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No one waited on either side. She scoured the shadows and found nothing suspicious.<br />
“A deer then,” she surmised, pulling back inside with an indignant huff. It didn’t explain Honey’s strange<br />
dive off the bed or the eerie feeling of being stalked. Deliberately, she put it from her mind. She’d been listening<br />
to far too many rumors flying about town.<br />
She leaned the stick against the wall and briskly left the cottage; the festivities were well under way and time<br />
was wasting.<br />
***<br />
The Fall Festival was the biggest event of the year. Families came out in droves to celebrate the harvest,<br />
participate in games, and to see and be seen. Dréoteth, with his hands clasped behind his back, strolled along the<br />
heavily decorated main street on the way to the field. Chrysanthemum wreaths hung on the doors of every shop<br />
and squat pumpkins sat on the stoops. Haystacks, low candles, awkwardly shaped gourds and scarecrows with<br />
potato sack faces all added to the ambiance.<br />
Children ran amuck, absolutely frenzied with excitement. Barefoot, carefree, hair wild, they shrieked and<br />
whooped and hollered, running circles around the festivities.<br />
Bales of hay were stacked everywhere in no certain pattern. They provided more than just seating<strong>—</strong>they<br />
became obstacle courses for the children. Up and down, around and around.<br />
Dréoteth took a few steadying breaths. Their darting to and fro threatened his careful control. He waited<br />
until there was a break in the madness and entered the clearing.<br />
Long tables were set up on the perimeter, loaded with food. Baskets of apples, pears and peaches flanked<br />
platters of roasted pork and fragrant duck. Casks of wine sat at each end with tankards and goblets lined up in<br />
rows.<br />
Some of the women wore their better dresses with the necklines scooped low, gossiping about fabric and<br />
style and embellishment. There was a hierarchy here, as in most societies, and it was easy to detect the affluent by<br />
the cut and expense of their cloth. Men stood in notable groups; the farmers over there, the merchants over<br />
here, and the scholars apart from the rest. No matter what group, most doubled as warriors and had swords<br />
attached to belts at their hips. The disappearing residents of Malmsbury assured that the men were armed at all<br />
times.<br />
Musicians took up a corner and played for dancers that made intricate circles in the center of the haystacks.<br />
The crisp evening boasted a clear moon glowing brightly in a black velvet sky. Bonfires spewed serpents of<br />
smoke into the air, casting a flickering orange glow across the dark landscape.<br />
He headed for the group of scholars, nodding a greeting to a few couples along the way. It had taken him<br />
only a few weeks of intent scrutiny to learn the proper etiquette of polite society.<br />
“Mister Trimble, a pleasure to see you again.”<br />
“Mister Trimble.”<br />
“Good evening.”<br />
Greetings overlapped each other as he reached the circle of distinctive men. William Tuttle sported a cane, a<br />
round belly, and had lost all but four strands of silver-gray hair; Ronald Upham stood tall and lean like himself<br />
with a hawkish profile that reminded Dréoteth of a bird; Meyer Lyon, younger by a decade than his counterparts,<br />
was fit and hale with a full head of dark hair. Tuttle and Upham were attired in expensive surcotes and had an<br />
unflappable presence while Meyer wore black chausses and a leather hauberk of sturdy quality.<br />
“Gentlemen. I trust the festivities are getting off to a good start?” Dréoteth asked.<br />
“I'd rather be next to the fire with a good book,” Upham said. He had an imperious lift to his chin and he<br />
stared at the dancers skeptically.<br />
“There is more to life than reading, Upham.” Tuttle scolded his hawkish <strong>com</strong>panion, disinterested in the<br />
<strong>com</strong>plicated steps that he had long forgotten in favor of other, less strenuous pursuits.<br />
“Says the man who tears through three books a week,” Upham said. He scoffed, drawing laughter from<br />
Tuttle and Lyon.<br />
Dréoteth examined each man in turn as they spoke, pulling in their distinctive scents with a slow,<br />
unobtrusive breath. Experience had taught him how to be subtle about these unusual habits of his. He smiled