The Luck Uglies by Paul Durham Page A

one?” Folly said, rolling her eyes.
    â€œThe fourth,” Quinn said. “The mother of his daughter. They snatched her from her bed in the middle of the night.”
    â€œThat is pretty bad,” Rye said.
    â€œIt gets worse,” Quinn said. “When the House of Longchance couldn’t provide them with their ransom, the Luck Uglies chained her to a swamp oak in the bogs on a winter night. Nobody ever saw Lady Longchance again.”
    â€œThat’s awful,” Rye said, shaking her head.
    â€œIt says that Longchance almost shed a tear in front of the entire village when he announced what had happened. He said that no villager was ever to speak of Lady Longchance again and then promptly declared the Luck Uglies to be criminals. He gathered an army and marched, driving every last Luck Ugly from Drowning. They called it the Purge.”
    Rye tried to process the information.
    â€œBut why, Quinn?” she asked. “Why would they do something so awful? Why would the Luck Uglies break their truce after going through all that trouble?”
    â€œI don’t know, Rye,” Quinn said flatly. “As far as I can tell, they were not very nice.”
    â€œIt just doesn’t make any sense,” Rye said.
    Quinn’s face had darkened. Even with all of his worrying, Rye had never known Quinn to be overly sensitive. Then it occurred to her. Quinn knew what it was like to lose a mother.
    Quinn riffled the thick stack of pages with his thumb. “Maybe there’s more in here.”
    â€œWhat about the things we found in the Bog Noblin’s bag?” Rye asked quickly, changing the subject in hopes it might brighten Quinn’s mood.
    The little bag sat next to Tam’s Tome , each of the four items spread out neatly on the table. They smelled of stagnant water and decay.
    â€œNothing really,” Quinn said, crinkling his brow. “I can’t find anything on tiny skulls or anklets. There’s something about cures for toothaches but nothing about teeth on strings. And nothing at all about little wooden stickmen. It does say that Bog Noblins are extremely superstitious and believe in magic. They have a fascination with trinkets, charms, and anything shiny.”
    Quinn looked up from the book. “Not much to go on.”
    â€œNo,” said Rye.
    â€œBut it’s a big book. I’ll keep looking.”
    Rye had another source she would try tomorrow. She hadn’t said anything about Harmless to her friends yet. She wasn’t sure why, but he was something she wanted to keep to herself. For now anyway.
    Shady abruptly stopped shredding a roll of parchment. His ears twitched and he cocked his head. Rye, Folly, and Quinn took his cue and went silent.
    A moment later came the commotion on the street—a ringing of the bell they recognized as belonging to the Village Crier. Important news seldom reached Rye’s neighborhood. When it did, it was almost always bad.
    â€œNews,” Quinn breathed.
    â€œLet’s go,” Rye said, packing the four items back into the leather pouch. “Hurry up before we miss the announcement.”
    Â 
    The residents of Mud Puddle Lane poured from their homes and gathered near the broken village wall. The street sweeper must have given up on the scrubbing because the wall was covered with a patch of fresh white paint, the black four-leaf clover now peeking through as muted gray. Rye, Folly, and Quinn slipped their way to the front of the crowd. Neither Abby O’Chanter nor Angus Quartermast was there. Still at their shops, they would have already heard the news from the Market Street Crier.
    The Village Crier had arrived accompanied by Constable Boil and two of the Earl’s soldiers. At the sight of Boil, Rye took a step behind a large villager, shielding herself from his view. Boil scanned the gathered residents from under his dust-ball eyebrows with a look that conveyed both suspicion and disdain.
    The