Gwen could hear the clink of glasses and Dizzy the Piper playing at the tavern. The muffled sound of his whistle served as a musical reminder of their freedom, or was it banishment? In the dark such a thing was hard to determine. On the street, even in the ruins of the building, the gusting wind was louder as it creaked shutters and tortured dead leaves. The interior of the parlor was visible only by angles of moonlight that revealed the many holes and gaps through which the wind found reeds of its own to whistle with, the wind’s tune far more doleful than Dizzy’s.
Abby and Etta set to making the fire. The two crouched like conspirators in the dark before the stone hearth. Gwen wondered why Grue kept them on at all, especially Etta, who hadn’t made a copper in almost a year. Both had spent a good deal of time in the Head’s kitchen, Abby because she was big-boned and stocky and Etta because her looks never matched the person inside. Even Gwen had questioned the wisdom of bringing Etta. She couldn’t afford to tie their survival to so much dead weight. But excluding her could breed resentment and cause too much trouble in the long run. She’d just have to find some way for them to contribute.
In order to survive, she needed to be tougher, stronger. She looked back toward the lights of the tavern.
After the incident with the man with the gold coins, Gwen discovered he wasn’t the only one whose eyes she could see through. It took a bit of concentration, of focus, but she’d done it with others. Bits and pieces of lives were revealed-few ever pleasant-and the process was disturbing. She’d often had nightmares afterward. But in the two years she’d been at the Head, Gwen had never looked in Grue’s eyes. Not because she was afraid of the evils he had done, but because she might understand why he’d done them.
They had plenty of scrap wood, dry leaves, and twigs, and Gwen saw a flame for a while. It didn’t last, but they were all soon choking on smoke and for the first time Gwen was happy the parlor had so many holes.
“What’s wrong?” Mae asked from somewhere in the dark.
“Chimney’s blocked,” Etta said, her voice muted as if she’d climbed up inside. “All kinds of nests and leaves I think. There’s no draft.”
“Well, don’t try it again, or we’ll all have to sleep in the street,” Jollin said, then coughed to prove the point.
With no fire they ate in the dark.
Gwen had hoped for a cheery fire and a hot meal. The two might have been enough to transform the inn, at least for a while, into something familiar, something good. Instead, they clustered in the corner of the parlor away from most of the holes, huddling for warmth as they ate in silence, listening to the singing of a ghostly wind.
Jollin turned and asked her softly, “Do you think we can afford it?”
Gwen could hear it in her voice-she wanted to be reassured.
“We still have a lot of money.” Gwen tore off a small piece of the bread loaf they passed around.
“But we’ll need that to fix this place. How we going to do that?” Abby asked, her voice coming out of the darkness.
“Let’s just wait to see how much this permit thing costs.” Gwen felt cheese pass into her hands.
The smoke had cleared, but the smell lingered. The wind blew harder, and Gwen wondered if it heralded a storm. The air was cold and damp-rain maybe. Through the holes in the ceiling, she looked up at the sky. That was all they needed. They shuffled closer, each pulling their thin wool coverings tight.
“What was this place?” Mae asked. She was entirely wrapped in her blanket, with part of it over her head like a hood. She sat next to Rose and the two tiny girls looked like sisters, except Mae had blond hair and Rose brown.
“Used to be an inn,” Jollin explained.
“What happened to it?”
Jollin shrugged, a shaft of moonlight making her shoulders appear and disappear.
“The way I heard it-” Abby began.
“You didn’t hear anything,” Jollin said.
“But I-”
“I said you didn’t hear anything.”
“Why?” Mae asked. “What didn’t she hear?”
Rose, who was nodding off to sleep between Mae and Etta, blinked and looked up.
“It’s just a rumor,” Jollin said.
“What is?” This time it was Rose who asked.
Jollin looked at Gwen apologetically. “Some people say the owner murdered his wife,” Jollin told them. “And then her ghost came back for revenge.”
Gwen watched as they all looked around at the moonlight-pierced darkness that left so many patches of impenetrable mystery. Upstairs they could hear a slapping that Gwen knew was a shutter but that sounded disturbingly like Avon’s head. There was also a faint scratching somewhere, maybe a mouse, maybe a squirrel, maybe a dead woman’s fingernails.
“Good for her!” Rose said so loudly it left each of them staring. “Maybe Avon will do the same to Grue and Stane.”
Jollin looked to Gwen and smiled.
Gwen smiled back. “Maybe she will.”
CHAPTER 7
Alight rain began to fall by the time Hadrian reached the city. From the dock where the towpath ended, a wider and much steeper road climbed the canyon wall. Hadrian dismounted before the climb. The poor animal had hauled a barge all day and didn’t need his extra burden. By the time they reached the top, both were puffing. Their breath formed clouds more from the wet than the temperature, which didn’t seem so cold given the exertion of the climb.
At the top, the streets turned to cobblestone that was tricky to walk on. Still, it was better than the dirt, which the rain would have turned into a muddy mess. Hadrian figured it must be close to dawn. The city had pole lamps, but none were lit. Few people were on the streets, and those who were moved slow, yawning and sneering at the sky. Colnora fit its reputation for size with a maze of streets and hundreds of buildings comprised of homes and shops of every sort imaginable. One store just sold ladies’ hats. How a place could survive selling just hats baffled him, much less one catering only to ladies. Another sold slippers for men-not boots, not shoes, just slippers. Hadrian had never worn slippers in his life. The sign above the big window instructed LEAVE THE MUD ON THE STREET! Hadrian wondered if the store owner had ever seen the street, as the one in front of his shop lacked even a hint of dirt. He felt like a ghost in a graveyard or a thief in a mansion-all the buildings and thoroughfares dark and silent except for the patter and ping of the morning rain.
Hadrian was exhausted. Any reserves he once had were stolen by the climb. He considered looking for an inn or even a dry porch. Anyplace he could get out of the wet and close his eyes for a few hours. Only he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Vivian haunted him. So did the others, but he kept seeing her lying in that cabin, facedown in that dark pool. Her hand bent, her head turned away-that at least was a mercy.
He wandered up the street with his giant horse clopping beside him. Everything since the river had been uphill, as if they had built the city on a mountaintop. The higher he went the nicer the buildings became, and he remembered Pickles’s comment: Everything else runs downhill, but gold flows up. Homes here were made from crafted stone, three and four stories tall with numerous glass windows, gates of bronze-paneled reliefs, and even little towers as if every house was a tiny castle. He wasn’t sure what neighborhood he was in, but he didn’t feel comfortable. Hadrian had never seen such luxury. There were sidewalks and gutters with storm drains that kept the street clear. Street. Hadrian chuckled. Street was too small a word for the thoroughfares near the top. These were boulevards made of luxurious brick and three times the width of any normal avenue with rows of trees, gardens, and fountains lining islands in the center. Most surprising of all was the total lack of horse manure, and Hadrian wondered if they polished the bricks at night.