He puffed out a sigh and adjusted his position so that he sat between his mother’s headstone and his brother’s. He tucked his legs up under him and he opened the newspaper gingerly, returning to the tearstained story. Slowly, and in little more than a pitched whisper out of reverence for the place, he read aloud.
On the second of July, five years past, servants discovered the
He swallowed hard and continued.
bloated bodies of Francis Kruse and his wife, Sarah, and remaining son, Harold. It was quickly ascertained by the investigating force that poison had been used, leaves purported to be mint being poisonous instead. By the time watchmen arrived on the scene most of the servants had disappeared, including the aforementioned “Chloe,” recently having accepted the name Erendell, which hampered the ongoing investigation. Chloe Erendell was discovered trying to sneak into the Astraea household recently, the evening Jordan of House Astraea was taken in for witchery, her parents also found guilty of Harboring. Discovered, Chloe Erendell was brought before Council Court and, although pleading innocent, was found guilty on all charges in a remarkably fast and efficient trial headed up by Lord Vanmoer. As a result of her guilt, the servant is sentenced to be hanged by the neck until dead Wednesday hence.
Marion set the paper on his lap and swallowed hard, his throat tight and scratchy around the lump lodged in it. Poison leaves? It made no sense.
Certainly Chloe had reason to be angry with Marion’s father—he had used the girl ill when she probably knew no better and then lopped off her ear in a fit of his infamous rage. But Chloe loved his family—Marion knew that as much as he knew rain only fell up if you forced it to. There was something wrong about all this. His stomach pitched under his ribs and he ignored the most obvious wrongs marked by gravestones. He could do nothing for his family.
But Chloe. If he might yet help her … He stood, bracing himself between the two tombstones. He looked at the place his hand rested on his brother’s headstone and, yanking himself up straight, realized that he knew about the leaves. He had watched his little brother gather something that day and tear it into tiny, unrecognizable bits to make the batter better.
It was not Chloe’s fault. He was a witness to her innocence! He vaulted forward, dashing down the aisle of graves and out the gate. He rushed up the road, fighting gravity’s downward pull with every long and rhythmic stretch of his legs.
He crested the Hill, huffing and puffing, determination pushing him onward past the burn in his side and the burn in his lungs and pressing him toward destiny.
Chapter Fifteen
Ill news travels fast.
—ERASMUS
The Road from Philadelphia
Rowen and Jonathan set out early the next morning, heading still farther from the negligible town. Frederick had agreed with them—“Perhaps more time and distance and then, if young Lady Astraea is truly found innocent of all witchery and allowed to come home…” He had paused, the worry clear in his eyes. “Then might you return as the prodigal son and reclaim the lifestyle you came from. But until then,” he said sadly, “it is best to avoid most everyone. People talk. And if a reward is offered…”
So they turned their backs and their horses’ buttocks to Philadelphia and continued on until they came to a tavern. Jonathan dismounted and tied Silver up while Rowen stared down at him in disbelief.
“Follow me,” Jonathan requested.
Rowen nodded, joining him. “Why not? As they said at Jordan’s party, I am no great leader of men.”
Jonathan shrugged. “You led me on this particular adventure.”
“Somehow that makes me feel no better.”
Just inside the tavern’s door, Rowen froze, his eyes darting from side to side. He’d hoped such a brief stop so early in their race from the city meant they’d outrun any unwanted attentions, but that was before he noticed two posters hanging on the wall. The one to his left announced a manhunt for the murderer Rowen Albertus Burchette, while the one to his right included an artist’s illustrated rendering of a short-nosed, broad-foreheaded, thick-necked version of him from shoulders up and in stark black ink.
He was not sure which to be more offended by, the one revealing his middle name to the world or the one that claimed a “faithful reproduction of a murderer’s image.”
He motioned to Jonathan with his chin. The same chin now covered in an unappealing scruff. If he’d had access to a proper razor and strap he’d do the thing himself, bringing his face back to a proper cleanliness instead of allowing his sideburns to crawl toward his chin.
Jonathan frowned, running his hand across his own stubble, pulling thumb and forefinger together at the end of his jaw in a thoughtful gesture before striding forward to the bar.
Rowen blinked. Then, throwing his shoulders back, he followed, standing at Jonathan’s side.
“A bit of your house ale for my friend and me,” Jonathan requested of the flat-faced man behind the bar. He pulled out a coin and tapped its edge on the wood.
The man swept the coin into his meaty palm and filled two tankards, setting them down with a clank before the two younger men.
Jonathan took a long sip of his ale. “Any news of import?”
Rowen nearly spit his ale out when the bartender hooked a thumb in the direction of the posters.
“Riders came through here this morning, putting those up and asking questions. Two fellows, one of decent breeding, are on the run. Seems the ugly one”—he pointed to the image of Rowen—”shot a man of higher rank.” The bartender leaned across the bar, saying, “Probably told he was ugly as the south end of a north-facing mule.” He nodded, lips pursed in a smug smile.
Jonathan laughed. “He is one ugly bastard.”
Rowen’s face colored at the comment.
The bartender pulled away, laughing, and said, “And in my opinion a man should never be shot for speaking the truth.”
“True, true,” Jonathan agreed.
They drank the rest of their ales in silence, Rowen pouting and Jonathan occasionally chuckling to himself.
“What precisely was your intention—going in there and asking for news once you’d seen we are it?” Rowen hissed as they left. “We are the news, Jonathan!”
Jonathan snorted. “No. No we are not. Some other poor bastards are—and one of them is quite the ugly brute.” He reached up and tweaked the tip of Rowen’s nose. “Be thankful you’re a handsome beast, you ladykiller, you. No one would dare imagine you and that man on the flyer are one and the same.”
With a laugh, he mounted his horse, nodded to Rowen, and nudged Silver into a trot.
Holgate
Even though her Making Tank placed her higher up in the tower with a small barred window overlooking the wall and the water of the lake beyond, none of it interested her today.
“What does it look like?” The voice beyond the wall, introduced as Caleb, asked.
Jordan jerked upright from where she slouched, dozing in the scant and slanting sunlight. Caleb’s voice echoed in her ears. “What does what look like?”