The Poisons of Caux: The Hollow Bettle (Book I) by Susannah Appelbaum Page B
Authors: Susannah Appelbaum
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old stone stack, jutted lopsidedly. Green honeysuckle vines with broad pink florets covered most of the cottage’s front view, a picture of coziness. The shutters were open, and even from where they stood, they could see there was another window on the back side, and through it the forest continued on normally.
“What a great place for our lunch!” Rowan suggested, his stomach winning the battle between hunger and trepidation.
Ivy was at the door already and, shaking her head, said it was locked.
“Well, we’ll just have to sit on the front stoop,” he said firmly. His stomach was rumbling uncomfortably. As he set about clearing the moss and dirt from the stone stoop, she looked through the little window into the single room beyond.
“There’s a table! It’s set for two.” Indeed, a small rustic table awaited unknown occupants beside the vast hearth, which took up most of one side of the cottage. Everything was covered in a fine dust, undisturbed. After trying the door once more, she pulled herself away—and caught sight of something else.
“Look at this stone!” She was referring to the stoop that Rowan was preparing as their table. Rowan had cleared most of the debris.
“It says something!”
The pair peered at it, Ivy using her hands to pull off one persistent clump of lichen.
“It’s a marker of some sort,” Rowan decided.
“‘506 knarls’—what’s a knarl?”
“Got me.”
“506 knarls, and then there’s this arrow.”
“A knarl must be a unit of measurement.” Rowan hoped that this sounded educated. The Tasters’ Guild was especially strict with its many courses on weights and measurements—and Rowan excelled at none of them.
Ivy was still clearing the last of the moss, which came free finally, leaving a puff of fine dirt floating in the air.
The two stared wide-eyed at what remained.
506 knarls to Pimcaux
Rowan forgot all thoughts of Axle’s fine food.
“Wow! Maybe a knarl is just a few paces!” He started walking enthusiastically around looking for something that might resemble a lost and forgotten land.
“Somehow I doubt it,” Ivy decided.
But whatever a knarl was would have to wait for the time being.
His path had taken him to a clearing behind the cottage, and it was here that Rowan saw evidence that they were notalone. Before him rippled a span of seamless white, startling his eyes, which had grown accustomed to the dimness of the forest. For a moment, he just blinked. Then, as he squinted, Rowan found himself staring at a remarkable-looking gossamer tent—a dramatic enclosure with roof peaks and streamers and generous front flaps tied closed with white ribbons.
“What is that doing here?” Ivy asked as she joined him. The tent was billowing in the softest wind.
“Hello?” she called. Ivy didn’t really think anyone was inside, seeing as the fabric had a sheerness about it, but she thought it polite to try. After calling again, louder, she approached the tent and tried the flaps.
“I can’t get hold of them!”
It seemed simple enough to untie the loose knots, but there was something unusually slippery about the ribbons, and Ivy found them uncooperative. Shifting the precious bottle in her waistband, she bent down. Rowan tried, too, and together they hardly managed to loosen one.
“I don’t suppose it would be okay to just cut them?” Rowan thought of the cutlery in the basket.
Ivy thought that under the circumstances, a little vandalism was in order.
But Ivy had been right, it turned out, about her worry that they might be followed. The forest floor was too soft. With their backs to the path, neither one knew what hit them—andbefore they could gather themselves properly, they were separated.
The last thing Rowan remembered seeing before Ivy disappeared into—and somehow down below—the tent was a snuffling and snorting mass of white bristle.
Chapter Twenty-one
The Bettle Boar
here was for a minute a confused whirlwind of brilliant
“What a great place for our lunch!” Rowan suggested, his stomach winning the battle between hunger and trepidation.
Ivy was at the door already and, shaking her head, said it was locked.
“Well, we’ll just have to sit on the front stoop,” he said firmly. His stomach was rumbling uncomfortably. As he set about clearing the moss and dirt from the stone stoop, she looked through the little window into the single room beyond.
“There’s a table! It’s set for two.” Indeed, a small rustic table awaited unknown occupants beside the vast hearth, which took up most of one side of the cottage. Everything was covered in a fine dust, undisturbed. After trying the door once more, she pulled herself away—and caught sight of something else.
“Look at this stone!” She was referring to the stoop that Rowan was preparing as their table. Rowan had cleared most of the debris.
“It says something!”
The pair peered at it, Ivy using her hands to pull off one persistent clump of lichen.
“It’s a marker of some sort,” Rowan decided.
“‘506 knarls’—what’s a knarl?”
“Got me.”
“506 knarls, and then there’s this arrow.”
“A knarl must be a unit of measurement.” Rowan hoped that this sounded educated. The Tasters’ Guild was especially strict with its many courses on weights and measurements—and Rowan excelled at none of them.
Ivy was still clearing the last of the moss, which came free finally, leaving a puff of fine dirt floating in the air.
The two stared wide-eyed at what remained.
506 knarls to Pimcaux
Rowan forgot all thoughts of Axle’s fine food.
“Wow! Maybe a knarl is just a few paces!” He started walking enthusiastically around looking for something that might resemble a lost and forgotten land.
“Somehow I doubt it,” Ivy decided.
But whatever a knarl was would have to wait for the time being.
His path had taken him to a clearing behind the cottage, and it was here that Rowan saw evidence that they were notalone. Before him rippled a span of seamless white, startling his eyes, which had grown accustomed to the dimness of the forest. For a moment, he just blinked. Then, as he squinted, Rowan found himself staring at a remarkable-looking gossamer tent—a dramatic enclosure with roof peaks and streamers and generous front flaps tied closed with white ribbons.
“What is that doing here?” Ivy asked as she joined him. The tent was billowing in the softest wind.
“Hello?” she called. Ivy didn’t really think anyone was inside, seeing as the fabric had a sheerness about it, but she thought it polite to try. After calling again, louder, she approached the tent and tried the flaps.
“I can’t get hold of them!”
It seemed simple enough to untie the loose knots, but there was something unusually slippery about the ribbons, and Ivy found them uncooperative. Shifting the precious bottle in her waistband, she bent down. Rowan tried, too, and together they hardly managed to loosen one.
“I don’t suppose it would be okay to just cut them?” Rowan thought of the cutlery in the basket.
Ivy thought that under the circumstances, a little vandalism was in order.
But Ivy had been right, it turned out, about her worry that they might be followed. The forest floor was too soft. With their backs to the path, neither one knew what hit them—andbefore they could gather themselves properly, they were separated.
The last thing Rowan remembered seeing before Ivy disappeared into—and somehow down below—the tent was a snuffling and snorting mass of white bristle.
Chapter Twenty-one
The Bettle Boar
here was for a minute a confused whirlwind of brilliant
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