Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters (13 page)

The pie’s top had quills punched through the pastry. Nettle
took a tentative bite and crunched through a golden spike. She
smiled with relief,
tastes like salty crackers.
She took a seat on a small wooden bench
with ivy crawling between the wooden slates, to while away the
morning people watching. Salivating at the delicious smell coming
from the piping hot pie, she sunk her teeth through the crusty
homemade pastry and delighted in the gloriously meaty filling
bursting with onion and potato.
The pie-seller was right, it does taste
like chicken.
Nettle greedily tucked in, enjoying the warmth spreading
through her tummy.

Right, down to business.
There were the obvious tourists with their
cameras and backpacks and brightly coloured jackets. Nettle
immediately crossed them off the list, along with the town-folk
woman, easily identified since everyone was in costume, and were
evidently in relationships, with wedding rings on their fingers.
Some were just too old, some too young, and some had an air about
them Nettle didn’t care for.

She ran
through the list of qualities she thought a good wife would have,
ticking them against her fingers coated in little flakes of pastry.
Trustworthy, loyal, emotionally stable, have similar interests, be
respectful, a good communicator, definitely needs a sense of
humour, financially secure, and most importantly, likes kids, in
particular, them. The bottom line was, if Dad was happy, they’d be
happy. However, she soon realized it was going to be hard to
discover if any potential wife had any of these qualities without
being able to enter a conversation with her. She resorted to simply
start by looking for someone around her father’s age, who she liked
the look of.

As she strolled up and down the hill for the umpteenth
time, the sun now sliding down into early afternoon, Nettle had
only two possible candidates. A tall angular lady with russet skin
and a crooked smile who cut hair at Barber Tuttlebee’s, and a
rather fast-paced walker who lithely skipped up and down the
cobblestone steps, transporting goods from various shops. Right
now, she was carrying a box of gloriously red apples and Nettle was
in pursuit. She liked the look of the woman’s slanted hazel eyes
and wide mouth set in a determined fashion. She looked like she had
a job to do and she wasn’t going to let anyone get in her
way.
Dependable
, thought Nettle. A quality her father definitely required
in a partner, and certainly one she and Bram needed in a new
mother. She mentally added dependable to the ever-increasing list
of Good Wife Qualities.

Nettle wove
around a family with several loud and boisterous boys, trying to
keep up with the woman. She managed to catch a glimpse of her as
she ducked behind the back of the attached stores, presumably
delivering her goods through the back door of one of them… but
which one?

Nettle stopped
to consider if the woman had entered either Saintsberry’s Bakery or
Goodmire Grocers, when suddenly, someone, with great force, knocked
into her.

She felt her feet give way beneath her and threw her hands
forward trying to aid her landing. She had little time to do
anything else but let loose a warbling wail. Her shoulder made
horrid cracking contact upon the sharp edged stone as she skidded
awkwardly down a couple of steps. “
Ooooo
,” she groaned, gingerly pushing herself to her
knees. Tears pricked her muddy-green eyes.
What happened? Who did that?
The palms of her
hands stung, escalating to a burning throb, as the rough cobbles
had grazed her hands and elbows, while a jarring ache shot through
her shoulder, along with her right hip and kneecap.

“Well,
that was simply ridiculous,” came a male voice from the side. “And,
might I add, quite inconvenient.”

Nettle,
glanced upward to find a rather irritated boy towering over her. He
looked to be a year or two older, with shaggy blonde hair and wide
set eyes. His features were incredibly striking, even if his nose
appeared to have been broken, perhaps more than once, judging by
the crooked bridge.

“
Huh?” Was all she could utter.

“
You should really look where you’re going.” His tone wasn’t
pleasant and he didn’t even offer to help her to her feet. In fact
no-one was, everyone was simply walking around her. “It was rather
rude of you to bump into me. I could have torn my jacket
further.”

He was
wearing a velvet jacket of midnight blue, patched in several places
with small patterned fabric, sewn into place with golden wool, the
same colour as his bootlaces. He busily inspected an arm to see if
it had been ripped, before opening his black messenger bag to look
inside. He sent her a haughty look. “You’re lucky, nothing’s
broken.”

Nettle sluggishly shook her head.
What is wrong with me?
He’s the one who
ploughed into me.
“Me, bump into you?”

The boy
cocked a thick eyebrow disdainfully her way. “That is what I said.”
He heaved an aggravated sigh and impatiently tapped a foot. “I
rather expected an apology by now.”

Nettle was at
a loss for words and instead concentrated on looking at the many
different shoes marching up and down the path around her, using the
time to come up with some sort of stinging retort. “Well,” she
began lamely, and glanced back up to discover he was no longer
there. He’d left. “Well, how rude.”

“
Are you all right?” A soft girlish voice asked. Nettle
discovered a pair of slender legs and tiny feet sheathed in red and
white striped stockings tucked into antique silver buckled shoes
now stood before her. She looked up and found herself dazedly
blinking into the face of an enchanting woman with a heart shaped
face and peaches and cream complexion.

“
I’m OK, just some oaf knocked me over,” Nettle replied, her
voice barely a whisper, giving what she hoped was a slight
nonchalant shrug. Pain ripped through her shoulder, morphing her
smile into a grimace.

The woman’s
almond shaped eyes, a sparkling shade of sapphire and framed by
thick red lashes, looked upon her in commiseration as she leaned
down offering a slender hand. “Oh, you poor thing. Here let me
help.”

Nettle’s
cheeks flushed a rosy hue. “Oh no, I’ll bleed all over you and ruin
your pretty dress.”

“
Don’t be silly,” she said and crouched down to gently take
Nettle’s hand in her own. Nettle winced at the sight of her
bloodied palm, the flesh gouged and studded with stone. Blood had
dripped down her wrist and stained her sleeve a muddied
red.

“
Why don’t you come with me? I’ll tend to those
wounds.”

Nettle
was about to protest further when the woman swiftly hauled her to
her feet. There was an incredible strength in the woman’s grip that
completely belied her petite frame. She was only slightly taller
than Nettle, and her red hair, not coppery like Jazz’s but a pretty
strawberry blonde, tied loosely in a low side-ponytail of waves,
curled over a shoulder. A silver ribbon was tied around her long
slender neck, and she was wearing some sort of old fashioned dress
of black taffeta.

Nettle
wondered which of the businesses she tended.

“I’m
Claudine Balfrey,” the woman said smiling warmly.

“
Nettle Blackthorn,” she replied, her own thin lips drawn
tightly together in a clumsy smile.

“
Follow me then, Miss Blackthorn.”

Nettle found
her voice had left her, she could only nod, entranced with the
woman before her.

Claudine led
the way, guiding her through the thick throng of visitors up the
winding path. Wherever she walked the crowd parted to allow her
through. Everyone deferred to her, villagers as well as tourists.
Nettle caught a glimpse of Claudine briskly nodding to one of the
town-folk as they passed. She was surprise to see everyone from the
village automatically stop what they were doing to turn and stare
at them as they made their way up the hill.

A slow grin spread across her face and she wiggled her
eyebrows,
she must be very important.
Claudine was certainly someone she wanted
to get to know better, and in turn, she had high hopes for her
father liking Miss Claudine, very much.

They were
perhaps two thirds the way up the hill, the landscape below a
magnificent stretch of autumnal hues, with a river cutting through
the Wilds, when Nettle took the opportunity to pry. “My father said
Olde Town had been abandoned for centuries.”

Claudine’s slim eyebrows arched as she eyed Nettle keenly.
“Your father’s well informed. Yes, that’s true. Judging by the
state of the village when we came across it, it certainly had been
derelict for a very long time.” She further divulged, upon seeing
Nettle’s curious glance at the implication she hadn’t been
travelling alone. “My two younger sisters and I stumbled upon Olde
Town some years back, while hiking through the forest.”

Nettle tried hard to keep the grin from growing
wider.
She
does sound adventurous. Dad will like that.

“We couldn’t resist its charm.” She leaned close with a
conspirator whisper, “And the splendour of the forest just wouldn’t
allow us to rest until we came up with an idea how to utilize the
village.” Claudine smelt of freshly opened roses and nutmeg. Nettle
couldn’t help but wonder with a sinking feeling, if she in turn,
stunk of B.O. and cleaning products. “We just couldn’t let this
place go. It cried out for some love and affection. We wanted to do
something different, without changing it too drastically. Whatever
it was, it needed to be sympathetic to the buildings that were
already here and to the environment and surroundings. None of that
clinical modern minimalism that is so popular these days.”
She
tisked
with a puckered frown.

“So
you
came up with Olde Town Tours?” Claudine nodded, her hair
bouncing enthusiastically over her shoulder. “So Olde Town is all
yours?” Nettle gaped in wonderment. This was amazing, Claudine was
beginning to sound too good to be true.

“Yes it is. We dreamt up this entire operation, to provide
a unique type of holiday for those wanting a bit of old-fashioned
worldliness. Which I assume, drew you and your family to us.”
Nettle startled,
she thinks we’re part of the tours...
But before she could correct
her, Claudine had carried on. “And people can’t get enough of us.
All our tours are fully booked out. Every single one.”

From what
she’d seen already Olde Town seemed a huge operation. “How does it
work? Are you in charge of every single business?”

“Oh no,
certainly not.” She gave Nettle a horrified glance. “Oh my, that
would be far too much work. My sisters and I collected a small
group of like-minded individuals. We moved in and rebuilt the
village. It took a while, the houses were in quite a state, but we
got there eventually, and now look what we have.”

“
It’s amazing,” breathed Nettle in awe.

“
Thank you, we feel the same way.”

A large group
of tourists snapped pictures of one another in front of the
stone-frontage of Calliope’s Bed and Breakfast, with its pretty
blue striped awnings and window boxes spilling over with wild
flowers.

She guided
Nettle forward again and they moved up the next flight of steps and
around a long gentle curve bordered by a thick hedge of privet.
“Everyone within the group heads their own business. We needed to
create a working village with enough accommodation to house
everyone and entertainment to amuse our guests. Just like everyone
else, my sisters and I set up our very own business. However my
role is slightly different and terribly demanding.”

“
How so?”

“
Olde Town has a committee which I am Chairperson of. We have
weekly meetings to decide upon important matters to do with the
running of the village and the tours, amongst other things. Just
the same as any other town or village.”

“
So, you mean, you’re the Mayor of Olde Town?

Claudine
gave Nettle a sidelong glance. “I’ve never thought of it like that,
but yes, I suppose I am.”

The mayor. I
do like the sound of that. Very much.

“
Which of the businesses do you and your sisters
run?”

“Oh,
you’ll see,” Claudine winked cheekily. She led Nettle through
another cobblestoned plateau, weaving their way past jugglers and a
maid giving out toffee apples to the children watching folk-dancing
performed on a little stage set up in front of Footless Cobblers,
O’Grady’s Book Store - with an interesting window of old dusty
tomes - and Buckleberry Tailors; up another flight of steps hedged
by pungent rosemary, until Claudine led her to a single business
taking up residence in the attached buildings. Claudine stopped and
proudly presented it to Nettle with a flourish of her hand, “Well,
this is it. Our little abode.”

A series of
steps led from the cobblestone path up to a large patio edged with
enormous stone pots sporting buxus, trimmed into neat conical
shapes. The patio bustled with conversation and clinking cutlery as
customers dined at wrought-iron tables laid with crisp white linen
beneath lemon and cream striped umbrellas, sipping tea and nibbling
on delicate pastries.