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

that he was six months new to the town, that he was living at the Rose and Lion, and that he worked as a scribe
for scholars.
Usually, she had no trouble getting to know anyone. Exuberant and merry, she asserted her goodwill and
compassion onto the citizens and people responded in kind. Except for the shoemaker, grumpy Mister Rou, who
scowled and fussed and tried to pretend he wasn’t charmed by her smiles.
She wiped down the already clean bar and set a clean stack of trenchers on the back counter. Everyone was
at the festival and business would be slow until morning.
Jared, the lumbering, giant man who tended the Inn at night, ambled in the side door a few minutes later.
Blocky and bulky, he had the finesse of a bull in a china shop but fists the size of warhammers; it kept any
rabble-rousers in check in the off hours. He had sandy blonde hair and gray eyes so light they almost looked
white. His clothing consisted of a threadbare muslin shirt and dark suspenders that helped hold up tan colored
breeches.
Eugenia perked when she saw him, putting away the last of the goblets she’d washed.
“I am off to the festival, Jared. I do not think you will be too busy tonight.” Eugenia didn't expect a verbal
answer from Jared, who preferred silence to speaking. Always.
She patted his arm on her way by, whisked out from behind the counter, and hurried to the door.
Eugenia left the Inn for her small cottage nestled at the very edge of the woods, hurrying past the stables
where horses nickered when they heard her go by. It wasn’t her own, this little house, but she always warmed at
the sight of it. Ivy twisted up the outer walls like skinny, seeking fingers. Leaves draped down from broad
branches overhead, creating a whispering rustle on the roof that she’d grown used to over time.
Now she found it charming instead of annoying.
Most of the merry flowers lining the cobbled walk were starting to wane as the season inched toward winter.
Patches of snapdragons and broad-faced pansies surrounded roses of red, pink and yellow. Morning glory twined
around the post of a birdhouse in the yard.
The lock on the door had been broken for some time and she swished inside, closing it soundly behind her.
“I am home, Honey!” She smiled, amused at the ritual of announcing her arrival.
A small living room sat to the right, a kitchen to the left, and a harrowing, rickety staircase between led up to
the loft. Straight ahead, two bedrooms split off a short hall.
Bypassing the living room, Eugenia all but ran into her bedroom. A plaintive meow greeted her from the
bed. The cat, roused from its sleep, yawned and sat up. Honey had been her companion for six years, twelve
days and four hours. They shared a great affection and she paused to pet and coo, earning a lazy lick along the
end of her nose.
Moonlight poured through the window in an elegant stream, bathing the dress she’d laid out in anticipation
of the festival. It was the best one she owned, bought back in the spring after months of careful saving and
planning for just this occasion. Burgundy and cream brocade, it had a fitted bodice, full sleeves and embroidery
along the hem. Without any help, it took her fifteen minutes to change. At least it laced up the front instead of
the back.
She traded her dusty work slippers for a newer pair and brushed her hair without the benefit of a looking
glass, leaving the wavy tresses shining gloriously down her back.
“I will be home late, Honey. Do not wait up for me!” She scratched the purring feline gently under the chin,
laughing, and had just straightened when she heard rustling outside the open window. The crack of a twig drew
her gaze there immediately. All she could see were deep shadows made by the trees. Eugenia had never feared
for her safety until several members of Malmsbury society went missing.
The silence stretched thin, expectant, as if someone was standing just outside the window against the wall,
listening to her. Honey’s ears flattened and she darted off the bed and under it, disappearing from sight. Eugenia
saw it in periphery because she couldn’t take her eyes off the window. Any second a dark silhouette was going to
blot out the moonlight, sinister and scary, intent on dragging her into the woods.
Eugenia Bailey wasn’t having it.
Picking up a heavy stick that she’d set by her bed, she stalked to the window.
“Who goes there?” she shouted.
Leaning out with the stick raised, ready to strike, she glanced left and right.