main road is watched,” Astrid said without preamble. She strode toward him and a rising Gemma. “I saw a coach stopped and searched just outside the nearest village. Apparently, the Heirs have convinced the local law that we’re fugitive thieves.”
Catullus feared as much. The authority of the Heirs easily awed village constables and magistrates. “We stay off the arterial roads, then.”
“Getting all the way to Southampton will be a challenge.”
“But we must manage it.”
“I found an inn ten miles from here,” said Lesperance, also emerging silently. Catullus saw Gemma’s observant gaze fix on Lesperance’s necktie, which showed itself to be not completely knotted, as if only just put on, and a few buttons undone on his waistcoat. She did not miss much, this journalist.
“Safe?” Catullus asked.
“Looks like it was built before the train line, and the village it’s in isn’t on the main road.”
The man had done his reconnaissance well. Meanwhile, the sun traced its path closer to the horizon. Nightfall approached. They needed shelter. Catullus had spent countless nights sleeping on the ground, but he’d try like hell to spare Gemma that discomfort. For all her strength and bravado,this world—the world of Heirs and dangerous magic and pushing oneself to the brink of physical collapse—wasn’t hers but his.
“Good,” Catullus said. “We need to reach there before the sun sets.”
Lesperance’s information proved correct. The village they walked into was barely more than a handful of cottages, the high street unpaved, without even a church or grocer. Catullus saw not gas lamps but candles burning inside the houses that lined the street. Some of the cottages stood dark and moldering, and weeds pushed their way through cracks in walls. The few people out were, to a one, elderly and dressed in the fashions of King George.
The technological glories of the century meant nothing in this forgotten little town. Catullus could well imagine that he and his traveling companions had somehow penetrated the veil of time, journeying at least fifty years into the past.
Some misfortune had befallen the village to see it slowly grind into nothingness. Within a decade, the streets would stand empty, and no one would mourn the village’s surrender to obscurity. The deepening shadows of dusk crept through the lane, sweeping the small town further into darkness.
Yet, amidst this quiet and decay, stood an inn. It seemed so perfectly incongruous that the four travelers could only stand outside and marvel for a moment.
“Is this place real?” whispered Gemma.
“Let us hope so.” Catullus strode through the open door, with everyone following. “For I’ve need of food, ale, and a bed, in whatever order they are given to me.”
He and the others stood alone for several moments just inside the doorway, until, finally, Catullus called out, “Hallo the house.”
A wiry man with equally wiry white hair scampered forward, hastily donning an apron. He stood gaping at them, momentarily shocked to have actual guests.
“We’ll need three rooms for tonight,” said Catullus.
The innkeeper started. “What’s that? Rooms?”
“Three,” said Catullus again.
“Oh, sir “—the innkeeper wrung a handful of apron in his hands—” only two are available.”
Catullus glanced around, dubious. It wasn’t a large inn, or even medium-sized, but it boasted two floors and a taproom, where three equally white-haired men were sitting and watching the new arrivals with no attempt at disguising their interest. No one had the look of a traveler, save for Catullus and his companions. “Surely there are more than that.”
The innkeeper smiled in embarrassment. “Yes, there are four guest rooms in all, but one of ‘em, it’s full of things. When the Denbys moved away, they sold us the lot of furniture. Chairs, tables, Sarah Denby’s loom—though me and my wife can’t use it. And then the Yarrows moved to
Catullus feared as much. The authority of the Heirs easily awed village constables and magistrates. “We stay off the arterial roads, then.”
“Getting all the way to Southampton will be a challenge.”
“But we must manage it.”
“I found an inn ten miles from here,” said Lesperance, also emerging silently. Catullus saw Gemma’s observant gaze fix on Lesperance’s necktie, which showed itself to be not completely knotted, as if only just put on, and a few buttons undone on his waistcoat. She did not miss much, this journalist.
“Safe?” Catullus asked.
“Looks like it was built before the train line, and the village it’s in isn’t on the main road.”
The man had done his reconnaissance well. Meanwhile, the sun traced its path closer to the horizon. Nightfall approached. They needed shelter. Catullus had spent countless nights sleeping on the ground, but he’d try like hell to spare Gemma that discomfort. For all her strength and bravado,this world—the world of Heirs and dangerous magic and pushing oneself to the brink of physical collapse—wasn’t hers but his.
“Good,” Catullus said. “We need to reach there before the sun sets.”
Lesperance’s information proved correct. The village they walked into was barely more than a handful of cottages, the high street unpaved, without even a church or grocer. Catullus saw not gas lamps but candles burning inside the houses that lined the street. Some of the cottages stood dark and moldering, and weeds pushed their way through cracks in walls. The few people out were, to a one, elderly and dressed in the fashions of King George.
The technological glories of the century meant nothing in this forgotten little town. Catullus could well imagine that he and his traveling companions had somehow penetrated the veil of time, journeying at least fifty years into the past.
Some misfortune had befallen the village to see it slowly grind into nothingness. Within a decade, the streets would stand empty, and no one would mourn the village’s surrender to obscurity. The deepening shadows of dusk crept through the lane, sweeping the small town further into darkness.
Yet, amidst this quiet and decay, stood an inn. It seemed so perfectly incongruous that the four travelers could only stand outside and marvel for a moment.
“Is this place real?” whispered Gemma.
“Let us hope so.” Catullus strode through the open door, with everyone following. “For I’ve need of food, ale, and a bed, in whatever order they are given to me.”
He and the others stood alone for several moments just inside the doorway, until, finally, Catullus called out, “Hallo the house.”
A wiry man with equally wiry white hair scampered forward, hastily donning an apron. He stood gaping at them, momentarily shocked to have actual guests.
“We’ll need three rooms for tonight,” said Catullus.
The innkeeper started. “What’s that? Rooms?”
“Three,” said Catullus again.
“Oh, sir “—the innkeeper wrung a handful of apron in his hands—” only two are available.”
Catullus glanced around, dubious. It wasn’t a large inn, or even medium-sized, but it boasted two floors and a taproom, where three equally white-haired men were sitting and watching the new arrivals with no attempt at disguising their interest. No one had the look of a traveler, save for Catullus and his companions. “Surely there are more than that.”
The innkeeper smiled in embarrassment. “Yes, there are four guest rooms in all, but one of ‘em, it’s full of things. When the Denbys moved away, they sold us the lot of furniture. Chairs, tables, Sarah Denby’s loom—though me and my wife can’t use it. And then the Yarrows moved to
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