Volume Three - WordPress.com — Get a Free Blog Here

He stalked to a small desk under the open window and collected his journal from the surface. The covering,
brown leather worn soft from so many handlings sported no name, no marking, no initials. He took it to the
armoire and crouched down in front of it. Setting the book on the floor, he gave it a shove and watched it
disappear into the space beneath. He wasn’t too concerned with someone stealing it. Any unfortunate soul daring
to invade his room would meet with an unpleasant, permanent end.
A moment later he stepped into the gloomy hallway, closing the door behind him. Mellow candlelight
flickered from sconces on the walls, too far spaced to chase the shadows away. He would not have been
hindered had the corridor been totally black.
He encountered no one as he descended three floors to the main room.
The Rose and Lion Inn was said to be the best in Malmsbury, a fact he found ironic considering there were
only two. After observing both for several days prior to his official arrival, Dréoteth found that this one served
his purposes better than its smaller rival, Cantley’s. The Rose and Lion backed up to a sweeping forest, giving him
some sort of cover if he suddenly needed it. Cantley’s sat in the middle of the village, providing less protection if
he found himself on the wrong end of a hunt.
“Good evening, Mister Trimble.”
The intrusion of his name into his thoughts ended them abruptly. He glanced through the empty room to
the diminutive woman behind the bar.
He smiled, a slow curve that didn’t expose any teeth.
“Mistress Bailey. Are you not attending the festival?” he asked, weaving through the maze of vacant tables
with uncanny grace. Arriving at the counter, he rested a hand there, long fingers spare of rings or adornment.
He stared across at the redheaded, gray-eyed woman and drew in her scent: apples, wine, spice, meat and
rose soap. It was always some combination of food and flowers.
She lifted her chin and maintained eye contact, drying the goblet in her hands with quick, nervous swipes.
“When Jared relieves me of my shift, yes. You may call me Nia, if it pleases,” she said.
He thought Miss Eugenia Bailey must not be overly fond of her given name, because this was the fourth
time, at least, that she’d briskly offered an alternative. Intrigued, he watched her present a feisty façade while her
fidgety body language suggested unease in his presence.
She set the heavy goblet down, snapped the small towel onto the counter and regarded him with that look.
The one that was too sweet to be suspicious and too knowing to be ignored.
In one fell swoop, she set the situation on edge. He stared at her from lidded eyes, nostrils flaring. The
predator in him felt challenged by her boldness, real or perceived.
Sixty seconds passed in unrelenting tension until she glanced down at the counter and cleared her throat. The
ends of the towel, already fraying, were now shredded into skinny strips. She picked and picked and pried and
tugged.
Mollified by her retreat, his aggression eased.
“I will consider it, Mistress Bailey.” There was a scratch and rasp to his voice that hadn't been there before.
Her voice cracked with a meek question, eyes downcast. “Will you have a drink before you go?”
He didn’t realize he’d leaned a few inches closer until he straightened to step away from the counter for the
doors. Fighting for diplomacy he didn’t feel, he said, “No, but thank you. Perhaps I will see you at the festival.”
The woman tried his patience like no other.
“Have a good time, Mister Trimble!” She sounded stubbornly cheery.
He paused just before he stepped out, looking back, half expecting to see her smiling and waving. She smiled
and waved when he looked, like they had not just traded several minutes of awkward friction.
Humans were the most confusing creatures on earth. The door whispered closed on his shadow.
***
Eugenia exhaled a breath she didn't realize she was holding. Positive she hadn't imagined the threat she felt
in the air, she willed her heart back into a normal rhythm and released her white knuckled grip on the towel.
Nehemiah Trimble remained an enigma. They had passed like ships in the night for months and she was no
closer to knowing him, really knowing him, than she had been when he arrived. None of the other women knew
him any better than she. Nor did any of the men she’d been brazen enough to ask. They knew the simple things;