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faintly at the banter, recalling from prior conversations that Tuttle and Upham were both avid and unapologetic
readers. He glanced at Meyer Lyon when the man suddenly pinned a direct, jovial question on him.
“What of you, Mister Trimble? Tell us what you think of Malmsbury’s annual Fall Festival.”
“I hope it will be more exciting than standing here conversing about books with the lot of you.” His wry
statement earned a rumble of laughter.
Dréoteth had only discovered his own love for the written word mere decades before. There was much to be
learned of the ways of men between the covers of a book. One such work, an old diary he’d happened upon,
inspired him to keep a journal of his own. Unfortunately, he’d found his entries somewhat lackluster and staid.
He hunted, he killed, he slept.
All the drama he recorded was about other people’s lives. There were no conspiracies or touching deaths or
mystifying puzzles revolving around him. Which was exactly the way he wanted it. The redundant entries
ceaselessly reminded him, however, of the limited scope of his life. A restless mind had first led him into the
outskirts of humanity. The curious things he found, both annoying and intriguing, held him sway. His loathing
for them fluctuated wildly sometimes, tipping between volatile and temperate.
A trio of passing horses led by a farmer shied violently, straining their leads. They drug the man ten feet
before he regained control. Tossing their heads, wild and unruly, they seemed to startle in the direction of the
scholars.
Tuttle, Meyer and Upham observed the incident with perplexed expressions.
“I say, that's a strange thing,” Tuttle said.
“It is a rather large crowd.” Upham, barely bothered by the uproar, decided it was the chaos.
Dréoteth subdued the urge to bare his teeth and growl at the horses. He was their natural enemy, as hungry
to destroy them as they were to flee. In his time here, he had taken care to avoid them in the presence of others.
People would start to suspect something if every animal he came into contact with had such a vehement
reaction. It created a tedious and treacherous environment.
He glanced around like the others, frowning, feigning confusion. He spied hound dogs across the field that
had also picked up his scent but their baying seemed random from this distance.
“Perhaps the dogs?” Dréoteth suggested.
“Perhaps,” Meyer said, glancing away from the horses. “Probably the children, too.” Several waved sticks
and screamed as they ran.
The scholars were content to let the odd occurrence pass.
“So, Mister Trimble, to pick up where our last conversation left off--” Tuttle was interrupted by a sweet,
high-pitched voice closing in from their left.
“Meyer Lyon! You come dance with me this instant!” Miss Merriweather marched their direction with
determination. Petite and dark with rosy cheeks, she smiled charmingly. The peach frock skimmed her slim
frame, her fingers pinching the skirts to hold them a few inches off the ground.
Meyer laughed and bowed chivalrously. “Or what?”
“Or I will go find Henry Bower and dance with him instead!” She helped herself to Meyer’s elbow when she
arrived and smiled a greeting to the men.
“Henry Bower has bowed legs and dances like a chicken,” Meyer scoffed.
“Chickens do not dance,” she laughed.
“And if they did,” Meyer said, feigning seriousness. “They would dance just like that.”
“Did we hear something about dancing?” Tuttle and Upham’s wives arrived, smiling, apparently intent to
disrupt the men.
“Oh, the wives.” Tuttle sighed melodramatically. He rocked back and forth on his shoes and stamped his
cane once for emphasis.
“There is more to life than discussing business and books, Tuttle. I have not seen you dance in quite some
time.” Meyer’s dark eyes gleamed with mischief. He was regarded as one of the most eligible bachelors in
Malmsbury after his wife of ten years perished tragically two seasons past. He was also known for his goodnatured
bantering.
“Dancing, pah.” Tuttle voiced his discontent and clutched his cane while his wife plucked and picked at the
arm of his coat.