Paul Durham - Dishonour Among Thieves

“What?” Rye shouted in alarm. The Willow’s Wares was her mother’s shop.

“Your mother and Lottie are fine,” Folly added quickly. “There was no one inside.”

Rye was dumbstruck. “He … how could … what about …” Her eyes jumped from Folly to Harmless and back again. “Why?” She gasped and, for the first time she could remember, found herself speechless.

Harmless sat back without emotion, but Rye could see the grey-flecked stubble of his beard twitch as he tightened his jaw.

“Your mother and Lottie have moved out of your cottage. They’ve been staying with us at the inn,” Folly said. “Just to be safe.”

That was a relief, although Rye’s ears now burned red in anger. The Earl had displaced her family once again. It seemed the safest place for the O’Chanters had become the most notorious tavern in the most dangerous part of town.

Rye tried to settle herself. “Did my mother send you here?”

“No. Nobody knows I came.” Folly shrugged at Rye’s look of disbelief. “I thought you should know.”

Rye shook her head, but not without affection. She couldn’t hope for a more loyal – and at times more foolhardy – friend.

Rye glanced at Harmless. He rubbed his jaw and pinched the stubbly beard on his chin. Finally, he said simply, “We’ll leave with tomorrow’s first light, whether it brings sun, snow or hail. Longchance didn’t heed my warning, and now the weight of that decision shall come heavy and swift.”

The gravity of Folly’s news bore down on her, but Rye put a hand on Folly’s arm as she considered her friend’s own reckless journey. “Your parents will be worried sick about you.”

“It may take them a few days before they even realise I’m gone,” Folly said flatly. “They’ve been a bit distracted lately. Mum’s got another one on the way.”

Rye raised an eyebrow. “Another what?”

“Another Flood,” Folly said.

Rye couldn’t believe her ears. Folly was already the youngest of nine children, the rest of them boys. After twelve years, Rye assumed Folly’s parents were finally done stocking the inn.

“Folly, I didn’t even know she was …” Rye’s voice trailed off.

“Me neither,” Folly said. “She didn’t mention anything, so I just assumed she’d put on a few winter pounds to warm her bones. Mum says that after nine children, delivering babies is like cleaning out the wine cellar – an important job you do once a year or so, but not worth fretting about until you finally run out of room.”

“Well, that’s great news,” Rye said, pasting a broad smile across her face. “You’re going to be a big sister.” Rye knew, as someone who served that same role for a little red-headed firestorm back home, it was no easy task.

“Isn’t that great news, Harmless?” Rye coaxed.

Rye’s question seemed to pull Harmless from his thoughts. He looked up, his eyes returning from somewhere far away.

“Yes, yes, indeed. Fabulous news, Folly. You’ll be an expert in screaming infants and soiled linens in no time I’m sure,” he said with a smile.

Rye frowned. That wasn’t exactly the type of encouragement she’d had in mind.

“I need to tend to a few things before morning,” Harmless said, pushing himself up from the table. “Folly, make yourself at home. Riley, be sure to pack whatever you wish to take from this place. We won’t be returning any time soon.”

Rye’s night proved to be a restless one. She was still staring at the timbers above her bed when Folly nudged her. The creaks and groans of Grabstone took some getting used to and must have woken Folly too.

“Rye,” Folly whispered, and nudged her again, harder. “Are you awake?”

“Ouch, Miss Bony Elbow. Yes, I am.”

“Do you hear that? Someone’s outside.”

Rye heard the familiar shuffling in the hallway. A shadow broke the dim crack of light under the bedchamber’s door.

“It’s just the ghost from the Bellwether,” Rye said.

“What?” Folly asked sitting up. “I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts any more.”

“Oh, right,” Rye said. “In that case it’s just a big rat. Try to get some sleep.”

“With ghosts and giant rats outside the door?”

“I’ll take care of it.” Rye said, slipping from under the covers and lighting a candle.

“Where are you going?”

“Shhh,” Rye said. “Just watch.”

She tiptoed towards the door silently. She reached for the latch without making a sound. But as her fingertips touched it, the shadow disappeared from under the door and there was a creak on the stairs, followed by silence.

Rye opened the door quickly. The stairway was empty.

She looked at Folly over her shoulder. “See?”

Rye carefully climbed the stairs to the Bellwether. Her small candle barely penetrated the shadows, but it was enough to illuminate the landing at the top. The door was shut tight, but the bread she’d left earlier had disappeared, just like the other offerings she’d set out each of the past several nights.

Whatever lurked in the Bellwether, real or imagined, it seemed to be restless too.

ARMLESS HADN’T BEEN exaggerating when he said they would leave at first light, and after their fitful slumber, Rye and Folly found themselves sleepwalking across the shoal and up a rocky beach. Their departure had been hurried, but Rye was careful to stash her spyglass in her pack. She also brought a stout walking stick made of hard black wood that she’d found in Grabstone’s assortment of trinkets. It came with a leather sling so she could stow it over her shoulder when she wasn’t using it. She found the walking stick particularly useful now as they navigated the uneven stones.

Harmless took notice of it and raised an eyebrow. “Where did you come across that?” he asked.

“In one of the bedchambers. Do you like it?”

“Hmm,” Harmless said. Then, after a moment, “Yes, it does seem to suit you.”

The light of dawn grazed the dunes as they arrived at the edge of a tall bluff. Rye squinted against the wind as she watched the whitecaps roll into shore, but even though they had just hiked from Grabstone, she couldn’t see the shrouded mansion through the morning’s mist.

Harmless was busy examining a simple farmer’s cart. It was empty and horseless.

“Folly,” Harmless inquired, “how did you manage to get out here?”

Folly’s shoulders slumped. “There was a horse hitched to that cart yesterday. I guess it got tired of waiting.” She sighed and shook her head. “My father’s not going to let me leave the inn again for a month.”

“I guess we need to find another ride then,” Harmless said. “Come on, girls. This way.”

They followed Harmless along a narrow sand path that traced the edge of the bluff. Before long they came to a wind-beaten fisherman’s shanty that looked to have weathered one too many storms. Behind it was a small, sheltered stable.