“Yes,” said the baker, his sparse eyebrows downturned in worry. “But it’s not for you to investigate.”
“Well that much I know,” agreed Alora, setting down the pot. “My thought was to get the constable.”
Mr. Whitters shook his head. “You certainly could. But it won’t do any good.”
“Why ever not?” Alora was sure her own eyebrows must be buried in her hair.
“Urchins, Miss Pennigrim. Not even the constable will mess with those miscreants.” When Alora only continued staring, he wrung his hands. “Call them what you will, a gang or a cult, but it doesn’t change the fact they’re dangerous, and you don’t want them noticing you.”
“Agang? In Enver? What are they? Thieves?”
The baker shrugged. “Not as far as anyone can tell. Truth is, not much is known about them, and every victim of theirs doesn’t remember. Some have lost entire years of their lives!”
“Mister Whitters! I’ve lived here almost two years. Why is this the first I’m hearing of it?”
“It isn’t talked about in polite day-to-day conversation. Rather, I’m more curious how none of your friends have whispered of it. It’s quite a topic of fascination among the young folk who grew up here; it’s been ongoing nearly a decade at least.”
Alora’s mouth pressed firmly closed. Well, that was all the reasoning she required. She’d not had the time to make any close friends. Though, if she ever decided to be more truthful about the matter, it was more that she’d not even tried. Becoming a hometown pariah at a young age for a most unfortunate incident had certainly done a number on her social confidence.
“Should someone at least have a doctor see whomever we heard?”
“Yes, yes,” agreed Mr. Whitters. “I’ll do that. Leave you to—” He eyed the ladder with some discomfort.
“I won’t be long.”
“And neither will I,” said the baker, a crooked finger raised in the air.
As he swung onto his bicycle, Alora flung herself into her work. She must be long finished by the time he returned lest he think to help her again.
It ended up being a hard finish to meet, however, with her inability to quit peering into the shadows every few seconds.
A gang stealing memories in Enver. Sounded a lot like thievery to her.
What a horrid idea.
But also…
What a mystery.
Chapter Seven
“Name and appointment time,” requested the guard.
Alora pushed back the golden cowl of her new cloak, enough so the man might see her face. “Alora Pennigrim. No appointment this time, but here on business nonetheless.”
The guard’s umber eyes widened in recognition. “Right. Of course, Miss Pennigrim.”
It was a warm day again, though cloud-filled, and the guard’s paint didn’t run upon his face, his expression clear of heat-sick. She was happy to see him fully restored. “You know, I was quite taken aback by that man the other day. Do you remember? He fell near me.” The guard only watched her, wary, his posture stiff. “Are those darts—”
“Not at liberty to say, Miss Pennigrim,” he said, silencing her. Alora noticed his eyes stray to the trees, the walls and then the gate before settling back onto her. When Alora opened her mouth to say that of course, she understood, he hurried on, low, “But it didn’t kill him. That trespasser.”
Alora breathed out on a smile, exponentially relieved. Before the guard could move to allow her through, she said, “I brought something for you.”
“I’m forbidden from accepting, Miss.” His hand moved to rest on the lever.
“Oh, well you won’t be keeping it. I’ll fetch the bottle on my way out. It’s iced tea,” she added, holding it out. “Though after the length of that walk, I fear it’s more chilled than iced.”
With a dubious expression, the guard allowed her to place it into his free hand. “Thank you.”
