Page 25 of Reign

“Argh, he’s only a boggart.” She sighed. “Harmless house spirit, he is. Been helping my family run this inn for seven generations. Knows this place better’n me.”

“You should be hanged for practicing magic,” Arthur spat, pointing an accusing finger her way.

“Out here, in the arse-end of nowhere, ain’t no one enforcing laws—I barely got time to blink, let alone start acting like judge and jury,” she said.

Arthur scowled, though his eyes glinted with fear. “If I didn’t know better, I’d call you a witch—”

“Ain’t no witch, me,” the innkeeper interrupted, turning up her crooked nose. “And the boggart knows no spells, none at all. We told him to go during the Dark Days, see—we was afraid folks’d think us magic. But he’d nowhere else, nowhere at all.”

“Poor thing,” I said, watching him struggle to wield a broomstick five times his height.

“Don’t go feeling sorry for him. Selfish little scamp,” she muttered, voice low. “Proper rude and stubborn as knotweed, but useful all the same.”

The innkeeper patted her coin-filled pouch and shuffled back to the bar.

Arthur leaned across the table, toward the men. “Do you think it’s safe to stay here?” he whispered, panic edging his voice.

Bash shrugged. “I don’t think we have much choice. Just keep an eye on that,” he said pointing at the boggart.

The creature sniffed Bash’s outstretched finger, then chomped down on it.

“Argh!” Bash yelled. “Little bugger bit me. I’m used to splinters, but his teeth sting like nettles.”

Bash rubbed the bleeding pinpricks before swiping the boggart across the back of the head. The creature yelped, hobbling around the table with a bright red handprint on the back of his misshapen skull. He reached his veiny arms—like the underside of a leaf—and snatched the bread I’d hoarded in my lap.

“That’s mine,” I snapped, grabbing for it.

The boggart spat on the crust. “Mine now,” he said, nibbling at the edge.

Bash tore his lump in half and tossed one piece across the table to me.

“Thank you,” I said, catching it and stuffing the whole chunk into my mouth before the boggart could steal again.

The bread tasted not only chalky but like sawdust, with a consistency chewier than candle wax. I gagged as I swallowed, focusing on filling my empty stomach.

The boggart tugged at my sleeve, pestering me while I tried to shrug him off.

“Let us have a bit more,” he moaned.

“No, I haven’t eaten in days,” I snapped back.

The boggart gasped, baring his pointed teeth. “You’re a filly!”

I froze, not understanding the word, but fearing he could sense I was a witch.

“Ignore it and it’ll go away,” Fletcher mumbled, sipping his soup.

The boggart edged closer, his veiny hand clawing at my tunic. “Girl,” he spat, yanking the fabric hard enough to strain the stitches.

The men howled with laughter. I flushed, burning with fear. They thought he was mocking my size or lack of facial hair, but it was worse than that—the boggart saw through my disguise.

Bash stifled his chuckles. “Knock it off,” he said.

But the boggart didn’t stop. His long fingernail caught on the fabric, and as I felt a stitch snap, a memory hit me—of Adder by the well, using my vulnerability to make himself feel powerful. Something inside of me shifted.

Without hesitation, I reached into my stocking for my knife. Grabbing the boggart by his wiry hair, I yanked back his head and pressed the blade to the fat fold on his neck.

“Leave me alone, or I’ll slit your throat,” I hissed through my clenched jaw.