Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters (41 page)

“
You’ll take care of her?” Nettle met Margot’s gaze, her voice
barely a whisper, feeling horribly guilty at betraying the old
woman.

Margot
nodded and smiled the warmest most genuine smile Nettle had ever
seen on the middle sister’s porcelain face. It didn’t fill her with
any sort of reassurance; in fact, it had the opposite effect. It
filled her with a sort of creeping dread. But what could she do?
Dresden had already lifted the Crone in his arms, carrying her
toward the Three Wicked Sisters’ Tea House, his companion lumbering
on ahead.

Margot guided
Nettle back toward the path. “Go home Nettle.” And she swept inside
the tea house without a backward glance.

Nettle’s
shoulders slumped and she felt physically sick. Though it was true
Claudine had been nothing but kind, her younger sisters hadn’t
taken to her. And there was Pippa’s message in the salt, warning
her that Jazz was in danger, but that didn’t necessarily mean it
was from the Balfrey sisters. But why would Margot use her to get
to the Crone? She said they would look after her but she knew
without a doubt the Balfrey sister was lying. But why would they
want a harmless old woman? She was so confused.

There
came the sound of lazy clapping. Nettle slowly turned around and
saw Jack leaning against the trunk of a magnolia, deep in the
shadows where the Crone had lurked. He didn’t look pleased. He wore
a dark and sullen face as he clapped. “Well done.”

Nettle
approached and Jack pushed himself from the tree to meet her half
way. The magnolia tree’s boughs were heavy with glossy green
leathery leaves. “Thanks to you,” he said his lips curling angrily,
“they’ve got what they’ve wanted. I’ve kept her out of harm’s way,
kept her safe, and there you go blundering about, without thought,
getting her caught.”

Nettle shifted
uncomfortably, splaying her hands. “I didn’t-”

He didn’t give
her a chance to explain, glaring down at her, his violet eyes
stormy. “Didn’t what? Didn’t know?”

Her bottom lip
wobbled. “Margot said they were going to look after her.” He gave a
short sharp laugh that sounded less like laughter and more like a
bark. To her own ears her voice sounded wan and empty. “What do
they want with her?”

He gave
her a grim smile. “Nothing good, I can tell you.

“
I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

His
mouth puckered and he glanced away as if he had only just managed
to curb himself from saying something quite nasty. Instead, he said
coldly, “You need to wake up, and get smart. They’re not who
they’re pretending to be.”

Nettle
recoiled, her stomach pitching. “Who are they then?”

He
leaned down and muttered, “Why don’t you find out.” Then he strode
past her, his arm brushing her shoulder and rocking her
balance.

Later that
night Nettle was on edge. Bram and Jazz had gone to bed and the
spriggans were either curled up in bed or drunk in the kitchen
after finding one of her father’s bottles of wine. Nettle couldn’t
eat or sleep, her stomach was a twisting pit of nerves. She kept
thinking of Jack, his warning and his edict. Just who were the
Balfrey sisters? And what did they want with the Crone?

She sat on the swing-chair, the sword lying beside her, the
basket of fireflies casting a golden light across the porch steps.
Every little noise had her straining to see if it was her father
who made it. But as the night deepened to a deep blue that reminded
her of Jack’s velvet jacket, her hope dwindled. It was obvious her
father wasn’t going to return home when he promised. As her eyelids
grew heavy and her head lolled, Nettle fleetingly thought back to
Claudine. When Claudine had learnt Fred hadn’t returned home, she
wasn’t surprised at all. And why had she asked - where
had
he gone, instead of
has?

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Willoughby’s Message

Nettle awoke
with a jolt.

Her
mouth was dry and her eyes felt gritty and sore as if she’d been
staring at a computer screen: all night. She hadn’t. She’d been up
most of the night staring at the copse, willing it to part and for
her father to stride though with a grin on his face and one of his
flippant excuses as to why he was late home.

Except he
hadn’t.

During
her vigil, she’d eventually fallen asleep where she sat on the
swing-chair out on the back porch. And now that she was awake, she
knew instantly, with a sickly feeling, that her father had not
returned.

She stretched her stiff limbs, rolling her shoulders, and
eased herself out of the swing-chair. It was a damp and chilly
morning. Mist rose from the dewy grass, veiling the copse in
ethereal shadows. A feeble light slowly blanched the skyline to a
dreary grey. Nettle shivered, wrapping the blanket around herself
more tightly, and trudged up and down the porch, the boards
creaking beneath her footsteps. She felt leaden with a heavy mantle
of despair. Her thoughts were scattered, a jumble of anxious
emotions. Above all, she feared for her father. Would he come home?
Could he be hurt or worse...
dead?

It was
still very early. While she waited for her brother and cousin to
wake, she went inside to stoke the fire and then wandered up to the
library where it was a much warmer place to be and to once again
think upon what Jack had implied. She’d gone over and over in her
head, pulling apart the last few encounters with Dolcie and Margot
and examining everything in minute detail. She hadn’t spoken to
Bram or Jazz about her growing fear. She wasn’t sure herself. Jack
could be messing with her, but deep down she felt an unease about
the younger sisters. What did they want with the Crone? And more
importantly, was Jazz in danger because of them?

Besides
fretting, there wasn’t much to do except examine the rows of books,
pulling any that were of interest. It was a merely a distraction, a
way to stop her from pacing and worrying, yet she found her gaze
pulled in the direction of the stained glass window, her hearing
attuned to any odd noise coming from outside.

It was
precisely this distraction that provided a means for her to find
something of significance. Drawn to the window after hearing a
beating of wings, her elbow clumsily knocked a book from the shelf
and this caused a domino effect. Nearby books fell upon themselves,
a few tumbling from the shelf with hard thumps that perforated the
silence of the library. With an exhausted sigh, Nettle picked up
the offending books, righting them and sliding them back into place
when she discovered something that had gotten trapped behind the
row of books. A small journal.

Nettle freed the journal. She padded over to her father’s
armchair. It was a basic journal, bound in leather, its fragile
pages written by someone with concise strokes, and splattered with
drops of black ink. It belonged to her father’s
great-great-great-great-
grandfather Benedict Baxter Blackthorn,
and it had to be a couple of centuries old.

Nettle
settled into the armchair, squiggling her back against the cushion
and began to read. Benedict wrote mainly of the weather, his crops
and animals, how his fishing fared, and of his wife and four
children. He seemed to be as concise and economical in his life as
his brush-stroke, and liked a simple quiet life with very few
visitors. Whether that was because of his locality or disposition,
Nettle wasn’t sure. There was one visitor though that appeared
regularly in his accounts and whom he seemed to genuinely enjoy
their company, a bibulous character Finnius Galder, who, besides
drinking, liked fishing just as much as Benedict.

The Thirteen
th day of July, 1791.

A blustery day
for summer, heavy swollen clouds but no rain. Mrs. Blackthorn has
baked an apple pie with raspberries and custard for supper, very
nearly eaten by Ned - Nettle had read earlier entries about their
mischievous plough-horse - who yet again escaped the field.

Finnius arrived today with news that greatly upset my wife.
Anna Quidfinger (I remember her mother Marguile as a child with
pretty blond hair and a petulant temperament) had been found in the
town well, drowned. She was but seven years old.

Nettle skimmed
through the next few pages, filled with brief accounts of weather
and harvesting crops.

The
Twenty-Seventh day of August, 1791.

Very hot day.
Young Thomas snared two rabbits in his traps and Peter was caught
stealing a slice of Mrs. Blackthorn’s walnut tart that was left
cooling on the window sill. Peter will be spending the next week
chopping wood for our winter stores in punishment, but I have a
feeling not even that will deter him from trying again. I can’t say
I blame him, Mrs. Blackthorn is quite the baker, as even Ned would
attest if he had the means to speak.

Finnius
stopped by for a spot of fishing. He informs me that there seems to
be an exodus of young people striking out for Caddland and the
promise of wealth and an easier way of life. Even his nephew
Herbert has succumbed and departed without even a by-you-leave for
his mother. Finnius was infuriated with his nephew and his
ill-treatment of his mother, and spent most of the day ranting to
me of his wayward nephew. In truth I believe Finnius was annoyed
more with the fact he had to stay and comfort his sister and miss
out on a days fishing.

Still the
evening was good and we managed to land three decent trout and
finish off a bottle of port.

The
Twenty-Eighth day of August, 1791

Finnius has
sworn off drinking. We shall see.

Life
went on for Benedict and his family and he received no news of Olde
Town from Finnius, as Benedict had not seen his fishing companion
for quite some time... not until a month later.

The
Twenty-Fifth day of September 1791

Finnius has
learnt the truth behind his nephew’s disappearance. Herbert wasn’t
in Caddland. He’d never even left Olde Town. He’d been killed.
Murdered, Finnius says, in a most horrific manner. They’ve found
more bodies than just Herbert’s, scattered amongst the Wilds.

Quite a few of
the town-folk’s sons and daughters, at first thought to have run
off to Caddland, have been murdered in macabre rites. As a
sacrifice to the devil, Finnius claims.

That night was
a sombre night at Blackthorn Cottage and Finnius drunk well into
the night until he fell asleep where he sat, a mug of blackberry
wine still in his hand.

The
Seventeenth day of October, 1791

Finnius
arrived in quite a state today. He has come to warn us off Olde
Town. The town’s crops are failing, a blight has struck and a few
villagers have succumbed to a strange illness, which has already
killed three and one babe.

His news drove a great fear into Mrs. Blackthorn and after
he left she spent a great deal of time calming her nerves with the
whiskey he left behind. I have not seen Mrs. Blackthorn drink the
likes of this before and she could have easily bested Finnius that
night.

Nettle, her
brow creased in consternation flicked through, trying to find the
next passage relating to Olde Town. It wasn’t long before she found
the thread pick up once more.

The Ninth day
of November, 1791

Finnius has
taken to drinking again, more than usual. And he begged me over and
over to protect my wife and children from the evil in Olde Town.
Mrs. Blackthorn doesn’t want him around the children with his talk
of devils.

After dinner
and too much whiskey he became belligerent. But amongst the
nonsense he spoke of a family who have flourished amongst the
hardship Olde Town is experiencing of late. He mumbled a name, over
and over again. Lysette. The eldest daughter I’m led to believe of
a family rumoured to have Kin-Folk blood.

The
Twenty-Ninth day of December, 1971

I have not
seen my friend Finnius for some time. I, as well as Mrs. Blackthorn
worry for him. The winter weather has been particularly harsh and
not conducive to travelling. As soon as I am able I intend to head
to Olde Town.

The Eleventh
day of February, 1792

It’s been a brutal winter. We’ve survived it well enough,
here in the cottage, but I feared for those in Olde Town and in my
surety that the folk there had been struck hard, I took what food
and clothing we could spare, in hopes of finding Finnius alive and
well.

I have not
recounted to Mrs. Blackthorn everything that transpired, the
terrible things I saw that day. It would worry her incessantly and
steal from her peaceful sleep.

Upon my arrival in Olde Town a great fear stole upon me.
Pagan symbols warding off evil were everywhere. The town-folk,
those who’d survived, looked starved and skeletal, fought with
mangy dogs and cats for scraps of food. As far as I could see, most
of the village have been killed by a sickness that I would find
hard not to describe as some sort of plague. Bodies, wrapped in
blood stained blankets were simply left outside front doors, since
there was hardly anyone left to collect the dead.

I found
Finnius dead at his table, his favourite mug still clutched in his
hand. He’d been dead for quite some time, the plague having laid
claim to him. Blood had wept from his blackened eyes and his throat
was swollen and encrusted with boils and pustules.

I couldn’t be
there any longer.