Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters (31 page)

Dolcie’s apron
was dusted with flour and along with a streak down her right cheek,
added a sweet allure to her curvaceous form. As she swayed through
the busy tea room, she only had eyes for Jazz. “Margot said you
were here.” She had a large wooden spoon in one hand and held it
much like a sceptre. “Oh, she looks so much like Lysette,” she
gushed to Claudine.

“
Doesn’t she just,” agreed her sister. With the appearance of
Dolcie the tension melted away.

Jazz clearly enjoyed being the centre of attention. She
allowed Dolcie to lightly touch her hair and appreciate her
profile. Nettle noticed Jazz had more than just the Balfreys’
attention, half the town-folk were casting
surreptitious
glances her way too and the
level of chatter in the dining room had diminished.
I bet they’re
listening in to every word spoken,
Nettle thought, and not without some small
feeling of self-importance.

“
Pity your uncle isn’t keen on the idea of All Hallows’ Eve,”
Dolcie said sadly. “Such a shame,” she breathed, and playfully
wisped a lock of Jazz’s hair. “You would have looked stunning in
the dress, we’ve even got a circlet with woven
diamonds.”

Jazz’s eyes lit up. “
Diamonds?
”

Dolcie gave a
cute shrug of one shoulder, her cheeks rosy with delight as she
gave a measured nod. “Old Man Snow is even going to give it away to
the girl that wears it.”

Jazz’s eyes began to glaze over. “Really? A
diamond
tiara?”

Nettle inwardly groaned, her cousin was so shallow and
predictable. She could practically see Jazz’s mind ticking over,
imagining herself in beautiful gown with a tiara of diamonds so
resplendent they blinded the gathered folk.
Of course, to top it all off,
no doubt Jazz expects to be carried about on the shoulder of a
good-looking guy,
thought Nettle, and on reflection of the faraway look in
her cousin’s gaze added,
maybe two guys and shirtless.

“Still, never mind,” Claudine said brightly to her sister.
“I’m sure we can make do with that
other
girl for the celebrations.”

Jazz snapped
back to the present. She thumped her hand on the table. “I’ll do
it!”

“
Pardon?” queried Dolcie, her dark eyes wide with
surprise.

“
No!” Nettle answered quickly, fuming at her cousin. “Dad said
no.”

“
But Nettle,” Jazz said with a dangerous gleam in her eye.
“I’m in charge while Uncle Fred is away,” and added softly,
“remember.”

Nettle frowned darkly at her cousin,
so typical, Jazz!
She obviously
thought her only chance to play Lysette was to agree to it while
Dad was away and couldn’t stop her. By the time he got back, it’d
be too late. The dress would have been fitted, the festivities
organized, the event far too…
hang on a second,
Nettle backtracked,
Dad would have no choice but to
go along with it… that would mean-

Jazz said
exactly where her own thoughts had led her. She smiled sweetly.
“Wouldn’t you like to stay at Blackthorn cottage a little
longer?”

Nettle had
thought there’d never be a time when she’d be grateful to Jazz, but
here she was showering her self-absorbed cousin with a smile
smacking of utter gratitude. She had to give her cousin kudos, Jazz
was the master at manipulation.

“
Well…” said Claudine a little unsure, looking from Jazz to
Nettle. “As long as it’s alright.”

“
Perfectly alright,” beamed Nettle. “Jazz will make the
perfect queen.”

Bram almost
choked on his mouthful of drink. “Huh?! But-”

“But
nothing, Bram,” Nettle said, giving him a long hard stare, daring
him to object.

“Oh, OK then,” Bram replied with a look that said
you-are-so-going-to-be-in-trouble-with-Dad.

Nettle instead found herself stupidly smiling gratefully at
her cousin.
And he’s so right,
Nettle thought,
Dad’s going to flip out.
But she resolved to
deal with the fall out then, for by the time he got back home it’ll
be far too late to pull out of the festivities.

Dolcie clapped her hands enthusiastically. “Splendid!” She
pirouetted, her skirt and apron flaring out around her, and started
pacing the floor fanning her flushed cheeks with a dainty hand.
“There’s so much to do and so little time left. There’s the dress
fitting… and we’ll need to talk to Old Man Snow and make sure the
circlet fits properly…
and…
”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

O’Grady’s Book Store

An hour later, after the trio had eaten and Jazz had her
fill of being fawned over, they left the tea house for home. On
their way back down the hill the trio passed O’Grady’s Book Store.
Nettle lingered at the shop window fascinated by the old leather
books on display. Some had gold gilt leaves; others
- thick tomes with
bound parchment and blotted ink - looked positively ancient and
rare. An interesting thought popped into Nettle’s mind.

She quickly
caught up to Jazz, Bram had disappeared on ahead. “What was the
name of that man you came across in the Forgotten Wilds?”

Jazz gave her
a curious glance. “Winston Sanders. Why?”

“
I want to see if I can find mention of him in the
bookstore.”

Jazz gave an
exaggerated sigh. “Come on,” she whined, stamping a foot. “I want
to go home.”

“
Just give me ten minutes,” Nettle implored. “Wait for me down
by the bikes. I promise I won’t be any longer than
that.”

In lieu of an
answer, Jazz turned on her heel and marched off down the hill.

When
Nettle entered the bookstore, a small bell above the door announced
her entrance, but no one appeared at the counter where a clunky old
fashioned cash register sat. The bookstore was small and poky; a
maze of dark wooden bookshelves from floor to ceiling requiring a
small ladder to reach the top shelves. A large orb hung from the
ceiling. A small round table with a knitted tea-cosy covering a
silver tea pot had a little handwritten sign propped against
chipped china tea cups inviting customers to sip raspberry and
thyme tea while perusing the books.

There
seemed to be no order, just clusters of books grouped in such a way
it appeared only the store owners understood their commonality, if
indeed there was any. As time ticked on, Nettle began to fear she’d
never find the local section before her ten minutes ran out. To her
relief, in an alcove tucked near the back of the store, Nettle
found what she was searching for. She ran her fingers across the
spines, her head cocked slightly so she could read the small fading
titles. “Ah-hah!” she exclaimed, her voice seeming very loud in the
empty bookstore. She guiltily glanced about, feeling as if she was
about to be scolded by a fanatical librarian. And still, no one
appeared behind the counter.

It
wasn’t until he moved ever so slightly that Nettle realised another
customer stood near her. He was tall with neatly cut brown hair in
a mid brown suit and ordinary brown shoes. The man’s left suit arm
was pushed slightly up, along with his white shirt. He
absentmindedly scratched at his wrist. The nails against his dry
skin made a noise that sent Nettle’s shoulders writhing. From what
she could see of the patch of irritated red skin, he must have been
scratching for some time.

She
pitched him a little rueful smile for her earlier outburst, but he
was too busy inspecting the books to even pay her any attention.
With a shrug, Nettle drew out a slim ledger that listed the births,
marriages and deaths of Olde Town. She carefully flicked through
pages of the book, which were very old and tatty. The handwriting
varied throughout the ages with the person in charge of recording
the information changing every so often. A few names were smudged
beyond recognition, but mostly the flourishing penmanship was
legible.

Nettle carefully scanned the pages looking for the name she
sought. It wasn’t long before she found it: Winston Claus Sanders
was born 25 September, 1752, the first child to Feyora and Declan
Sanders, a watchmaker. Within the deceased section, he was
officially declared dead on 1 November 1799. Winston, who followed
his father’s occupation, left behind his wife Nora Cathlene
Cuthbert, of 22 years. They had no children. The cause of
death:
in
absentia
.

Satisfied, and somewhat disappointed not to find out
anything else about Winston and the unfortunate incident that led
to his disappearance in the Wilds, she found she still had a few
minutes left before needing to meet Jazz and Bram. Nettle went on
to search for information on Olde Town itself and hoped there might
be something more to Winston in this blue leather book she had
found.

The
doorbell rang and someone entered the book store with a sauntering
stride. Nettle was too engrossed in her book to pay any attention.
Nor did the owners of the book store for she heard no one come out
from the back to attend to the new customer. She continued to skim
read the first few pages. It was a fascinating read. Nettle quickly
learnt that Olde Town had been founded by Thomas Cornelius several
centuries ago when he led a pilgrimage of like-minded souls seeking
a better life than the cities festering with corruption, disease,
and poverty could offer. Fifty years later Olde Town flourished
into a busy little village with homes and businesses hewn from
stone from the hill. But with the strangeness of the surrounding
forest, folk began to disappear...

A voice in the
bookstore called out, “Bristol!”

Nettle froze.
She peered out from behind the alcove.

What the..? Ugh,
she
mentally groaned,
just my luck.
She pulled the peak down of her
baker-boy hat and shrunk back into the shadows of the alcove
determined not to be spotted.

An old lady entered the store from the back
room, rubbing her
eyes as if she’d just woken from a nap. She was short and slight
and clutched a worn crocheted shawl about her hunched shoulders
with a bony hand. When she saw the boy with the violet eyes at the
counter, she squinted at the nuisance. Her voice crackled with
annoyance. “Oh, it’s
you
.”

“
Smilla,” greeted the boy with a cheeky grin. “Lovely as ever
to see you.”

The old lady glared. “Wish I could say likewise,
Jack
.” And she pronounced his name as if it was something
particularly distasteful.

For some
reason Nettle wasn’t expecting his name to be Jack. She’d
considered something hoity-toity like Sebastian or Hugo or even
Chester; but not Jack, it was a little ordinary.

Smilla’s iron
gray hair was severely coiled into a bun, but a few wisps had
escaped. She smoothed them back down with knobbly fingers. “Is it
that time again?” she asked, sounding a little defeated.

Jack shifted
his messenger bag around so he could access the main compartment.
He removed a large bundle and placed it on the counter. Whatever
was inside was wrapped up in a soft material to protect it, and the
reason why he’d placed the bag down so carefully earlier up at the
picnic area.

Smilla
bent down disappearing behind the countertop. A moment later the
old woman reappeared, hobbling around the counter with something in
her hands. Nettle rose on tippy-toe, peeking around the bookshelf
to see what was revealed. It was a small ladder.

She
shrugged away Jack’s offer of assistance, her hand swiping at him
like a tetchy cat. She set the ladder up in the middle of the store
and climbed upward. Nettle’s breath caught in her throat as the old
lady teetered a little on the top step, but she righted herself and
very carefully unhooked the bulb.

Jack had
unwrapped the large bundle that she’d left on the counter and
inside the soft material was an identical bulb. Jack and Smilla
exchanged bulbs, and Smilla hooked the new bulb into place before
gingerly stepping back down from the ladder.

Nettle’s brows crooked in bafflement. What was so important
about a bulb it warranted special delivery
?

Jack
held the bulb up to the light. Nettle could see there was something
faintly shimmering inside. The boy’s eyebrows hooded over his
violet eyes, as he gave Smilla a quick displeased glance. He dug
his hand into his pocket and slapped on the counter a handful of
coins with their centre punched through; the same currency Nettle
saw exchanged at the tea house between the town-folk and
Pippa.

Smilla poked
at the coins and snorted. “What’s that? Hardly anything, is what
that is. You’re swindling us.”

Jack humoured
her with a crooked smile. “Smilla, it’s not even half-full. I’ve
been more than generous. Far more than I ought to.” Albeit
reluctantly, Smilla’s glare dissolved, and she pocketed the
coin.

Jack used the
same soft cloth to wrap around the bulb he’d taken from Smilla,
slipping it into his messenger bag, and shrugging the strap over a
shoulder. “Now, to why I’ve been sent here,” the boy said in a
derisive tone. “Where is Bristol?”