Kirby paid Mr. Prescott for the shirt that had been waiting for him, no doubt a long-standing arrangement between the men. “I’ve lived here all my life.” With that, he slipped from the shop.
All his life?
Kirby was seventy if he was a day. Mr. Carman didn’t look a day over forty, yet he’d been squire throughout Kirby’s memory.
How was that possible?
Installment IV
in which the Threat to the village reveals itself in Terrifying ways!
Tallulah watched for the squire as the days passed. She hadn’t the least doubt he would return, and she needed to decide how she meant to respond. Knowing he was, by all estimations, at least eighty years old despite appearing to be only half that, she knew there was something otherworldly about him. That explained the putrid air that hung about him, and the unnerving noises that seemed to follow him about.
Her gran had told her stories of the Fae, of monsters and fairies and mysterious beings. If the squire belonged to that world, then he was dangerous in a way no one comprehended. And yet, refusing to stand up to him simply allowed him to hurt the village all the more. He would continue his reign of terror if he was left unchecked.
“You must know what it is you’re facing,” Gran had said. “To unknowingly cross paths with the Fae is a danger greater than any human can imagine.”
But what was he? She wasn’t at all certain, and saints knew she needed to be.
Belinda and Marty stepped inside, their eyes immediately on the colorful displays of candies.
She adored the children of Chippingwich. “What’s it to be today, loves?”
“We want to try anise candies,” Belinda announced. “Georgie likes them.”
“He does, indeed.” She set a ha’penny’s worth of anise candies on a slip of paper and folded it up, trading the sweets for their coin.
“Do you have any new candies, Miss Tallulah?” Marty seldom spoke, and when he did so, he was very quiet.
Tallulah kept her own voice gentle and calm when answering. “I have chocolate-covered almonds. They come very dear, though, so we’ll have to save those for a very special treat.”
Marty nodded, eagerly eyeing the folded paper in his friend’s hand. The two little ones would most likely have the anise candy eaten long before reaching either of their homes.
A flurry of red announced the squire’s arrival. He slid into the shop with all the arrogance of someone who knows he will not be challenged or denied what he wishes for. Tallulah didn’t know what he had come to demand this time, but it was clear he believed he had won already.
The children inched quickly away from the counter, watching the squire’s approach with a deep-seated wariness. They were, no doubt, all too familiar with the sort of person he was. Tallulah kept her posture straight and her demeanor sure.
The squire likely did not know she had pieced together that he belonged to the world of the Fae. She hid her discomfort with his smell; she ignored the distant laughter.
“What can I do for you, sir?” she asked in a tone that was as neutral as she could make it.
“I have decided to give you the opportunity to redeem yourself,” he said.
He meant to humble and humiliate her before making his demands, did he? Well, she didn’t mean to allow him.
“Whatever do you mean by that?” she asked.
“I was referring to the cake,” he said.
“I do recall the cake, but I do not understand the reference you’re making.” She understood completely, but giving him the impression that it was of so little consequence that she had already forgotten might take a bit of the wind out of his sails.
“The cake you produced was a failure,” he said. “I am certain you remember that muddle.”
She pursed her lips in a confused frown. “I do not recall a failed cake.”
He eyed her more closely. The man, no doubt, wasn’t certain what to make of her. Good. If he were upended, he might not be quite so sure of himself. Lack of confidence might render him less dangerous. Perhaps he’d even offer a clue as to who or what he truly was.
“I’m here to place another order,” he said. “I have decided to be generous since you are new in the village, and it is the job of a squire to see to the good of his people, even if it means risking another disaster.”
“I don’t understand,” she said, still feigning innocence.
His narrowed gaze grew bewildered and increasingly annoyed. She would do well to tread lightly.
“That ridiculous haberdasher said that your petits fours were well done. I should like to place an order for enough of those to impress visitors who are coming to Chippingwich. I will be hosting them in two days’ time, and I should warn you they are not easily impressed.”
“I’m afraid that will not be possible,” she said.
For a moment, he said nothing. Then, in a bit of irony she struggled not to smile at, he repeated the same words that, coming from her, had so frustrated him a moment earlier. “I don’t understand.”
“You’ve declared my cake was a failure. I’d not see you disappointed again.”
“I have told you I am generously willing to allow you another opportunity.”
She shook her head. “I have learned my lesson, Squire Carman. I am simply not talented enough to provide someone of your eminence with confectioneries for your exalted guests. You had best ride to the nearest village with its own confectionery shop.”
The entire shop fell silent. She wasn’t certain the children were even breathing.
“You would rather not make money?” he asked through a tight jaw.
“On the contrary.” The last time, he had paid her only a portion of what he’d promised for the cake. It would not surprise her in the least if he decided that the petits fours ought to be complementary. He would find some reason to argue that they were not worth paying for. She refused to be swindled again.
“As I said, there will be no confectioneries for you to pay for. You will simply have to go elsewhere.”
“You are refusing?” The squire asked the question in so tense a tone that she felt some of her courage flee. But no. Someone had to stand up to him.
“It appears I am refusing.” The declaration emerged firmer and surer than she had anticipated. She was proud of the steadiness of her voice. The children, however, did not seem to feel quite so much confidence. They bolted for the door and out onto the street.
“No one in this village has the audacity to oppose me,” the squire said.
Something in the air changed. Literally. It was colder, heavier. Her very breath sounded different. Her voice likely would as well, but she refused to stay silent.
“I’ve not improved as a baker in the last few days. Nothing I make is likely to meet with your approval, so it makes no sense for me to bake you anything else. It’s for your own good, and for the good of the impression you hope to make on your distinguished guests, that you obtain what you wish for from a shop that you trust.”
“I am not the one who ought to be concerned with what is in my best interest.”
Tallulah set her hands on the counter, feeling the shift in the balance of things. She had the oddest sensation of not being entirely stable on the ground.
“Now,” the squire said in a tone that could never be mistaken for patience, “do you intend to take the order I have come to place?”
The fear she felt growing inside insisted she bow to his demands. He was frightening, and powerful. If she didn’t stand up to him, she doubted anyone ever would.
She swallowed. Breathed. And pushed on. “You will have to place your order elsewhere.”
The displeasure in his eyes grew quickly to fury. The very ground beneath them began to shake. Items on shelves shifted and moved, jumping dangerously about. A glass bowl of candies fell to the floor and shattered. Confections flew from shelves and boxes, landing in ruined heaps on the floor.
All the while, the squire watched her, unblinking. The hatred in his eyes gave them an unholy glow. One she was nearly certain was literal. Literal and heated and radiating red.
The glass in the window wobbled, an unnerving rolling motion she knew glass was not meant to make.
The squire’s expression twisted with hatred. And with it, his face changed. It seemed to pull, elongate, grow misshapen.
Faster and faster the window shook and waved. More and more grotesque grew the squire’s face.
Then—a cracking sound.
Tallulah dove to the ground, her head tucked in and her arms covering herself as much as she could manage. In the very next instant, a blast of air shook the space and the window gave, showering her and the shop with shards of wood and glass.
“You, Tallulah O’Doyle, have made a very grave error.”
From her position ducked behind the counter, she heard the sound of the squire’s exiting footfalls, crunching on the bits of glass and candies and debris strewn about the floor.
She remained there, curled in a ball, shaken more than she cared to admit. He had done this. He had done it while standing in place, and without causing himself the least harm. Though she was uninjured, she suspected he could have hurt her if he’d wished to. It was a warning, an easier consequence than what he would likely inflict the next time.
All was quiet in the shop. She could hear nothing beyond the sound of her breathing and the wind whistling in through the broken window. She was grateful the children had already left the shop. How many others in town would know soon enough what had happened? Her determination to help them by standing firm might simply have made them more afraid, put them in more danger.
“Tallulah?” Someone was calling her name. The sound of glass crunching beneath heavy footsteps told her the speaker was in the shop. “Tallulah, are you hurt?”
Royston Prescott. She recognized his voice now. And she felt better.
Slowly, carefully, she stood once more. Glass and bits of cake and biscuits and candies rolled off her as she straightened.
“All the market cross saw your window shatter,” he said. “And even before the squire stepped out, we knew what had happened.”
“You knew he had this power?” She tried not to let her fear show, but she was not at all certain she’d succeeded.
He nodded. “None of us knows where his abilities come from, but we have all had our own experience with them. He is a dangerous man.”
“He is not a man. I know enough of the Fae to know he is some variety of monster.”
Royston brushed bits of debris from her shoulders with his gloved hands. “Whatever he is, he’s dangerous.”
“All the more reason none of us can face him alone.”
He looked her in the eyes. “This has not scared you off? Hasn’t convinced you to stop trying?”
“If the children had still been in here when he did this, they might have been hurt or worse. I cannot shrug and walk away simply because I’m afraid. It’s time this village escaped the grip of whatever the squire truly is.”
A smile spread across Royston’s handsome face. “Kirby said he was certain you wouldn’t flinch. I’m happy he was right. Chippingwich has been waiting a long time for someone like you.”
Installment V
in which terrifying Secrets are revealed about the grave Danger facing the Village!
Bob Kent stood in the doorway, looking over the destruction. “She stood firm?”
Royston nodded.
“Is it time to try again?” Bob asked.
“I believe it might be.” He looked to Tallulah. “Are you injured?”
“No, but I’ll likely be a bit bruised.” She watched them both, clearly confused and curious.
“We’ll see to this.” Bob motioned to the mess. “Best consult with ol’ Kirby. This may be our best chance.”
“Kirby Padmore?” Tallulah asked Royston.
“He knows more of this than any of us, and you need to understand it better as well.”
Royston offered her his hand, unsure if she would accept, but there was not even a moment of hesitation on her part. She set her hand in his and walked with him through the broken glass and scattered confections and splintered wood—all that remained of her once-impressive shop.
Just outside, a crowd had gathered, looking at the blown-in window and debris with a heaviness that spoke of familiarity. Whether Tallulah realized it or not, this had happened before.
He walked with her, their fingers entwined. She was quiet, not surprising considering the harrowing experience she’d passed through.
“Are you certain you are not injured? There was a fearful amount of glass strewn about.”
She nodded. “I was not hurt, but I am worried all the same.”
He met her heavy gaze. “This village harbors a terrible secret, Tallulah. Kirby can explain it all far better than I can.”
They stepped into the pub. Royston glanced around, wanting to make certain the squire was not present, but only Kirby was there. Someone must have whispered to the proprietor the details of all that had happened at the sweets shop because he didn’t appear the least surprised at their arrival.
“Revealed himself, did he?” Kirby asked.
“Aye,” Royston answered, “though how much, I’m not certain.”
Kirby motioned them to a small table tucked up near the low-burning fire. Royston saw Tallulah seated, then sat himself.
“I’d already sorted out that Mr. Carman is some sort of creature.” Tallulah jumped straight into the matter at hand. “When you said a few days ago that he’d been squire here for as long as you could remember, I knew there had to be something otherworldly about him. And, blessed saints, the smell of him.” She grimaced. “He can toss noises around, make a body hear things that aren’t there. All that confirmed my suspicions. But after what he did in my shop today . . .” She wrapped her arms around herself as a shudder shook her frame. “He is something other than a man,” she whispered. “I’ll not be convinced otherwise.”
“Because of the damage he did?” Royston pressed. It was crucial they know precisely what the squire had revealed of himself to her.
“Yes, but more than that.” Her gaze darted from Kirby to Royston and back. “His eyes glowed. I realize that sounds ridiculous, but they did. They glowed red.”
Royston looked to Kirby. “She saw his eyes glow.”
“So did you,” Kirby reminded him.
“We tried then,” Royston said. “We must try again now.”
“Begging your pardon,” Tallulah said with a bit of dryness in her voice, “but I’d like to be part of this conversation, especially considering it’s meant to be about me.”
He couldn’t help a laugh no matter the heaviness of their topic. “A thousand apologies, my dear.” Royston then dipped his head to Kirby. “If you’d be so good as to explain to our fair companion.”
“Even in a time such as this, you flirt,” she said to Royston with a smile.
“Is that a complaint?”
Her eyes twinkled as she shook her head. “Not in the least.”
Oh, he did like her. Royston set his hand atop hers, and she threaded their fingers together once more. As her fingers bent around his, small scratches pulled, tiny bubbles of blood emerging from some. He hoped she had no further injuries.
Calm as could be, Tallulah turned to Kirby. “Tell me what we are facing.”
“My father first told me when I was very young about the creature. He has lived in these parts for an age, though we do not believe he originated here. Many a tale has been told of cruel tricks and dastardly doings perpetrated by him. He fools people into doing embarrassing or dangerous things. He destroys crops, buildings, belongings. As near as I’ve been able to tell, he began his reign as our local squire on a lark and discovered he liked it—liked the ability to do mischief and to cause terror.”
“And does he play such dastardly tricks on his exalted visitors as well?” Tallulah asked.
Royston breathed a small sigh of relief. That Tallulah had not dismissed the otherworldly explanation out of hand was a good sign.
“We aren’t certain what becomes of his visitors. It is whispered about that he can change people into other forms, at least temporarily. There is some worry that he might . . . eat people.”
“Then why order baked confections to impress them if he means only to do them harm and—” The question halted and understanding dawned in her expression. “In order to inflict his mischief upon me.”
Kirby nodded. “And he doesn’t take well to being irritated or ruffled. His tricks are to be endured without complaint else his ire be earned.”
“The citizens hereabout, I’ve discovered,” Royston said, “do not see his glowing red eyes, even when he is using his ability to blow open doors or break windows or such things. Only you and I have ever seen that.”
“And we both come from somewhere other than this village,” Tallulah said.
“That, we believe, is a clue to his origins,” Kirby said. “He has remained here so long because he can do so in disguise. Only the arrival of outsiders threatens to reveal his true shape and form.”
“It was not merely his eyes that changed,” Tallulah said. “In his most angry moment, I felt certain his nose and face elongated, pulling out almost into a triangular snout, almost like a—”
“A rat?” Royston finished the thought in unison with her.
Her wide eyes turned on him, and she nodded.
“When angry, he also has a tail,” Royston said. “It is hidden beneath his cloak and, I suspect, cannot be seen by any of the villagers.”
“Rat features,” she repeated in a contemplative whisper. “Does he ever not wear his red cap and cloak?”
“Never,” Kirby said.
“He has rat-like features, plays dastardly tricks, smells of something rotten, produces unnerving noises, and, I suspect, no one has ever seen him eat.”
Royston looked to Kirby, unsure of the answer.
“He’s thrown back many a pint in here,” Kirby said, “but never have I seen him eat so much as a crust of bread.”
Tallulah tapped her free hand on the table. “He’s a fear dearg, I’d bet m’ life on it.”
“A far darrig?” Royston repeated the words phonetically, not being at all certain what they meant.
“’Tis a lone Fae, a solitary creature, and not one at all inclined toward friendliness. These monsters are known to play horrid, often cruel, tricks on humans. They look like humans except for their rat-like fur, face, and tail. And they always wear red: sometimes limiting themselves to a cloak and cap, sometimes wearing red from top to tail, as it were. In Irish, fear dearg translates to the Crimson Man, named so on account of the color they always wear.”
“Any idea why it is that we, who are from here, cannot see the squire in his true monstrous form?” Kirby asked.
“The Fae are connected to their homes in strong and often mystifying ways,” Tallulah said. “It could be that tucking himself in this foreign-to-him corner of the world protects him, hides him.”
“Could be, could be.” Kirby leaned back in his chair, stroking his chin as he pondered. “Royston could see him because he is not from here. And you could as well because your origins lie away from this village.”
“Not only away from Chippingwich,” Royston said, “but your origins reach back to the country of the fear dearg. I’d wager you can see him better than any of us. And perhaps that is why you can smell things we can’t and hear things we don’t. He cannot hide as entirely from you.”
“Have you any idea why he doesn’t eat?” Kirby asked.
“The fear dearg do eat,” Tallulah said.
“Do I dare ask what?” Royston had a suspicion it wasn’t anything pleasant.
“They eat carrion, carcasses.”
“Human?” Kirby asked, his voice small and cracked.
She nodded. “And animal.”
A heavy silence filled with uncertainty and worry settled over the all-but-empty pub.
“As far as we have been able to discover,” Kirby said, “he cannot be killed. Many have tried, and all have failed.”
“He can be,” she said, “but only with the right weapon.”
“And what weapon would that be?” Kirby sighed, his voice weighed down by years of defeats and frustrations. “We’ve tried everything we know.”
“They can be defeated only with a blade of iron,” she said. “Iron is dangerous to most Fae,” she said. “’Tis the reason we hang iron horseshoes above a door; not for general luck but to protect ourselves from the Fae.”
“Have you tried iron?” Royston asked Kirby.
“I can’t say that we have. It isn’t a common metal for weapons any longer.”
“Can one be obtained?” Tallulah asked.
“I will see to it, but we must be careful about the arranging of it. Should our efforts be discovered . . .”
“I have a shipment of cloth arriving in a few days,” Royston said. “We can secret the weapon in that. My disguise will go far to preventing the squire from growing suspicious.”
“Your disguise?” Tallulah asked.
“We did not know how to defeat him. And, had he known how well I can see his true form, he’d have killed me, I’m certain.”
“What disguise did you assume?” she pressed.
“That of an unreliable, selfish, flirtatious—”
“Rogue,” she finished in a tone of realization. “You make yourself seem too frivolous to appear to the squire to be a threat.”
“Facing him would require selflessness, and he is certain I have none.” A sudden, horrifying thought occurred to him. “Did you let on that you could see what he truly looked like?”
“Not intentionally,” she said. “I spent most of that encounter attempting to hide from flying glass.”
“You and I alone can see him for what he truly is, though only entirely when he is at his most dangerous. It is for us, then, to face him and free this village of his reign of cruelty and terror. But that is a task fraught with danger. I do not for a moment believe anyone in Chippingwich would hold you to that knowing you did not arrive here with this end in mind.”
“Courage that exists only when one has a choice is not courage at all. True bravery lies in facing those dangers one did not expect and is not required to face simply because it is the right thing to do.”
“Then we’ll face him?”
She nodded. “Together.”
Installment VI
in which Time runs short and our Heroine is faced with unfathomable Danger!
The damage to the confectionery shop was significant enough that Tallulah had not the time to resume her candy making or baking despite the passage of three days. The villagers had been remarkably kind and generous. They had begun cleaning while she’d been in the pub learning the horrible truth of their situation. They’d continued their efforts for hours afterward and into the next day. Given time, she’d have the means to replace the glass in the front window. For now, the town had kindly supplied her with enough greased paper to fill the gaping hole left by the squire.
A fear dearg of all things. And in England rather than Ireland. The Fae could, of course, travel, but didn’t usually go so far afield. Had she encountered in her homeland what she had in Chippingwich, she would have recognized the signs, would have known much sooner what they were facing. Then again, were she in Ireland, everyone would have realized what they were facing, and she wouldn’t be struggling with the enormity of defeating the monster on her own.
“There are many reasons the Fae avoid the mortal realm, iron being chief among them.” She could hear her gran’s words in her mind. “Iron bends the Fae. It twists them about, interferes with their magic. The most dangerous among them can only be felled by weapons of iron.”
Heaven help them all if Kirby and Royston were unable to obtain an iron axe or sword. Fear dearg grew bolder with every bit of mischief and torment. They came to enjoy the misery they caused, yet quickly found it insufficient. They grew worse and worse with time, and this fear dearg had been at his current mischief for nearly a century. That the village suspected their monster-turned-squire had killed the last shop owner to push back against him didn’t surprise her, but it did worry her. The squire would soon grow quite bold in that respect as well. Chippingwich would move from being tormented to being decimated.
The door, splintered but still functioning, opened. Her heart hammered on the instant but settled when Royston stepped inside.
He sauntered toward her, the same dandified gait he’d employed when first they’d met. It was a disguise; she could see that so clearly now.
“What news have you?” she asked once he’d reached her.
“My shipment of fabrics arrived today,” he said. “Only the fabrics.”
She rubbed at the back of her neck. “Without the remainder of that shipment, we are in dire straits.” They simply had to have an iron weapon.
“I do believe Kirby secured what we were looking for. It simply has not reached us yet.”
She sighed. “Let us hope we receive that shipment in time.”
“And with no indication of what’s inside,” he added.
Saints, that’d be a disaster. “We cannot risk raising a certain . . . person’s suspicions.”
He tugged at his lace-edged cuffs. “Tosh. I meant only that it’s far more enjoyable to open a packet when one has no idea what might be inside.”
How was it she hadn’t seen through these antics sooner? He had managed to fool the fear dearg but had also pulled the wool over her eyes. “If you have no idea what is inside the packet we are anticipating, then I have concerns about your intelligence.”
He chuckled. “Let us hope the squire harbors those same doubts.”
“About both of us,” she said.
Royston took her hand and raised it to his lips, pressing a warm kiss to the backs of her fingers. “I do not believe I have ever met your equal, Tallulah O’Doyle. You are brave and kind and, yes, intelligent.”
“And you, Royston Prescott, are showing yourself to have excellent taste.”
Again, he lightly laughed. With obvious reluctance, he slipped his hand from hers and stepped toward the door. “I will watch for our delivery. In the meantime, take care.”
“I will say the same to you.”
He dipped his head in a flourishing bow. A moment later, he was gone, and she was, once more, alone. Before the squire’s destructive visit, her shop had seldom been empty. The villagers, bless them, had continued to come by, to look in on her, to offer what help they could. She loved the people of Chippingwich, and she was determined to free them from the grip of the dangerous monster in their midst, one they could not fully see for what it was.
“What a shame all your customers have fled.” A whoosh of red and a waft of putridity accompanied the sardonic observation.
“Mr. Carman,” she said, keeping her tone as calm and disinterested as ever. It wouldn’t do to tip her hand before they were ready to truly do battle with the monster. “I have not yet begun replacing the candies and sweets and baked goods that were lost when the window broke. I do not know how soon I will do so.”
“I only came to offer a friendly greeting.” He turned his head toward her as he spoke, a shaft of light spilling across his face. It appeared as a double, both the human visage the villagers saw and the rat-like face of the fear dearg beneath. Each face faded in and out, repeatedly replaced by the other. His disguise was breaking down.
“You’ve offered your greeting,” she said. “Now, I need to get back to the matter of repairing m’ shop.”
Squire Carman made a slow, dramatic turn, eyeing the room with a mock expression of concern. “A shame what happened.”
As he turned, his cape rustled, and a rat’s tail became momentarily visible. Why was it she was seeing so much more of the monster beneath the disguise? What had changed?
Perhaps knowing what he was made it more difficult to be fooled.
Or, perhaps, just as his mask had first cracked in her presence when he’d grown angry with her, the disguise fell to bits the more upset the fear dearg was. And if she was seeing him so clearly, then he was not as calm as he appeared.
“It would be a true shame if more damage occurred here,” Mr. Carman said.
“Yes, it would.” She held her ground, watching him warily and closely. Heavens, that tail of his wasn’t hidden in the least. How odd that only she and Royston could see it.
“And yet, it seems unavoidable.” The squire turned back slowly. His eyes glowed as they had before. His human face had grown nearly transparent. His disguise was all but gone.
“What makes it unavoidable?” she asked.
“The way you look at me.” The fear dearg inched closer, his demonic gaze unblinking and hurling actual physical heat at her. “You hide it well, bean.” That he called her by the Irish word for woman worried her. He understood that his origins in her homeland had offered her insights none of the others had. “You know what I am.”
“Irish children are taught young the dangers of the Fae.”
“And, yet, you’ve stumbled right into that danger.”
Newly repaired shelves began to rattle. The paper in the window ripped. All the while, the fear dearg didn’t look away from her, didn’t take another step.
“I’ve a good arrangement here,” the monster said. “I’ll not let you destroy it.”
“I’ve good friends and neighbors here,” she said in return. “I’ll not let you destroy them.”
“I’ve not eaten any of them.” His mouth turned up in a sinister smile, revealing sharp, jagged teeth. “Yet. But I’m running out of ‘distinguished visitors.’”
Once a fear dearg discovered a liking for some bit of cruelty, he never lost his taste for it.
If only the iron weapon had arrived! What was she to do?
“Now”—the Crimson Man took a single step closer—“how to rid myself of both you and that ridiculous haberdasher at once.”
“What has that rogue to do with anything?”
“He knows what I am, just as I know what he is.” The fear dearg flipped back one side of his cape. “I suspect I’ll have to invite him to cook dinner.”
Invite him to cook dinner. She knew what that meant. Every Irish child knew what that meant. Any human invited to cook dinner for a Crimson Man found themselves roasting a fellow human over a spit. And if Royston were invited to cook, she’d no doubt she would be the unfortunate main course.
The new position of the squire’s cape revealed something Tallulah had not seen him carrying before: a burlap bag. She ought to have known he had one. All fear dearg carried them. Always. And always for the same purpose: kidnapping and hauling off their human victims. If she was seeing it now, then she was moments away from being stuffed inside.
“I’ve delayed this bit of mischief for a long time.” Mischief. Not a strong enough word for what she knew would come next when that burlap sack appeared.
There was a means of preventing it, though. She had been told there was. But what was the method? It didn’t stop fear dearg entirely, but it prevented being kidnapped. Heavens, what was it?
“You played me a dirty trick sending off the little ones.” His hand inched back toward his bag. “I do know that children are delicious.”
It was something she was meant to say. Her gran had told her. ’Twas a particular phrase.
He came closer, reaching for the bag.
What was it? What was it?
His free hand reached for her. Once he caught hold, there would be no escape.
Across the years, the voice of her gran whispered to her. Tallulah spoke her words as they entered her thoughts. “Na dean fochmoid fàin.”
He froze, his expression turning putrid with anger. “That will save you from the confines of my burlap bag, but you may very well wish you were there.”
The chairs at the table flew at her. She dove out of the way, only to have something else deal her a blow. She could hear the heavy, scurrying footsteps of the Crimson Man. He couldn’t abduct her, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t kill her.
She groped around until she found something heavy that could fit in her hand—a shattered chair leg. Tallulah rolled enough to lean on her opposite hip and swing the leg with all her might at the fear dearg. He nearly toppled but managed to remain on his rat-like feet.
The stumble was enough to grant her time to scramble to her feet, the chair leg—now cracked—still in her hand.
He spun about with a jerk, eyes glowing so brightly the entire shop was lit in red. “I am tiring of these games.”
“Perhaps we ought to stop playing.”
He shook his head, no longer bearing even a shadow of human shape. “My games end only one way.”
“With me on a spit?”
A grotesque grin grew on his rat face. “I will enjoy that. I’ll have to continue playing after you are gone.”
Once fear dearg had a taste for something . . .
Royston stepped into the shop. “I propose, rather, we continue playing after you are gone.”
“You will be easier to defeat,” the Crimson Man declared. “You haven’t the fire of this one.”
“Perhaps not, but I do have this.” He raised a mighty axe.
The monster was unconcerned. “‘Though blade of stone or axe of steel, the Crimson Man you’ll never kill.’”
Royston’s face filled with pity. “How very misinformed you are.”
With a chuckle that sent ripples of dread through every inch of Tallulah, the fear dearg threw his rodent head backward in amusement.
“I need him within swinging distance,” Royston mouthed.
She circled back, holding her pitiful chair leg with as much confidence as she could muster. The monster eyed her doubtfully, amusedly. She swung the leg with no intention of actually hitting him.
“How very pathetic,” their enemy said. “And how very futile.”
“I am protected from your bag,” she said. “I must protect him.”
Realization filled those glowing red eyes. Tallulah swung more frantically, more wildly. With annoyance, he stepped farther from her, but not near enough to Royston.
The supposed rogue held the axe firmly in both hands, eyeing his target with a firmness of purpose that belied his assumed character.
“He is not safe from my bag.” The fear dearg cackled and turned. “Abandon your pathetic axe. It will avail you nothing.”
“I like it,” Royston said, securing his grip. “It is unlike any weapon I’ve yet yielded.”
Claws on his burlap bag, the Crimson Man began to close the gap between him and Royston. “And you and your unique weapon can both turn over a fire.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Royston said. “Iron can be difficult to digest.”
The fear dearg stopped, frozen to the spot.
Tallulah took a giant step forward and swung the splintered leg hard against his back, sending him reeling forward. Royston did not miss his opportunity.
A swing of the axe.
An otherworldly cry.
The shaking of the very ground.
Then all was still, and dark, and quiet.
Installment VII
in which Fear becomes Hope and Worry turns to Jubilation!
The creature had disappeared. Vanished. Royston had swung his iron axe, and he knew he had hit his mark. But the moment the cries of agony from the otherworldly monster pierced the air, the beast dissolved into millions of granules of glowing red light before dissipating entirely. Nothing remained. There was no blood, no body, no remnants of a creature that had, for nearly one hundred years, ruled viciously in this area.
In but a moment, he turned to Tallulah. Where was she? Had she emerged unscathed? With the boldness and bravery that would have inspired the poets of old, she had attacked the monster without the needed weaponry, making certain the squire did not fully realize what Royston was preparing to do. They had worked together, taking on a desperate task. But she, far more than he, had been willing to embrace true danger.
“Tallulah?” The shop was not entirely dark, but there was a heaviness in the air that made everything confused and difficult to navigate. He suspected it was the aftereffects of the death of the monster. The feeling would, no doubt, dissipate soon enough. In the meantime, he needed to know she was well and hale.
“Royston?” She spoke from so nearby he was shocked that he couldn’t actually see her. He reached out a hand. His fingers brushed what he was certain were her fingers. “There you are.”
“Is he gone?” she asked, slipping her fingers through his.
“He’s gone, evaporated into tiny particles of glowing red.”
“Do you see his bag?” she asked.
“I cannot see a thing.”
“Search about for it. The bag contains magic of its own and must be burned.”
He dropped down, feeling about on the floor, searching in the darkness. The space was growing less befuddling, but he still felt upended.
“Wait, I found it,” she said. “Let’s go outside. The lingering magic will make this task impossible in here.”
He fumbled, tripped a bit, but made his way outside. She stepped out of the building just as he did, her arms burdened with an enormous burlap bag easily big enough for a person to fit inside.
All around the market cross, villagers spilled from buildings, eyes wide with worry and questions. Kirby stepped from the pub, his bushy white brows pulled with concern.
Royston turned to face them all and, in a ringing voice, declared, “The monster has been defeated. We are free!”
Shouts of jubilation rang out around them, the perfect juxtaposition to the horrible shrieks of an evil monster who had met his demise moments earlier.
“There remains yet one more thing to be done,” Tallulah said. “We must destroy this bag, burn it to ashes.” She dropped the bag on the ground in front of her. It made an enormous lump of rough fabric. “It is the last lingering remnants of his magic. It must not be permitted to remain.”
The villagers needed no encouragement. Torches were lit in the various fires of the establishments all about, from the pub to the mercantile, from the milliner to the butcher. Royston himself slipped into the haberdashery and to the small fire at the back of the shop, and lit a torch of his own.
One by one, those who had been tortured and held hostage by the creature who would have used this bag to steal away every one of them if given a chance, lit it on fire. Again and again, they touched torches to the fabric and added to the growing flame that was consuming it.
The fire spat out flames of purest, deepest red. No smoke emerged. No sparks flew. There was nothing about this fire that was natural. But it was undeniably cleansing.
Royston stood beside Tallulah as the villagers sang and cheered and danced. Their joy changed the glow of the flame from crimson red to a soft pink. Rather than being attacked by the dark magic of the one-time squire, they were being lit by the soft glow of his final demise.
“They are free,” Tallulah said. “They are safe.”
“Chippingwich has waited a long time for you, Tallulah O’Doyle. Only with your knowledge and bravery were we at last able to defeat him.”
“Your role in this was not insignificant,” Tallulah said. “I believe the key was not me, but us.”
“Us.” He liked the sound of that. “We did show ourselves to be a remarkably good team.”
She slipped her arm through his and rested her head against him. “Yes, we did.”
“It may take time for your shop to open again,” he said. “If we were to combine efforts, you could resume your business while waiting on the repairs.”
She met his eye, clearly curious. “What are you proposing?”
“That we open the first Haberdashery and Confectionery Shop. We will begin a new trend, I’m certain of it. And being the fine team that we are, we will make an inarguable success of it.”
A hint of a smile played over her features. “Is that the only thing you are proposing?”
He leaned in and, adopting the roguish tone he had long ago perfected, he said, “That is not remotely the only thing.”
“I should very much like to hear your schemes.” She didn’t seem to harbor any lingering doubts about his character. She’d seen past the rogue he’d pretended to be to the person lurking beneath. And she seemed to like who she saw.
“Well, let me tell you the first and the last item on my list.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers. “The first part of my proposal is that you join me at the pub for dinner, and I will hold your hand and look lovingly into your eyes the way a man does when courting a woman.”
“I like the beginning of this list,” she said.
“Then you’re going to love where the list ends.” He slipped his arm free of hers and wrapped it instead around her waist.
“And where does it end?” she asked.
He rested his forehead against hers. “It doesn’t. There’s no end. This, Tallulah O’Doyle, is meant to last forever.”