Page 54 of The Filigree Key

“I will. On the eve of Elfame.”

“Don’t forget.”

The wight’s form flashed between the white setter and the shadowy wolfhound in more warning than farewell, and I took my leave.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

In the sunbeam of a new morning, something wriggled under the brown homespun cloth.

The badger pinched the corner and yanked it away with a flourish to reveal an undulating mass of garden snails. Drab beige-and-brown shells and sleek snails moved purposefully yet slowly over the bed of vegetable peels, fruit scraps, and bits of old soup bones.

“When you didn’t return for dinner two days ago, I had to feed them to keep them fresh,” Mrs. Bilberry informed pointedly.

“I am sorry about that,” I said tightly. I’d already apologized three times since arriving, and as selfish as it sounded, I had more pressing concerns than the snubbed feelings of a badger. Especially since I’d already tried to make amends.

Last night I’d returned to my room to find no cat. Naturally I’d gone to the fireplace, where the sneaky little thing had hidden himself before, and had discovered a note hidden in the chimney away from rat or mousy eye. Or rather, a brief message written by a claw in the soot that coated the wall: Brickwork. Have help. A familiar paw print signed the message.

Sawyer was at work loosening a brick or stone that would open either above the dungeon or the tunnel. A hob or hobs was helping him in the endeavor.

Sleep hadn’t come easily, and I woke before the first rays of sunlight struck my window. I was up, cleaned, dressed, and had that infernally heavy foraging bag slung over my shoulder and was nearly out the door when I realized I wouldn’t be the only one who’d recognize the change in weight. The bag was bulging.

Where to stash the offload?

Sawyer’s note had given me the perfect place. The soot and creosote in the chimney and surrounding fireplace hadn’t been disturbed by Ossian’s spies—there were no rodent prints. Only Sawyer’s.

Quickly, I unloaded everything I couldn’t risk getting caught with: the bleached tourmaline and the Hunting Spell monocle. They went on the ledge of the open flue, out of sight to all but anyone who crawled down the chimney. Beside them, I placed the rarer items: the Illuminate matches, a vial of shrouding powder, a few other odds and ends. The black tourmaline went into my censer, replacing the dead coal and hiding in plain sight.

Then, I’d gone straight to the kitchen with the primary purpose of inquiring after my cat, but strangely, there’d been no hobs to be found helping the cook this morning. And the more this badger, well, badgered me, the more snippy I was going to get.

I gave the bucket of garden snails an approving nod. “These look wonderful, Mrs. Bilberry. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I—”

“And here the mussels,” the cook said, indicating another bucket nearby. This one was set in the sink, the faucet above applying a steady thin stream of water.

The mollusks inside barely resembled the mussels I’d grown up with at Hawthorne Manor. These didn’t have elongated blue-black shells, rather round and flat and as drab a brown as mud. Heelsplitters, as the locals called them, so named for the sharp lip that could cut your foot if you were wading in their beds.

“I trust you’ll find them still fresh.”

Aaand apparently the badger was still miffed that I’d wanted to inspect them in the first place.

Nodding, I returned to the bucket of snails. “All looks well in hand, Mrs. Bilberry. This one in particular seems very fresh.” I pointed to a medium-sized snail whose only defining characteristic was its speed and vivacity at which it devoured the scraps.

“Feisty is more like it,” the badger said.

The snail clung to the knobby end of a chicken drumstick, its little body bowing in protest as I pulled at its shell to extract it from the others. “I think I’ll let this tenacious little thing live another day and populate another generation of robust gastropods.” After it helped me free a certain bear shifter.

The snail released the drumstick with an audible, if muted, pop and searched—hunted—my fingers for food with gliding strides. Such a vivacious little creature needed a proper name. Angus. Or was it female? Angusina. Better go with the safe bet and call it by the nickname Auggie.

“How honorable, milady,” the badger was saying. “And will you be honoring us with your presence this evening? I’ll not be cooking these up to have you shun their sacrifice by being a no-show again.”

Who knew badgers could be so salty? “I’m curious, Mrs. Bilberry, do you give Cernunnos this much abuse when he misses meals? Or when he doesn’t install you a dishwasher?”

And who knew badgers could blush? “Apologies, milady,” she mumbled.

I was more worried than irritated with her. Her true personality was coming through stronger with each passing day—the benevolent but no-nonsense proprietress of the Candlelight Inn. Her chastising barbs and insistence for mutual respect would be seen as insubordination, and there was only so much that could be blamed on the portal-blast backlash before Ossian and the Brotherhood started looking into the Caer powder.

“I look forward to dinner tonight,” I reassured her, “but I’ll need breakfast to go. Whatever you have that’s portable, please. I’ll just feed the sourdough and then get out of your way.”

“No one wants a civilized meal at the breakfast table anymore,” the badger muttered.