Page 58 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

Quickly, the clansmen dragged their bodies into the shadows and returned mere moments later, already having switched clothes.

“And a fine Englishman ye make, Sean.” Doughall grinned.

The men snorted, but Taran paid them little heed. He kept his eyes trained on the walls, relieved that, as of yet, the exchange of men had passed unnoticed.

Then, George loomed up from the dark. “Ready?”

“Aye.”

“Ye’ll have only a minute to run for the stables, my lord,” Doughall reminded him. “Whistle like a nightjar when ye wish to return, and if ‘tis safe, I’ll hoot like an owl.”

“Aye.”

“Then, ‘tis time for a distraction,” Francis said, suddenly appearing behind his brother.

They didn’t wait. With war whoops that impressed even Taran himself, the twins tore across the courtyard and up the opposite stairs, drawing the eye of every guard along the way.

Taran was through the postern gate in an instant.

The moon provided few shadows on the ground in which to hide. Trusting his men and the twins’ powers of distraction, Taran sprinted across the grass, taking the shortest route to the stables.

Then, he was through the stable doors, calling her name, “Moll? Moll?”

He came to a stop and held his breath.

There was no reply.

Found

Moll bit her lip and watched the gallows rise on either side of the castle gates as the moon crossed the night sky. While she couldn’t have wished for better light in which to harvest, ‘twould be fair difficult—if not impossible—to sneak back into the castle undetected. Inside the stables, she waited as patiently as she could, praying the stable hands wouldn’t return—at least, not until the queen’s men had retired.

After what felt like years, the queen’s men finally packed up their tools, and with a slowness that made her grind her teeth, filed back inside the castle through the postern gate.

The iron-studded door had no sooner closed than she leapt up from the straw and dashed out the stable doors.

‘Twas time to harvest. A quick glance at the moon revealed she had less than an hour to find the mushrooms and pluck them from the earth. ‘Twas doable, most assuredly, and fortunate the snow had, for the most part, melted.

She hurried to the stable wall where she’d seen the mushrooms before and fell to her knees. The rich, damp scent of wet earth filled her nostrils as she pulled back the dried leaves and brown-tipped fern fronds heaped against the wall.

The minutes passed. With a deepening frown, she ran her fingers over the rocks and clumps of loamy soil.

Her heart began to thud.

“No,” she sobbed under her breath.

The mushrooms were nowhere to be found. With a growing desperation, she searched the entire base of the wall and the rest, as well, the image of Charlotte lying ill at the bed tearing her soul.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please.”

At last, she could deny it no longer.

The mushrooms were truly gone.

Moll closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe. ‘Twas no doubt the fault of the snow. Still, perhaps, there were still mushrooms left in the wood.

Determined, she rose to her feet and took a step toward the line of trees across the road when the creaking of a cart startled her into taking cover behind one of the carriages parked near the stable wall.

Less than a minute later, shadowy figures appeared around the bend in the road. ‘Twas two men with staves, driving half a dozen pigs toward the stables with another man leading a donkey pulling a cart.