Of Sorrow and Such by Angela Slatter

Author:Angela Slatter [Slatter, Angela]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2015-10-12T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

I don’t even bother to dress, just wrap the cloak—its ensorcellment dissipated—around me again and insist that Haddon take me to see Gilly. I will demand an explanation, I tell him, for whatever she’s done. I am angry, but not for the reason he thinks, and he tries to soothe me, although in this situation we both know there is no reason to be calm: who’s ever heard of a woman accused of witchcraft being acquitted? There are enough hours before daylight for me to do something. I’m just not sure what.

Haddon’s house is part of his living: the ground floor is a mix of office and kitchen, the upper level his living space, bedroom, and washroom; in the basement are two small cells. Edda’s Meadow is not really prepared for an outbreak of lawlessness. Maundy’s job is usually a simple, straightforward one: he locks up the drunks, makes an example of the petty thieves with the stocks on the edge of the market square, and acts as bailiff when a dispute must be settled by the taking of goods. No one expects much but for him to obey the mayor and the rich folk. He’s not a bad man, and he tempers what he must do with a goodhearted kindness. Nor is he the smartest of men, but he is easy company, which makes him popular with the men of the town, and he is handsome, which makes him popular with the women. He’s shared more beds than just mine, and he’s a worthwhile mattress-mate. Guileless and trusting as he is, he’s told me that the girls are being left at the gaol and the churchmen will question Flora and Gilly in the morning, and that Karol Brautigan and his guest are going to break the dread news to Ina in her little cottage. I’d prefer not to hurt him.

The office holds several mismatched chairs around a long, wide table, but no desk. Dusty ledgers from previous constables take up space on and off shelving. Bridles and saddles are hung on one wall, the only things that seem cared for, polished and tended, the leather looks soft and the brass fixings bright. Through a slender archway I see the untidy kitchen, and across from where we pause at the entrance is the thick iron-bound door that leads down.

“Let me speak to her alone, Haddon, I beg you.”

“Patience . . .”

“Please, Haddon. It will . . . will be easier for me to get the truth from her if we are alone.” I lean my head against his chest. He does not answer, but moves away and unlocks the door, pulling it open so the blackness of the staircase lies before me. Haddon lights a lamp and hands it to me. I place each foot carefully on the rickety stairs, breathing a deep sigh of relief when I step off the last one—but then above me comes the snap of the lock, which near stops my heart. What if

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