Wergild by Boris L Slocum

Author:Boris L Slocum [Slocum, Boris L]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: 3B Independent Publishers
Published: 2019-03-15T22:00:00+00:00

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Isabel wasn’t certain how to take Tuppence. At times, the young womanchild was amiable and playful, and at others morose and sullen. All throughout, Isabel sensed in the girl a deep and seething anger, as if some great and irredeemable wrong had been done her. Then Isabel remembered how she herself had been at fourteen and cut the kid a break. Isabel’s life at that age hardly had been roses, and she hadn’t been raised in the coarse and violent world in which she now found herself. If Tuppence had issues, she probably had a right to them.

Little time had passed since breakfast, but both she and Tuppence were hungry, so they pondered what to eat. Reverend Ainsley calmly abstained from dining, but if there truly was a man who needed to bulk up, it was him. Handsome he may have been — and he had an otherworldly charm and charisma — but he was as thin as a fencepost.

There were no proper menus, but on the wall, a thick slate signaled the fare of the day. Her understanding of the language was strong, but the script still often evaded her. Pointing to some glyphs at the top of the placard, she asked her companions what they meant.

“Chitlins,” Tuppence snarled.

Was there a hint of disgust in the girl’s voice? No matter. Isabel instead smiled. “We have those at home. Pigs intestines, right?”

“Oh, here they can come from the innards of most any animal,” replied the reverend in a mild and sage tone. “But I’d recommend the chicken. It is truly delightful. And think not at all of payment. Sir Alexis has generously deposed me with funds to tide us during travel.”

“That is very generous, reverend. Thank you.” She couldn’t keep a smile from crossing her face. “And I wish Sir Alexis was here, so I might tell him the same.”

“He’s not the kind of man who needs thanks,” added Tuppence, this time with a sincere smile. “He’s not a big talker, either. And he’s particular about what he eats.”

It took Isabel a moment to think whether she’d missed some subtext of Tuppence’s words. By that time, the reverend had communicated their desires to a handsome woman of some forty years who appeared to be the proprietress.

“Wait, reverend. Are you sure you won’t eat anything?”

“Oh, Lady Isabel, I draw my sustenance from other sources. And mortification of the flesh is a central tenant of our religious faith. One cannot grow closer to the divine while adhering to the base slavery of the corpus. For me, food is a necessity of which I partake only in extremis.”

“Tell me about your religion, reverend.” She suddenly was hungry for knowledge she’d hesitated to discuss with Sir Utrecht. It seemed important now.

Over the next half hour, as they awaited their meal, the pastor talked about the great beings in their world, the Walking God, a force for justice and good, and the “Other One,” a being so evil and malevolent that most deigned not to give it a name.

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