For my sake if not for your own—take more care, Mina Penrose.
It was hard to believe the master of Roche Rock had ever said such a thing to me.
Even if he hadn’t, I wasn’t fool enough to take the risk.
I walked on home, and by the time I got there, my head hurt from both the lump and too much thinking. I went straight up to my bed.
On waking, I was confused about the time of day. But I felt well enough, and I tossed back the coverlet and climbed down the ladder.
I slipped out the back door of the cottage for some fresh air and to reset my clock, and Jenny, our old nanny goat, bleated a greeting. The hens came running, expecting scraps.
“Don’t come tome,” I scolded them. “Get to work on those apples on the ground, so they don’t go to waste. Might even get a worm or two in the bargain.”
I felt guilty I hadn’t pickled more of them this year, but my job didn’t leave me enough time to do all the things Mum used to do. I’d put by enough for Jack and me for the winter, though. It occurred to me that I should pick a basket for Mr. Tregarrick. Despite him using bread baking to explain alchemy, I got the impression he didn’t eat very well.
Peckish myself after my nap, I plucked an apple from the tree. The fruits were big this year—dark red, tart, and crisp—and I ate only halfof it before holding the rest out for Jenny. We no longer got any milk out of the sweet old thing, and we could afford cow’s milk since I’d been working for Mrs. Moyle. Jack was always after me to boil Jenny for stew, saying there was no point in feeding such a useless animal, but mean as Jack could be these days, I knew he wasn’t serious. Mum had loved Jenny. And she was no trouble. There was so much bramble and sweetbriar for her to eat around the house—not to mention the apples—that the only time we had to feed her was in the bleakest weeks of winter.
Rubbing between her curved horns while she grunted, I looked out and tried to guess the time by the light. Cloudy again today, but I thought it was around the time The Magpie usually closed. Three, most days. Four if the afternoon business was brisk.
Though Mrs. Moyle had asked me to spend the day at home, I felt restlessness coming on. I wasn’t used to being idle. I remembered the milk pitcher and got the idea to go back to town and buy a new one. Then Jack wouldn’t have to ask me where it was, and I wouldn’t have to tell him I’d smashed it in a fit of temper, and just maybe he wouldn’t notice the difference. Especially if I could find a pattern that was similar.
It won’t hurt me to walk a little.If I did start feeling poorly, I could turn back.
I donned my bonnet and shawl and set out. It was warmer today and, though overcast, less dreary. A breeze moved through the weeping boughs of the old willow next to the road, halfway between our cottage and The Magpie. The branches reached all the way to the ground, and their swaying made the tree look like a golden waterfall.
Those branches had been a favorite hiding place of mine and Jack’s when we were children. We’d often pretended it was Camelot and we were Knights of the Round Table. One time Billy Budge—our neighbors’ son, who was close to the same age as Jack and me—burst in on us and tried to take over our game. He said he would play Lancelot and that I must play Guinevere because girls couldn’t be knights. Jack took one look at me trying not to cry and knocked Billy to the ground.
As The Magpie was on the outer edge of the village, I had to pass it on the way to the other shops. I knew Mrs. Moyle wouldn’t like my being out after she’d sent me home to rest. I told myself that if she saw me, I could blame it on the broken pitcher and my fear of Jack’s temper. (Whodid the smashing?) But I knew she’d only offer me one of The Magpie’s pitchers, and then I’d have no excuse to do the thing I’d really come to town for—might as well be honest, at least with myself.
I held my breath as I passed in front of St. Gomonda, the parish church, which was directly across from The Magpie. Looking through the tearoom’s windows, I could see that it was empty.
I continued up Fore Street, passing Teague’s Sundries Shop—where I was most likely to find the pitcher I needed—and stopped outside the business next door, The Wolf’s Head. A low-slung building of rough, grayish brick—blotched here and there with whitewash that had all but faded away—the tavern might just be the oldest in the parish. The sign above the door creaked as it swung in the stiffening breeze.
I studied the sign more closely in light of my conversation with Mrs. Moyle, and I noticed something I hadn’t before—a dark blob among the heather in the background.
Roche Rock.
Gaze lowering to the door, I took a deep breath. A clump of Michaelmas daisies had sprung up from the hard earth beside the entrance, pale-purple heads bobbing on thin stalks.
Am I really doing this?
This was the place Jack had spent most evenings since Mum died. It looked quiet now, too early for the mine workers. Maybe not even open yet. Holding my breath, I reached for the door handle.
The Wolf’s Head
The door swung open and I stepped inside, hesitating as my eyes adjusted to the low light.
Wood paneling completely covered the tavern’s walls and ceiling, and a couple of oil lamps gave off a dim yellow glow. Two heavy wooden chandeliers hung from the ceiling, but none of their candles had been lit.
A potbellied coal stove put out heat at one end of the room, and at the other end was a large, open hearth, looking as though it hadn’t been used in some time. Tables were scattered around the floor, and a bar with a snug at one end lined the back wall. A couple of men too old for the mines sat on barstools with pints in front of them, but otherwise the place was empty. A gangly, sandy-gray wolfhound had flopped down on the flagstone floor near the stove. The dog’s eyes noted my presence before its tail gave one heavy thwack and then stilled.
“What can I do for you, miss?” The publican had stepped from behind the bar and approached me.
“Good day, sir,” I said, trying to sound more confident than I felt. “Maybe you’ll think this strange, but I have a curiosity about this old tavern, and if you have a moment, I wondered whether I might ask you a few questions.”
He frowned, grizzled brows angling down toward his bulb nose. “We’re not in the business of answering questions at The Wolf’s Head, miss. Nor are we in the business of serving unaccompanied young ladies.”
His refusal disappointed but did not surprise me. “Beg your pardon, sir.”
