Devon Monk - Dead Iron

Some days she thought the only reason she hadn’t left this town was because of Mr. Gregor. Just thinking about poor little Elbert wandered off into the wild made her heart catch.

She hoped that Mr. Hunt—in whatever skin he was wearing—would be able to find the little child.

Her thoughts lingered on Mr. Hunt. She’d heard stories from travelers passing through that there were men who could change into wolves. Native stories of men turning into all sorts of animals.

But she’d never thought to see such a thing here, with her own eyes, in the little town of Hallelujah.

It might be the wolf in him that kept him private. Or at least she assumed.

There was something behind the closed-off pain in his eyes. A way to his words that spoke of knowledge she didn’t have and wished he’d share.

Rose walked across the aisle to polish the next pew. She supposed she should just be grateful that he believed in the Strange, or at least seemed to. When she’d mentioned the bogeyman to him, and Elbert gone missing, she’d seen the recognition in his eyes.

Rose had always known the Strange were real. The land grew thick with them. Something about the gears and metals drew them, she thought. Something about matics and contraptions called to them. It was one of the reasons she combed the shadows at night, looking for castaway bits and gathering them up before the Strange could come find them.

The door to the church opened, letting in the early-evening air and a liquid wave of dying sunlight.

The shush of petticoats and bustles swept in by the slow chattering of voices, gossipy as birds.

Rose didn’t have to glance their way to know it was Mrs. Haverty, Mrs. Dunken, and the others come to go through the church yet again for wedding plans.

So much for her peace and quiet. They’d likely have her fetching them tea and cookies and things down from the attic for the rest of the night.

As soon as they caught sight of her, they fell silent like birds ducking a wing that had just covered the sunlight.

“Rose Small?” Mrs. Haverty, the banker’s wife, had the sort of bearing Rose had always imagined a queen would hold. Never a hair out of place, never a wrinkle in her skirts, she looked like she’d stepped right off the pages of a fancy catalogue. “I did not expect to find you in the church this evening,” she said. “Did your mother send you to lend us a hand with the wedding planning?”

Rose did not stop wiping down the woodwork, but did glance over at the women, eight at least, all clucking about, with plump and pushy Mrs. Dunken giving her a smug look she’d never seen on her face before.

“No, ma’am,” Rose said. “My mother promised the pastor I’d dust down the pews. So everything is ready for service tomorrow.”

Sad-faced Mrs. Bristle spoke up. “Are you saying you don’t care about Mrs. Haverty’s daughter Becky’s impending nuptials? Even a . . . castoff like you should show some respect.”

Rose squared her shoulders and kept the backs of her teeth together so no words could slip out. She was taught to respect her elders, but words would fall through her lips too quickly if she didn’t keep her mind on them. Then they’d all know exactly what this “castoff” thought about them and their judging ways.

“Now, don’t be so cruel to the girl, Mabel,” Mrs. Dunken said. “I’m sure Miss Small will settle down and behave properly soon enough. She just needs a man with a strong hand to rein her in. A man like my boy Henry.”

Rose rolled her eyes and went back to dusting. Henry thought he was the strongest, prettiest man in town because that was what his mama was always telling him. Even though his parents had sent him off to school in New York more to be rid of him than to get him some real learning, he’d come back only a year later, saying he’d decided politics were his future. He’d set his eyes on taking the mayor’s place.

“That’s kind of you to think so,” Rose said to Mrs. Dunken. “But I’m sure Henry has his sights set on a girl of much higher standing than I, what with his political aspirations and all.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, dear,” Mrs. Haverty said.

Rose stopped dusting out of shock. She’d never heard the banker’s wife say a kind thing to her in all her days.

“You may be of low standing,” Mrs. Haverty continued, “but you do have land to your name. A good parcel of land can make even the most plain of girls pretty enough to marry.”

A slow, creeping dread came along with those words. Mrs. Haverty sounded like she was certain about that. Rose glanced over at Mrs. Dunken. Still the same smug look.

Oh no. They’d done something, made some plans to marry her off.

A shadow crossed the doorway and Rose knew who it was before she even glanced that way. Henry Dunken.

“Good evening, ladies,” he said, striding into the room and taking up too much space. “I understand you need a hand with the wedding preparations?”

Rose tucked the cloth away in one of the pockets of her apron and picked up the tin of wax. She crossed the room to take it back to the storage cupboard, and to get herself out from beneath their notice.

“Henry, yes, I’m so glad you’re here,” Mrs. Haverty said. “You can help Rose fetch down the candleholders from the attic.”

Rose froze halfway across the room. She most certainly would not go into the attic with that man. She’d known him nearly all her life. He was mean when they were young and was meaner now. His smiles and polite manners fit him like a bad suit, and fooled no one, least of all her.

“I’ll have to beg your apologies,” Rose said. “I promised my mother I’d help her close down the shop. And it’s already late.”

“Nonsense,” Mrs. Haverty said. “I was just at the shop, and your mother said she’s coming this way any minute now. I’m sure the store is already closed.”

Rose’s mind tumbled and spun, looking for a new escape route. “I have chores at home, waiting for me.”

Mrs. Dunken swished her way over and took Rose’s arm. Firmly. She tugged her off toward the stairs to the attic in the back corner of the room. “My old knees just won’t do those stair steps any longer. Be a dear, for us, Miss Small. I’m sure your mother is in full agreement with you minding as you’re told.”

She gave Rose a shove, and Rose took the first two steps, just to keep from falling.

And then Henry Dunken was right behind her, smelling of booze and blocking her retreat. He leaned in far too close for a man who should know his place and his manners in front of his mother and other women of the town.

Rose took another step, just to fit some air between her and him, and the candle he carried in one hand.

“Go on up, Miss Small,” he said quiet and nice. “Won’t take long to bring the women their fancy candles; then I’ll be on my way.”

She didn’t believe him. But unless she wanted to shove him down the stairs and stir the wrath of all the old biddies, it’d be best to get this done and over with.

Rose clomped up the stairs, Henry just a step behind her, breathing hard enough she could smell the alcohol on each exhalation.

The attic was dark, the posts and beams and rafters dancing side to side in the light thrown by Henry’s candle. The window at the end of the attic was dark too, the moon not yet off the horizon.

“If I recall, the candlesticks are back there near the window.” Rose pointed. She had no intention of going into the dark corner with Henry in the room. She was staying at the top of the stairs, where she could retreat, if needed.

“I’ll need a hand gathering them,” he said, still too quiet and still too nice. “I’d be right obliged if you held the candle for me, Miss Small.”