Alpha Moon by Rebecca A. Rogers Page A

of nursing the land. But with Alaric disappearing left and right, Ulric was the last man standing. Everything depended on him.
    “I-I know not his whereabouts, father. I wish I did.”
    Already wobbling down the hallway, Frederic waved off Ulric’s comment over his shoulder. His door slammed shut, and Ulric flinched. One of the few paintings remaining on their walls swayed at the impulsive jolt caused by Frederic’s exit. Ulric knew he must locate his brother. Mayhap he would know what tidings the letter held. He pulled his coat tighter against his chest, as he headed back out into the frigid weather.
    In town, chickens clucked across the slushy lane, Mrs. Bartholomew tutted her children for their mud-covered faces and hands, and somewhere in the tiny cluster of houses and shops, bread was fresh and warm, no doubt cooling on a rack after baking in Mr. Dawson’s oven. Ulric’s stomach grumbled.
    Mitsy, a young, fair-haired girl and daughter of Colchester’s one and only bread maker, dipped out of her family’s shop, meeting Ulric’s eyes. She blushed and quickly ducked her head, treading in the same direction. Ulric caught up to her.
    “’Tis a fine day,” he said.
    Mitsy pursed her lips to refrain from giggling. “’Tis as fine as any cold day in autumn.”
    Ulric narrowed his eyes playfully. “Ye are jesting.”
    A giggle bubbled out of Mitsy’s throat, and her hand sought her mouth. “Nay, none the slightest.” Her actions betrayed her, and Ulric felt a smile of satisfaction sneak across his face.
    “I thought endlessly of one lady; she ensnares my dreams every nightfall.” He turned to her then. “’Twould be a dream to spend a day with ye,” he said. “Just one.”
    Amused, Mitsy responded, “And what do ye have in mind? Such weather is too chilly for company.”
    Ulric’s mind lit up with possibilities, but he kept to his original plan. “We could steal thy sister’s ribbons and tie them to the horses’ hair.” Mitsy chuckled again. “Or we could set the chickens loose.”
    “Seems that has already been done today.”
    “Then I shall think about it and visit soon, milady.” Ulric clasped Mitsy’s hand in his and bent down to press his lips against her gloved fingers. “’Til we meet again.”
    Mitsy blushed and hurried off. Ulric stared at her disappearing figure long past her departure, wondering if he would have the chance to marry her one day. He shook off the thought as two large oafs barreled out of Murdock’s Inn.
    “And stay out, ye ham-fisted thieves! I’ll not have the likes of ye takin’ what’s not thine!” Mr. Murdock was obviously upset by the crooks, but more upsetting than seeing him that way was Alaric’s laughing face directly behind him.
    Ulric started forward but stopped. What would he do in a tavern? He was naught but a scrawny boy, and he could not land a proper cuff if his life depended upon it. He had never been in a brawl. If he stepped foot into the pub, beasts of men would clobber him for trespassing into their lair, like trolls on a bridge when a passerby did not pay the toll.
    However, if he did not separate Alaric from his wild ways, he would be the only person left to tend the fields, and he could not handle the work alone. Steadfast, Ulric had begun walking toward Murdock’s Inn. Though he barged through the entrance with as much enthusiasm as any man strutting into a tavern, he was not met with erratic punches from muscled men, nor the wary glares meant for a tenderfoot. Unpredictably, not a soul raised their eyes to look twice at him. ’Twas odd, indeed.
    Few lanterns were lit, casting a dim glow across the wide-open room. Drunken men sloshed ale as they shouted over the noisy atmosphere, and most were so inebriated they either passed out at their table or slouched in a corner, unconscious. A tavern musician flitted around the pub, playing his fiddle and singing a song Ulric was not familiar with, but most other patrons were, as they hummed