Stranger by Zoe Archer Page A

Gloucester, so we took
their
furniture. Same with the Cliffords, only they moved to Birmingham, not Gloucester. But we didn’t know where to put everything, so it all got shoved into one room, you see. And it’d take days to clear it out.”
    “And the other?” Catullus asked, fighting weariness. The day had been long. He wanted an English beer, and he wanted it now.
    “That’s where we keep the cheese.”
    “The cheese?” Gemma repeated.
    “My wife’s cheese. She makes it herself,” the innkeeper said with pride, “and the room is cool, so it works quite nicely as a pantry. So you see, sir “—he made an apologetic shrug—” there are only the two rooms.” Seeing their expressions, he added hastily, “But each of ‘em has a nice, big bed, so they can sleep two all nice and comfy.”
    At the mention of beds, it took more self-control thanCatullus knew he possessed not to glance over at Gemma. The possibility of sharing a bed with her lay waste to his fatigue, his entire self sharpening with alert awareness. “So, will you be staying, sir?”
    Catullus, after a silent conference with Astrid, nodded, and the innkeeper leapt forward to take everyone’s luggage. “Put the ladies’ bags in one room,” Catullus said.
    The innkeeper froze as he bent to retrieve the baggage, startled, then regained his professional demeanor. “Very good, sir. If you all will follow me, I’ll take you up right now. And there’s supper, if you’d like it. ‘Tis plain country food, not the sort of fancy stuff you might get in the city,” he said with a concerned look to Catullus’s stylish, though now somewhat travel-worn, clothing.
    “I’m sure whatever you serve will be more than delightful. Especially the cheese.”
    The innkeeper ducked his gratitude and pointed them up the stairs. “Just this way, please.”
    As everyone climbed the steep stairs, Gemma asked, “Do you get many guests?”
    “Gramercy, no!” The innkeeper chuckled. “You fine folks are the first guests we’ve had in four months.”
    “Isn’t that hard for business?”
    “’Tis,” came the cheerful answer as he stopped on a landing, “but this inn’s been in my family for four generations. It stayed open after the mail route changed, taking most of the travelers—and townsfolk—with it. And then when the trains skipped this corner of the shire, well” —he smiled, fatalistic— “that about killed us, it did. I reckon the inn won’t be able to stay open after me and Sarah pass on.”
    Gemma gently touched the old man’s hand. “I’m very sorry.”
    “Ah, obliged to you, miss.” He reddened to be the recipient of a pretty young woman’s sympathy. “But ‘tis the way of things. We all must leave this world at some point, eveninns. And, now,” he continued, taking the stairs again, “just a little farther, and here we are.”
    A single, narrow corridor ran the length of the story, floorboards warped by the passage of years, a framed drawing of London Bridge the only adornment on the walls. Four doors faced each other across the passageway, two on the left, two on the right.
    “The ladies will take the free room on the left,” the innkeeper announced. “And you gentlemen will have the one on the right.”
    Astrid, after sending Lesperance a glance of parting, took her bag and went into one room. Lesperance looked unhappy to be without her for even a moment, but he found his way into the other room.
    “I’ll leave you to get your supper ready.” The innkeeper bobbed, but Catullus stopped the old man before he headed down to the kitchen and gave him a florin.
    “Thank ‘ee, sir,” the innkeeper chirped, brightening, then hurried away.
    For a minute, Catullus and Gemma stood alone in the corridor. The narrow space forced them to stand close to one another, and all around them came the sounds of life—Astrid in her room, Lesperance in the other, the innkeeper downstairs happily chattering to someone, pots banging in the