Page 74 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

“We’re leaving,” he announced the instant the door clicked shut behind them.

The twin’s eyes glittered in the dim light of the corridor as their chins snapped up, alert.

“’Tis Thomas.” ‘Twas difficult to even say the name. “He’s here.”

“Thomas?” George repeated.

“Not the tailor?” Francis asked, astonished. “But he’s dead.”

Taran gave a harsh laugh. “Nay, he’s not, and now he’s been deemed an imposter. No doubt, he’s squealing like a pig already—”

“Has he seen Moll?” Francis cut in, alarmed.

At Taran’s nod, both lads hissed. “We’ve got to leave. Now. Afore he unleashes them on us all.”

“Does he know ye lads, too?” Taran’s heart sank.

George’s face darkened. “Only too well.”

“I’ll ready the others,” Francis offered. “We’ve got to run. We can distract the guards—”

“No, ‘tis Moll,” George interrupted quickly. “She can brew a potion to set the men to sleep. She’s sold them in the market afore.”

‘Twas an interesting thought and one that just might make the entire plan feasible. “I’ll fetch Moll,” Taran said, then pointed to the door. “Ready the wee ones and wait.”

As the lads hurried back into the room, Taran took off at a run.

He’d just entered the keep when he spied Lady Haddon emerging from the stairs with her maid, Bridgette, at her side. He could only stare in wonder. ‘Twas a miracle. Color bloomed on her face and there was a spring in her step as she held out her hands in greeting.

“Taran. ’Tis wonderful to see you.”

“’Tis a delight to see ye so hale and hearty, my lady,” Taran bowed over her hand.

Lady Haddon squeezed his fingers. “I’ve only Moll to thank. She’s a miracle.”

Taran cast a curious glance at the empty hall stretching behind her. “I’ve come to fetch her.”

“Fetch her?” Lady Haddon’s eyes widened in concern. “She isn’t here. She left some time ago.”

Biting back a curse, Taran wheeled and sprinted out the door. What had the tailor done? The thought Moll might be lying somewhere, hurt and in need of aid, lent an extra urgency to his step.

After dispatching several of his men to begin the search, he ducked into the laundry, but finding it empty, headed to the great hall next.

The feast had already begun. Voices buzzed. Servants scurried to and fro. Taran scanned the faces gathered within, but Moll wasn’t there. At the high table, Queen Elizabeth sat with Lord Haddon on her right and Lady Haddon on her left. At the end of the table, Euphemia sat next to an empty chair. The chair was, no doubt, reserved for himself. ‘Twas ludicrous she’d expected him to sit by her side and share a meal.

Euphemia’s eyes followed his every move as he strode down the length of the hall. He didn’t care. He’d hardly scurry to her side. Reaching the far end with no sight of Moll, he turned and surveyed the place in one last look.

‘Twas then he noticed Euphemia, watching him with a smirk. Irritated, he gritted his teeth and strode out of the hall.

An hour passed, and then another.

He paced the walls, waiting for word from his men while still continuing his own search, but he cast an uneasy eye at the gallows. ‘Twas with relief he spied them each time, empty, silent, in the dark winter night air.

As the clouds parted and a pale waxing crescent moon rose in the sky, a heaviness grew deep inside Taran’s chest. Something ill had befallen the lass. ‘Twas clear…but what? At times, his clansmen passed him on the wall. The message was short. She had yet to be found.

He should have throttled the tailor while he’d had the chance, to wring what had become of Moll and afore he could talk even more.

Frustrated, he averted his gaze into the inky night. What ill had befallen the lass? He relived their last encounter, again and again. If only he’d stayed a wee bit longer…but what was the use of thinking such things now?