Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters (40 page)

Nettle
expected Claudine to be panicky, or at least a little anxious for
her father. But she merely gave her a distracted glance before
replying, “I’m sure he’ll be home soon. There’s no need to worry.”
She went back to playing with the wig, deciding on a Grecian
hairstyle, pinning most of the hair up and leaving a few long locks
to curl over Jazz’s shoulder.

Nettle
picked at the quilt’s loose threads, disappointed in Claudine’s
reaction. She said, sounding a little hollow, “It’s just. Well. He
wants us to go to our Aunt’s.”

That got
Claudine’s attention. She glanced up sharply. “Your
Aunt’s?”

“Jazz’s parents. He told us to go to Aunt Mae’s if he
wasn’t back home today. That’s why I’m here. I thought… Well, I
guess I wondered...” She hesitated, she really wanted to ask – can
we stay? Instead she said, “If we might be able to catch a ride on
one of your tour buses?”
Please ask us to stay,
Nettle thought, trying to relay her
hopes telepathically. She looked at Jazz in the mirror, imploring
her to ask what she couldn’t. But Jazz was too busy gazing at her
own reflection.

Claudine
looked a little mystified but not devastated, which was what Nettle
was hoping she might feel on learning they were soon to leave Olde
Town. “I suppose you could,” she replied, then shrugged
nonchalantly. “A lot of our guests are staying longer for All
Hallows’ Eve so there’s plenty of seats at the moment.”

Nettle mentally groaned,
why can’t I just ask her if we can
stay?

She went back
to fussing with Jazz’s hair and without looking up, Claudine
inquired, “Where had your father gone? I didn’t even think to ask,
when you said he was away for a few days.”

“Ah…
he headed into the forest with some friends of
his.”

Claudine shot
a perplexed look at Nettle. “The forest? Why ever would he go in
there?”

“Ah…
Hiking?”

Claudine’s
eyelashes batted with bewilderment. “Do you think he’s
missing?”

“Oh no,” Nettle said, shaking her head.
But then,
she wondered,
if he hasn’t
returned in time, what else could he be but missing?

“No, of
course, you’re right,” Claudine hurriedly said, bestowing a quick
comforting smile. “I’m positive everything will be alright. Your
father seems to be a capable type of person.”

“
I guess,” Nettle replied, not exactly sure if she’d describe
him as such. She gave a little shrug. “He’s not the greatest time
keeper.”

Claudine
turned back to Jazz, leaning down to look at their reflection in
the mirror. “There you go, perfection. If I didn’t know any better
I’d swear you were Lysette herself.” She stood back up and
addressed Nettle delivering a heartening smile. “Go home Nettle and
wait for your father. He’ll be home in no time. I promise.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

The
Crone

Nettle followed Jazz down the staircase and out the
swing-door that led to the beauty annex. No one was behind the
counter, but as she passed by the opening that led from the annex
to the dining room, Pippa
appeared. She was carrying a tray of dirty plates,
which clattered to the floor making a horrendous racket.
Thankfully, nothing broke.

Nettle bent
down to help the other girl. “I do stuff like that all the time,
totally clumsy,” she said attempting to make light of the
situation. Nearby diners had heard the slight ruckus and had paused
in conversation to see what had happened.

Nettle collected the dirty plates and forks and knives.
She’d never noticed before that trails of footprints were strewn
all over the floor. Obviously the staff had walked in flour from
the kitchen.
Except these ones,
she thought, raising a quizzical brow,
were footprints
with six toes
...

She
hadn’t been able to give it any further thought, as Pippa picked up
the salt-shaker, turned it upside down and poured salt all over the
floor in front of her.

Nettle’s brows
drew together and she gave the other girl a perplexed glance. Pippa
was writing something in the salt with a stubby finger.

Nettle had to
cock her head to the side to read it.

JAZZ IN
DANGER

Nettle rocked
back on her heels. She whipped her head up to stare at Pippa and
her troubled hazel eyes, her own gaze clouded with shock and
fright.

Nettle felt as if the earth had tipped beneath her.
What does she mean
Jazz is in danger. Who from?
She went to ask, but the panicked look Pippa shot
her made her shut her mouth.

Footsteps approached Pippa from behind, and the girl
quickly messed up the message scribed in the salt as she picked up
the last of the mess from her tray.

“Stupid
girl,” hissed Dolcie, shocking Nettle. It was a pretty mean thing
to say when it was just a silly accident, and she didn’t like the
domineering way Dolcie stood over Pippa, slapping her wooden spoon
in her open hand in irritation.

This new
attitude from Dolcie wasn’t the only thing Nettle noticed – she
also looked different. Her chin seemed more prominent and she now
saw stubbly hairs on the youngest sister’s jaw-line.

“
I’m sorry,” said Nettle, rising to her feet. “It’s my
fault. I bumped into her and knocked the tray from her.”

Dolcie was
genuinely startled by her presence. She tucked away that simmering
rage and replaced it with a cool smile. “I suppose accidents do
happen. I just don’t like them happening in my tea house.” She gave
Pippa a tight-lipped smile. “Come along then. Quickly.”

Dolcie
waited for Pippa to gather her tray and took it through the
swing-doors. As she left the dining room, Pippa kept her head
downcast, refusing to meet Nettle’s imploring gaze. Dolcie gave
Nettle a slight inclination of the head and followed Pippa back
into the kitchen.

Nettle
reluctantly left the tea house. The message written in salt filled
her with all sorts of dread. Danger from whom? And why did Pippa
write it in the salt? Who was she afraid of in the tea house? Why
didn’t Pippa want Dolcie to see it? There was so much more she
wanted to ask.

The
Crone lingered in the shade of the trees on a grassy knoll near the
tea house. Nettle approached cautiously. Jazz had taken one look at
the old woman and refused to leave the stone path, scurrying on
ahead to wait for her at the foot of the hill. Nettle glanced over
her shoulder, wondering if Margot or Dolcie were watching, but
couldn’t see either Balfrey sister.

The Crone
fidgeted, rubbing her knobby fingers together. “Come on then, come
on…” her craggy voice urged.

Nettle kept
her distance. She slipped the vial of Dryad’s Breath from her
pocket. “This is the only time I’m doing this for you,” she said in
a distracted manner. Unnerved by Pippa’s message she kept glancing
back at the tea house.

The Crone
nodded. “Of course, of course.” There was a feverish look in her
eye. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from the purplish vial.
“You’re a good girl to be so kind to such an old lady as I.” Her
thin fingers stretched for the vial. “Go on girl, give it to
me.”

Nettle’s attention snapped back to the old woman. She found
herself wondering if maybe the Balfrey sisters had it all wrong.
The Crone didn’t seem that dangerous, how could she be? She was
just a stick of a woman easily snapped in two. Nettle held the vial
out of reach, her curiosity winning out over prudence.
What happened, to
reduce her to begging in the village?

“Um,
I don’t mean to be rude, but why do they call you the
Crone?”

Nettle
had the Crone’s attention immediately. The old woman reared back,
and her expression became cruel. “Cos they aint bothered to call me
by my real name is why,” she snapped. “They never cared for me,
neither of ‘em. Embarrassed is what they are. Just stuck me with a
name to suit them, an’ hope I go away, or die, whatever comes
first.”

Her blustering
didn’t scare Nettle. She asked gently, “What is your name?”

The
woman’s coldness faltered. It had been so long since anybody had
been nice to her, she seemed like she didn’t know how to react.
“It’s…” the old lady’s crinkled face withered up even further, in
deep concentration. “It’s been a long time it has. But I remember,
”she said with a happy snap of her fingers, “it’s… Lu- Luc- Lu-”
Her expression clouded and doubt seeped in. “Starts with L, that I
know for sure.”

Nettle felt sorry for her,
imagine not being able to remember your
own name.
She worried at her bottom lip with her teeth, she wasn’t
sure if she should mention anything, but decided to anyway. She
needed to know. “Margot said to watch out for you.”

The old woman looked at her, bewildered. “Me?” She looked
at Nettle thoughtfully. “Did she now?” And suddenly broke into a
chortle, her gummy mouth bereft of quite a few teeth.
“
Ha,
me? Watch out for
me? It be the other way around girl.
Ha,
like I’m some kind of worry. I used to be a worry,
yes I was. Me and my fair girls…” A startled look appeared on the
old woman’s face, she glanced nervously over a hunched shoulder and
drew her cloak tightly about her. But no one was near enough to
have heard her. The Crone gave Nettle a hard glare. “I don’t want
to talk anymore. Not to you,
Miss Busybody
.”

“
I’m sorry,” Nettle said, feeling rotten, and held the vial
out to the old woman. “I shouldn’t have been so nosey.”

The Crone drew her shoulders up. She scowled. “No, you
shouldn’t be.” She snatched the vial from Nettle and continued to
glower at her. Nettle felt the frostiness radiating from the
shrivelled frame of the woman and shivered. She dipped her head and
began to walk away. She didn’t mean to offend the old woman, but
things were getting really eerie. She was also starting to worry
about her cousin. She’d shouldn’t have left Jazz to wander
alone
down
the hill and now she was probably waiting for her by the
bike,
alone
and
vulnerable
.

Nettle
didn’t get far. The Crone had her by the wrist again. This time
when she faced the old woman, she met a more remorseful expression.
The old woman leaned close to roughly whisper, “You be careful.
They’ve taken a fancy to you, a shine if you like. They want
something, and they’ll take it from you even if you don’t offer
it.”

Nettle’s
brow creased. Who was she talking about? The Balfrey’s? “They’ve
been nothing but kind to us since we arrived.” And as soon as she
said it, she felt uneasy and troubled and a wintry sensation struck
her chest like frostbite.

A
fleeting expression of sadness swept over the old woman’s face.
Nettle felt something small and hard being pushed into her palm.
“Here. My thanks. You ever have need of something, something small
and needful, just crack the nut and ask for it.”

Nettle looked at what was nestled in her palm. The old
woman had given her an acorn.
Crazy, bonkers,
she thought with a bleak smile. When she
looked back up, the Crone was gone. Nettle pocketed the acorn
without thinking anything further of it.

She walked off and just as she left the knoll, a commotion
broke out behind her. Two big burly men - one of them dressed in
chef’s whites, the other, the man she’d spotted guarding the mouth
of the mining operation - had the Crone.
What did Claudine call him?
Dresden?
They were dragging her out from the woods. Nettle ran back,
fear-stricken. The old woman was struggling futilely, her face
pinched white, eyes wide with fear, screeching. “Get your hands off
me! LET ME GO!”

“
Hey what do you think you’re doing! Let her go!”

The
Crone went to shout something to her, but Dresden took his meaty
hand and covered her mouth.

Margot stepped
in and blocked Nettle’s path. Nettle ran right into her, stumbling
a little with the impact. Margot’s hands righted her, her fingers
bit into her shoulders, effectively stilling her. She was
astonished at Margot’s strength. There was no way she could slip
free. Her worried gaze slid over to the Crone. “What are you going
to do with her?”

“
Don’t worry,” Margot soothed. “We’ll take great care with
her.” But there was something in her gaze that belied the words she
spoke. “Thanks to you, we’ve been able to acquire her.”

Nettle gave her a startled look. “Thanks to me?”
What was she
talking about?
But there was only one sickening conclusion. “You were
using me as bait?” She felt horribly ill.

“Look at
her Nettle. Really take a good long look at her,” Margot said. And
she did. The old woman looked undernourished and frail. “She needs
help. She can’t carry on living this way - begging from our
visitors, raiding rubbish bins for food. She’s old and she needs to
be looked after.” Nettle looked hesitantly from the Crone to Margot
and back again. The old woman was pleading with her eyes. Yet what
Margot said made sense. It was for her own good. “You’re doing her
a great service,” Margot continued softly. “She may live a little
longer, in comfort, just because of you.”