Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters (44 page)

Smilla tried
one more time, her gnarled hands splayed in supplication. “Bristol
and I... we’re both getting old and tired.”

“I’ll
tell you what, Smilla, when you produce the quota everyone else
collects, you’ll earn the same.” Claudine paused to eye the old
lady keenly. “I’d hate to think you weren’t grateful.”

“Of
course we are,” Smilla said hastily. “I didn’t mean any
disrespect.”

“
No. I should hope not.” Claudine rapped her fingernails
impatiently upon the countertop and looked over the old woman’s
head to the back door. “I’m done bantering with you,” she waved
dismissively. “Bristol!”

After a moment Bristol made his appearance, still with no
hat. Claudine gave him a smile that had no warmth. “I very nearly
didn’t think you’d return in time.”
Or return at all,
Nettle wondered, thinking that was
what Claudine actually meant.

“Neither
did I,” Bristol grumped.

Claudine’s eyebrow arched. “I hope it wasn’t too much
trouble laying your hands on it for us, but it plays a very
integral part in the ceremony.”

She means All Hallows’ Eve - Jazz’s ceremony,
Nettle thought, her
stomach beginning to roil with unease. An image jumped out at her,
unbidden, Pippa’s fingers drawing the words in the salt – Jazz in
danger.

“
I near thought it was the last of me. Dangerous it was.
Almost lost my life duelling that old troll.” He lay a protective
arm about Smilla’s waist.

Nettle had tensed as soon as Bristol had mentioned the
troll.
That’s what Rory had said!
Aunt Thistle had been abducted by a
troll.

Bristol was
still talking. “Would have left my darling penniless and
heartbroken, if I was to have lost my life.”

What was going on here?
Nettle shrunk back into the alcove holding
the book tightly across her chest. Maybe Jack was right about
Claudine.

Claudine
gave a bored sigh. “Now come, Bristol, enough with the dramatics. I
think you have something for me.”

“Indeed
I do,” Bristol replied. The bookstore’s dim light exaggerated his
smug expression. He plucked the leather pouch from his breast
pocket and placed it on the counter in front of Claudine. Nettle,
as well as the Balfrey sister, noticed he kept a withered hand
possessively beside the pouch.

“
Can I?” Claudine asked, a hint of steel in her
tone.

Bristol
slowly untied the drawstring on the pouch with large calloused
fingers. Unused to such delicate work, it took an age. When he
finally completed his task, he started to jiggle out whatever was
inside.

Claudine
warned, “Careful.”

Nettle heard a
muffled chink of something that tumbled onto the wooden bench.
Bristol quickly cupped his hands around it, and splayed his fingers
slightly so Claudine could see what he’d trapped. But both he and
his wife looked away.

Claudine
peered between his fingers. Nettle heard her soft intake of breath.
“It’s beautiful.” But for some reason Claudine looked a little
stricken. The veins on her throat were tensed and strained, and
she’d turned pale.

Bristol
shut his fingers and tucked whatever it was into the leather pouch
and slipped it into the breast pocket of his suit, with a light pat
when it was safely back in place.

“What do
you think you’re doing?” Claudine asked. The colour had returned to
her cheeks.

Bristol hackled when his wife silently sent him a
chilling
keep-your-mouth-shut
look. Bristol chose not to observe her advice.
“The Gadfinch Crystal is yours...” his voice trailed off, but the
way he spoke said there were strings attached.

There
was a long drawn out silence before Claudine frostily replied, “I
hope you’re not suggesting you want to renegotiate?”

“
No... no, of course not,” Smilla hurriedly answered. “What
you offered is good enough for us.”

“Smilla!” barked Bristol. He glared at his wife, who closed
her mouth into a tight pout. Bristol turned back to Claudine and
continued, “I think there is perhaps more you can offer us, in
exchange.”

There was a
powerful crackle to Claudine’s tone, an underscore of warning. “I
certainly hope you know what you’re doing.”

Bristol gave a
sharp nod of his head.

Claudine
departed without saying anything further, the brisk sound of
high-heeled footsteps retreated on the wooden floor. The bell
signalled her exit.

“You
greedy old fool, what have you done! You should have given her the
crystal when she asked! You’ve signed our death warrant!” Though
her words were rough, she slipped closer to her husband, pressing
against him. She clutched his jacket lapel and was trembling. “You
need to give her what she wants, and we need to leave, now,
tonight!”

“
Oh no we’re not! Not after everything I’ve just been
through.”

Nettle still lurked in the shadows of the alcove, her mind
racing. It was like someone had tumbled a box of puzzle pieces on
the ground and there was no picture as a guide.
Claudine and her sisters are
mining the hill, just like Lysette.
And Olde Town’s a goblin mound, one that
Quary insists hoarded treasure. Trolls and Gadfinch Crystals and
orbs filled with filament...

Realisation dawned on Nettle, creeping slowly.
The sisters do know
about the Wilds! They know of this world of faerie!
She was such a fool
not to have realised it earlier. The memory of
Jack’s voice, spoke in her
head:
They’re not who they’re pretending to be.
But what was going
on, who were they, what were they after? And again, Jack
said:
Why
don’t you find out.

Yes, why don’t I.
Spurred on to discover the truth, Nettle
made to move,
hungry to find out where Claudine was off to next, the book slipped
from her and made a loud thumping noise upon the floor.

“
What was that?” inquired Bristol. He found Nettle crouched on
the floor hastily trying to put the book away. His fat dry lips
smacked together in anger. “It’s not a library!”

Smilla reached
the alcove. “Who is it?”

Bristol peered
down at Nettle, his tiny eyes squinting behind the thick lenses. “I
don’t know, just some little girl.”

Nettle darted
around the O’Gradys.

“Hey,
you get back here!” yelled Bristol.

Nettle
bolted from the bookstore, quickly scanning the cobblestone path
for Claudine, but she was gone.

A midnight
blue velvet jacket!

There he
was, the boy with the mysterious violet eyes and the nasty rude
streak disappearing up the winding flight of steps. Nettle sprinted
after Jack and saw him entering the Three Wicked Sisters’ Tea
House. Surely he could tell her what was going on at the bookstore
between Claudine and the O’Grady’s.

She
slipped through the tea house’s yellow lacquered doors.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

The
Tea House Kitchen

Nettle pressed her hand to her nose.
What is that smell? Where’s it
coming from?
It smelt putrid in the tea house, something akin to rotten
flesh, like that time she’d come across a dead possum on the road,
half squished and a couple of weeks old. She’d moved closer to
inspect the remains and the smell emanating from the dead creature
was a dense stink of rottenness that she’d never
forgotten.

Nettle was
surprised the patrons were still sitting inside eating.

Philanx, the Balfreys’ cat, stalked past, hissing at her.
She drew back giving him a wide berth. He was so thin, almost
skeletal. He looked like he’d gone weeks without any food, yet she
knew only a few days ago when she’d first met him he’d appeared
healthy and full of life.
Is he coming down with something horrible?
Ugh, is it
him?
Is he
the one who stinks?
Philanx had disappeared back to his basket by the cauldron
but the stink still lingered.

She
pushed her way past a group of people who were leaving the tea
house and wound her way through the dining room, hearing snippets
of conversation as she passed patrons who had gathered to eat
breakfast. A pretty girl, only a few years older than Nettle,
complained to one of the wait-staff with a miserable pout. “But
we’ve been sitting there all week. Why can’t we sit there
now?”

The
table she was referring to was the central table set in front of
the bay window. Now seated at the crisp white linen table was a
rather large family with a brood of five children ranging from
perhaps ten to seventeen.

Nettle
pushed past, intent on reaching the boy in the velvet jacket. She
couldn’t help but hear as she wriggled through, the whining girl’s
mother whispering to her husband, “I have no idea where these
wrinkles have sprung from.” She was pulling at the delicate skin
around her eyes, trying to smooth the crows feet. “Look at me, I’m
far too young to look this old.”

Her
husband grinned and jokingly said, “Probably the caffeine from all
that tea you’ve been drinking.”

His joke went
flat. His wife gave him a scathing look and nodded to the beauty
room. “I’m going to have a look in there.”

Jack was just ahead of her and he slipped behind the
counter and went right through the swinging doors to the kitchen.
Nettle steeled herself,
well, here goes, if I’m going to find out what the
sisters are up to, I may as well throw myself into the fire.
She entered the
kitchen, the hub of the Three Wicked Sisters’, and slowly came to a
standstill, transfixed.

It was big; really big. There was a wall of ancient
wood-burning brick ovens with cast iron doors and long paddles to
pull loaves of bread or trays of scones out; stainless steel
benches and deep porcelain sinks; copper pots and pans stacked
haphazardly near the hotplate stoves; big tubs of flour and sugar
and rows of spices and herbs. That in itself wasn’t surprising -
what was, was the lack of chefs and bakers. She fully expected to
see a busy staff of bakers industriously at work. Instead she saw a
vast collection of children.
They all look like little kids.
They could be
easily mistaken for Pippa’s siblings except they were only as old
as Bram. Nettle was mystified.
Why does Claudine have children working
for her?

Curly-haired
workers stood on small stools to reach the benches so they could
mix dough and knead bread, shape scones or cut sandwiches; some
were sprinkling cinnamon and shredded coconut or dusting pastries
with icing sugar; chopping herbs and vegetables; hovering over the
hotplates toasting spices or stirring bubbling stock; or hauling
out of the brick ovens sausage rolls and sesame crusted buns.

A pair of girls were in charge of the tea and coffee but
instead of the types of espresso machines Nettle was familiar with
in the big cities, it was some strange metal contraption with pipes
the curled around like a French horn that fizzed and spluttered big
puffs of steam, and they added into every single pot of tea or cup
of coffee, a single drop of amber liquid.
What is that,
Nettle wondered, a black
eyebrow arched,
the tea version of MSG?
And the expediter, a young boy with a
piggish-nose, was sprinkling a fine dusting of herbs onto every
single meal, no matter if it were a savoury scone or a cream filled
pastry. Unease caused a wave of fine hair to prickle down her neck.
Something was very wrong here. More than wrong, she thought, as she
wrinkled her nose, pinching her nostrils tightly. It was like the
dining room, beneath the fragrant smell of frying oils, baking
breads and pungent crushed herbs, there was a rank odour that smelt
of rotting meat.

One by one,
the kitchen staff stopped what they were doing, completely
astonished to see a strange girl in their midst. Nettle took a
nervous step backward.

Pip flitted in
carrying a silver tea service, the swinging door banging behind
him. As he moved past her, his tawny eyes grew big and his mouth
gawped wide. The silver tea set wobbled as his grip grew limp. He
very nearly bumped into Pippa, who was unloading a row of golden
orbs from Jack’s black messenger bag. Finally realising something
was up she turned around and took in Nettle. All the colour drained
from her face, leaving her freckles standing out like muddied
raindrops against her pale complexion.

There was one
adult in charge. A great big burly man with a fat bottom lip and
long white apron that reached the floor. Belying the cumbersome
appearance of his fingers, he curled tiny fruit pastries daintily
pinching them into circles. He blinked small poky eyes at Nettle,
his massive thumb accidentally pressing a pastry flat.

Nettle quickly
realised why he looked so familiar. He was the other man who had
apprehended the Crone. An icy chill ran down her spine. The man
yawned his gigantic mouth open to grunt something in the direction
of the side-entrance. Nettle couldn’t make out what he’d said, but
assumed it had to do with her.

The
side-entrance to the kitchen was open. Though sunlight drenched
Olde Town, not a single ray of light was admitted through the
tree-top canopy that shaded the tea house. In the sheltered doorway
Margot pushed back a man. She had in her hand her old fashioned
quill, its sharp nib coated with a dark red ink. Nettle had a brief
moment to wonder why she’d never noticed Margot used red ink,
instead of black, before the man pressed forward, his hands about
Margot’s waist, his lips puckering for a kiss. “Come on Eliza,
we’re almost married. Just one little kiss.”