Masked.
His attention returned to her, and that’s when she knew. She’d seen him before. Or, at the very least, someone just like him.
“It isn’t now,” he said, a clear invitation for her to leave.
One she should have leapt to take but didn’t. “You were in Opulence Mansion. Speaking with Master Merridon.” A trickle of warmth ran down her neck. If she was wrong, then he could deny it. But she didn’t think she was. His build was the same beneath the high-collared coat. Was he also a part of the guard then? A patrol?
Without warning, the rider swung down from his horse. Frightened she’d said something she shouldn’t, Alora scurried backward until her back hit the trunk of the tree. It startled her, though not nearly so much as the masked rider stalking toward her. He towered above her when he neared, his leather-clad fingers skating along the length of her neck to her ear. Wincing at the sting, she felt him apply pressure to the small wound.
“What did this?”
Alora made to tuck the knife behind her, but he caught her hand in his, bringing both into the glow.
Silence stretched, one in which she really did hear an owl’s screech. Still his hands remained on her, warm on her wrist and pressed to her ear. She desperately tried—and failed—to make out his features behind the mask and beneath the hood, her heart bounding wild.
“A knife is a poor choice if you don’t have the skill to wield it. Don't leave the lane again,” he said, not verifying in any way he'd recognized her too.
He released her wrist, granting her the courage she needed to step aside, freeing her wound from the pressure of his grip and her body from the nearness of his. She swallowed, relieved he didn’t come after her, and lifted her hood.
“I’ll make sure to learn the use of it before we meet next,” she said, a little bit ominous.
The rider dipped his head, and matching tone for tone, said, “Looking forward to it, Miss Pennigrim.”
***
“So, it was him, after all!” said Alora to Mrs. Flops, relaying all she'd done and seen. “Quite mysterious, isn’t it?” She scratched along the creature’s soft head while they lounged upon the sofa. She’d eaten dinner, quick and alone, and now she sat, notepad on her lap, creating a list of all she wished to place on order tomorrow. It wasn’t that much different from how her nights were usually spent, aside from the discomfiting way she kept checking her notes, the measurements of the room sliding right out of her head from one moment to the next.
She'd never had this happen before, and hoped she wasn’t coming down with something.
“But will Miss Sherry have the wallpaper I want? That’s the problem, isn't it? Sometimes her patterns are so busy.” Another pet for Mrs. Flops. “What do you think he was doing in the woods? Hunting for lurkers?”And finding one.Her eyes strayed to the knife, where she’d placed it on the mantle. She looked hurriedly back.
Triple checking, she wrote her notes for the carpenter, then the carpeteer.
“I wonder about the gate guard too. Such a funny fellow. You should have seen how bothered he was by my late departure.You might never leave, he said.” She scoffed to the rabbit like it was all a big joke, but really, a bitterness filled her insides at the memory of it. And she was old enough to know what it was.
Intuition.
“You don’t think...” she trailed. “Those performers. They’re allowed to leave. Aren’t they?”
The clock hanging against her wall chimed, announcing her bedtime with a whittled bird, a flower in its beak. Alora worried her lip before scooting the rabbit off her lap and heading toward the terrace. She opened the door to the summer air, stepping out until the breeze rustled her hair and the moon touched her skin. Her hand lifted to her ear, clean now and scabbed, unable to avoid the memory of the rider’s fingers against it—though, she didn’t try very hard.
Alora smelled flowers all around. Because they were all around. In pots, in baskets, and climbing up the handmade trellis. Mrs. Flops had followed her out, already taking advantage of low-hanging berries. Alora had adopted the creature after discovering her doing the same thing—only those bushes had belonged to a furious woman, and those berries had been reserved for pie. Alora did not bake pies.
She stared off toward the west, to where she knew Opulence Mansion to be, and could just make it out if she really tried.
Lennox had seemed well enough, happy even. Surely a prisoner, even a paid one, wouldn't be so joyful? And comments like ‘‘remain unseen’’, '’breach of contract’’, and ‘’never leave’’ could be interpreted all sorts of ways. Even if she’d done everything wrong: remaining within the mansion during operating hours, allowing everyone to see her face and know her name, what could be the worst thing to happen? She’d lose the account. A blow to her dreams, but certainly not the end of everything. A poor choice of words by a frazzled guard, nothing more.
Alora climbed into bed that night and, after drinking a concoction to cure the indigestion from which she was sure she suffered, smiled contentedly into her pillow. Tonight, she would dream of her very own shop and nothing—no one—else.
Chapter Nine
By the end of the week, Alora had placed her orders with both Ms. Sherry, who surprisingly had almost exactly what she’d imagined, the solemn carpenter, and the boisterous carpeteer. In the meantime, she’d celebrate.
Mr. Whitters’ grand opening for Confectionary Delights appeared to be an even better attended event than the DeCollier’s Spring Has Sprung Ball from three months previous. Alora hadn’t gone, but she’d read about it. It appeared Mr. Whitters, already beloved by many, had the entire town’s support when it came to the rebuilding of his bakery, the previous one having burned down due to the unfortunate mishap with a faulty stove. But the new one had arrived, if the smell was any indication, and the patrons milling about the entrance—and those tucked shoulder to shoulder inside—seemed to think it up to par with the previous. Endless boxes tied with string emerged from the entrance, as the crowd grew thicker and ever more impatient.
Alora was thankful she wasn’t here to purchase anything, as she didn’t think there would be anything left by the time she made it to the counter. She hoped Mr. Whitters had hired on help.
She approached the entrance slowly to take in her work. Ignoring the other patrons, she strode nonchalantly to the potted plants, brushing their leaves and testing the soil until she was satisfied. She studied the sign overhead, swinging gently, and felt pride in how well the curling blue letters contrasted with the white background. It looked like a proper place, even better than the one before. Though she’d never tell Mr. Whitters that, obviously.
