Deathmark by Kate Stradling

Author:Kate Stradling [Stradling, Kate]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Eulalia Skye Press
Published: 2023-02-28T16:00:00+00:00

“Why, if it isn’t Mrs. Rowe!”

The rubicund face of Old Rufus beamed at Nell the moment she set foot into the inn’s common room.

Her voice light, she greeted him. “Good morning.”

He peered past her in confusion. “Is your husband not with you? That’s a rarity indeed.”

“He’s up at the house, working on some project or other,” Nell said. She assuaged herself of any instinctive guilt by reasoning that battling an illness could qualify as a project. Rowe had passed a miserable night. An hour before dawn, the instant he fell into a deep enough sleep, Nell had abandoned him to make the long trek into town.

He’d done the same to her only a week ago, so he couldn’t very well complain.

She smiled hopefully at the baker. “I came down to the village to see if I could buy a chicken. I’m still unfamiliar with everything here, so I thought I’d ask you where I could get one.”

Rufus arched his brows. “For eggs, or the stew pot?”

“The stew pot,” said Nell.

“Plucked and prepared?”

“I can do that myself.”

“Good girl. I just received a few old hens for pie-making tonight. You’re welcome to one of them.”

“I have money to buy my own,” said Nell. She’d rummaged through Rowe’s things until she found his coin purse. He wouldn’t like that either, but it was for his benefit—which was the only justification she could make to steal from him.

Rufus smiled lopsidedly at her insistence to pay. He promptly listed a sum. “And that’s for the scrawniest of the bunch,” he added with a shrewd glare. “Would you care to barter?”

Nell instead extracted the required amount. “It doesn’t have to be a fat one. I’m making stock.”

Again his brows shot up, this time in approval. “One scrawny hen for Mrs. Rowe,” he said, and he disappeared into his kitchen. Upon his return, he winked as he handed her a burlap sack. “I added a couple onions and some carrots there for you.”

Nell blushed. “Thank you.” Instinctively she opened the sack and looked inside to see the throttled hen and vegetables. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Dr. Simms tells me that you make a sweet roll to rival my own,” said Rufus, smiling. “Bring me a batch some time, won’t you?”

“I will,” said Nell, “I’d better get going if I want to get this on for dinner tonight.”

“Your husband’s in for a treat.”

She ruthlessly squashed that pang of guilt again. “He certainly is.” She bid the baker goodbye and left the inn. She did need to hurry. If Rowe woke up alone, he might stumble around looking for her. He’d threatened before to box her ears, but he’d probably follow through if he discovered that she’d walked all the way into town by herself.

It wasn’t as though she’d had much choice, though. She didn’t trust herself to ride the horse without him to guide it, and she needed something more than vegetables to feed him. Chicken stock was marvelous for illness, and the village was her only option for acquiring its main ingredient.

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