somber.
“The Sheriff Tanner,” Lirith murmured. “There’s something wrong with him. You saw the way his hand shook, didn’t you? When I took it in my own, I tried to sense what was the matter. I did feel something inside of him, almost like a shadow, but there wasn’t enough time for me to tell what it was.”
Travis knew it could be almost anything. There had been countless diseases to die of in the Old West—tuberculosis, smallpox, cholera, dysentery.
“Come on,” he said. “I think I see the sign for the Bluebell just up ahead.”
The Bluebell was the largest house on its block of Grant Street—a three-story Victorian with a full dozen cupolas and a wrought-iron widow’s walk topping its roof. In all, it seemed a little grand for a boardinghouse. Had Tanner overestimated their ability to pay? Then, as they drew closer, Travis saw the peeling gray clapboards, the sagging shutters, and the witch-grass tangling its way through the lattice beneath the front porch.
They headed up creaking steps to the front door and found a scattering of cats lounging in stray sunbeams or perched on the porch railing. All of them looked well fed. Lirith stopped to pick up a little calico. She held the cat to her cheek, and it let out the tiniest
mew
Travis had ever heard.
The front door opened with the sound of chimes.
“Watch out for Guenivere there, miss,” said a woman’s voice, rich and smoky as whiskey. “I think she’s got a bum paw.”
Lirith didn’t look up from the kitten. “Yes, she does. I think she’s gotten a thorn.”
“Does she now? I thought I had checked.”
“You can’t see it—it’s worked down between the pads.”
A low laugh, and a jangling sound Travis couldn’t place. “Well, bring her on in, then. And don’t forget your menfolk. You must be a lucky lady to have three such likely-looking gents in tow.”
The door opened wider.
Lirith laughed and, still holding the kitten, stepped through the door. Blushing, the three men followed.
They moved through a small foyer and entered a parlor. The walls were papered with a crimson fleur-de-lis pattern, although the wallpaper was faded and water-stained. A threadbare Persian rug covered a scuffed wood floor, and lace curtains, darkened to ivory by the sun and soft with dust, draped the windows. Just like the exterior, the parlor seemed oddly fine for a boardinghouse, yet worn as well, as if everything had been used far too heavily in its short time.
Travis could have said the same thing about the woman who stood in the center of the room. She couldn’t have been older than Grace—in her early thirties—and there was a fineness to the oval of her face. However, she was every bit as faded as her green-velvet dress. She made Travis think of a portrait of a young woman left too long in a dusty attic, so that the painted hues—the yellow of her hair, the blue of her large eyes, the pink of her cheeks—were all muted with gray.
“I suppose you all need rooms,” the woman said, her voice like smoke—but not harsh and acrid. More like the heady smoke of cherry tobacco. “Do you have references?”
Travis glanced at the others, then swallowed. “Sheriff Tanner told us to tell you—”
She held up a hand. “Stop right there. If Bart sent you, that’s good enough for me. Now, on to more important matters— Miss Guenivere’s paw.”
The woman moved to Lirith. As she did, Travis heard again the metallic jingling sound. She stopped beside the witch, and only as she propped a polished mahogany cane against a battered horsehair sofa did he realize she had been using it to walk. The two woman sat on the sofa, cooed over the cat, and in a minute the offending thorn was plucked free. The patient was placed on a pillow, where it curled up, licking its paw.
Leaning on her cane, the woman stood. This action seemed to take the wind out of her. Lirith hurriedly stood beside her, but the woman gave her a warm smile.
“Now,” she said, still
“The Sheriff Tanner,” Lirith murmured. “There’s something wrong with him. You saw the way his hand shook, didn’t you? When I took it in my own, I tried to sense what was the matter. I did feel something inside of him, almost like a shadow, but there wasn’t enough time for me to tell what it was.”
Travis knew it could be almost anything. There had been countless diseases to die of in the Old West—tuberculosis, smallpox, cholera, dysentery.
“Come on,” he said. “I think I see the sign for the Bluebell just up ahead.”
The Bluebell was the largest house on its block of Grant Street—a three-story Victorian with a full dozen cupolas and a wrought-iron widow’s walk topping its roof. In all, it seemed a little grand for a boardinghouse. Had Tanner overestimated their ability to pay? Then, as they drew closer, Travis saw the peeling gray clapboards, the sagging shutters, and the witch-grass tangling its way through the lattice beneath the front porch.
They headed up creaking steps to the front door and found a scattering of cats lounging in stray sunbeams or perched on the porch railing. All of them looked well fed. Lirith stopped to pick up a little calico. She held the cat to her cheek, and it let out the tiniest
mew
Travis had ever heard.
The front door opened with the sound of chimes.
“Watch out for Guenivere there, miss,” said a woman’s voice, rich and smoky as whiskey. “I think she’s got a bum paw.”
Lirith didn’t look up from the kitten. “Yes, she does. I think she’s gotten a thorn.”
“Does she now? I thought I had checked.”
“You can’t see it—it’s worked down between the pads.”
A low laugh, and a jangling sound Travis couldn’t place. “Well, bring her on in, then. And don’t forget your menfolk. You must be a lucky lady to have three such likely-looking gents in tow.”
The door opened wider.
Lirith laughed and, still holding the kitten, stepped through the door. Blushing, the three men followed.
They moved through a small foyer and entered a parlor. The walls were papered with a crimson fleur-de-lis pattern, although the wallpaper was faded and water-stained. A threadbare Persian rug covered a scuffed wood floor, and lace curtains, darkened to ivory by the sun and soft with dust, draped the windows. Just like the exterior, the parlor seemed oddly fine for a boardinghouse, yet worn as well, as if everything had been used far too heavily in its short time.
Travis could have said the same thing about the woman who stood in the center of the room. She couldn’t have been older than Grace—in her early thirties—and there was a fineness to the oval of her face. However, she was every bit as faded as her green-velvet dress. She made Travis think of a portrait of a young woman left too long in a dusty attic, so that the painted hues—the yellow of her hair, the blue of her large eyes, the pink of her cheeks—were all muted with gray.
“I suppose you all need rooms,” the woman said, her voice like smoke—but not harsh and acrid. More like the heady smoke of cherry tobacco. “Do you have references?”
Travis glanced at the others, then swallowed. “Sheriff Tanner told us to tell you—”
She held up a hand. “Stop right there. If Bart sent you, that’s good enough for me. Now, on to more important matters— Miss Guenivere’s paw.”
The woman moved to Lirith. As she did, Travis heard again the metallic jingling sound. She stopped beside the witch, and only as she propped a polished mahogany cane against a battered horsehair sofa did he realize she had been using it to walk. The two woman sat on the sofa, cooed over the cat, and in a minute the offending thorn was plucked free. The patient was placed on a pillow, where it curled up, licking its paw.
Leaning on her cane, the woman stood. This action seemed to take the wind out of her. Lirith hurriedly stood beside her, but the woman gave her a warm smile.
“Now,” she said, still
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