Once complete, he performed a maneuver he’d used with his bedsheets as a child. He hung the newly stitched hem over his head like a hood, then pulled the corners under his arms and tied them in a knot. Putting the knot over his head, he managed to make a fairly stylish cloak.
“The flowers,” said Vatii.
“There’s nothing wrong with flowers.”
“Thoseflowers.”
“It’s not ideal, but I haven’t got time for something elaborate right now. I want to look around town, get to know people, ask what jobs need doing.”
As if summoned by the prospect of leaving, Gretchen materialized,baggy-eyed and sleepless as the day she died. She sat on the kitchen table. “If this works, does that make me your tour guide?”
Despite how unenthusiastic she sounded, Briar said, “I’d appreciate it!”
He strode out the front door and awaited Gretchen. She hovered at the threshold the way cattle did before a bit of broken fence.
“Don’t watch. It’s embarrassing.”
Briar turned around while passersby stared. He waited, rocking on his heels, admiring the job he’d done on the hem of his cloak. He almost called to ask for a status update, but then Gretchen’s sour voice issued in his ear.
“Don’t take this as a compliment or anything, but it worked.”
It wasn’t a permanent solution, but Briar allowed himself a moment of pride anyway.
His first port of call was the local pub. It was past noon, so seniors and regulars would likely be arriving for lunch and a light beer. Briar could acquaint himself with the townsfolk and see if anybody had work for him. Gretchen said the best pub was the Swan and Cygnet, an old barn conversion on the west end of the village, so they set off.
Only magically gifted people could see Gretchen, which would normally make Briar’s integration with the locals awkward, as it appeared he was talking to himself. Thankfully, with Vatii perched on his shoulder, most townsfolk assumed he was speaking with her and not a poltergeist.
As they walked past shops and through the town square, he wondered at how few recognizable storefronts he saw. Not a single Fabian’s Favours or Calysto’s Café in sight. The signs and doorways, handmade and painted in bright colors, had weathered a lot of rain and faded. Untouched by feverish modernity, Coill Darragh was as slow and meandering as its winding streets.
One particular shop stole Briar’s attention. The colors and glint of jewelry had him backstepping to take a closer look.
The hanging sign readSorcha’s Textiles and Treasures. In the window display, custom jewelry lay on plush velvet and in carved wooden boxes. Decorative silver knots of promise rings, necklaces on chains light as lace. A bolt of rich red cloth draped onto the display, showing off the way it caught the light. Though enchanting to look at, none bore magical charms.
Briar longed to go inside, but the lightness of his coin purse made him carry on.
Gretchen floated to a halt in front of the Swan and Cygnet, attempting to tap its stone foundation with a toe but only phasing through it. Briar wentinside. A few people, most of them wearing wellies, sat at the bar and tables. They chatted animatedly with easy familiarity, casting curious looks at Briar. He sat at the bar and studied the bottles lining the shelves behind it. Several looked like standard liquor; others had suspiciously viscous, bubbling contents. One, a tall, twisting vial of liquid steel, caught his attention.
Liquid courage. An apt addition to a pub’s menu.
Following his gaze, the barkeep said, “That one’s not for sale. I’d normally say you don’t need bravery here, butyoujust might.” Tall and broad-faced, the barkeep had an aura that rumbled like thunder and smelled of fresh-cut grass.
Briar recognized her. She was the woman he’d seen speaking to Head Seer Niamh in his bathroom sink.
Racking his brain to shake loose the memory of her name, Briar cringed upon recalling some of the unfavorable things he’d said about Coill Darragh. “You’re Maebh, aren’t you?”
“And you’re Briar. One of Niamh’s apprentices.”
He mustered his confidence. “I hope I didn’t offend you with my, er, disappointment?”
“You offended yourself,” she said. “No better place to practice magic than here.”
“Are you a witch too, then? A potion maker?” He pointed to the bottles.
“No, not a bit of magic in me, like. My husband was. Have you an order for me, or shall I go?”
“Oh.” Really, he ought to save what little he had for materials in case he got a job. “No, thank you.” Despite Maebh’s raised eyebrow and the sense he’d caused further offense, he forged ahead. “I actually wondered whether there’s any particular jobs for a witch in town?”
A muscle in Maebh’s jaw ticked. “Bold. Won’t order a thing, but you’re asking for work?”
