The Quantum Curators and the Shattered Timeline by Eva St. John

Author:Eva St. John [St. John, Eva]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Mudlark's Press
Published: 2022-07-14T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21 - Julius

An hour later, Alys was burping happily, having stuffed herself on a bowl of stew and a hunk of bread, heavy with seeds and a good crusty loaf to mop up the juices. We were sitting in the corner of a tavern a few streets away from Thorny Island, the land mass that the abbey sat on.

‘Did the innkeeper not think it odd that we were sleeping here rather than in the cloisters?’ I asked.

It was imperative that we didn’t draw undue attention to ourselves. Especially considering what was happening this week. We needed to keep out of the history books.

‘Perfectly standard, apparently, for visiting monks to stay in places other than the cloisters. I think it’s a power-play thing. Which suits us.’

Clio nibbled on a drumstick, scowling as she did so. We had to appear wealthy, and wealthy patrons ate meat. I, for one, was enjoying it and found myself burping. Happily, greedy wealthy monks appeared to be something that the local population was used to.

Raised voices were coming from the bar. A well-dressed man was arguing with the alewife and pointing in our direction but she was having none of it. His shoes were leather, rather than wooden clogs. His hose had clearly been made to fit him rather than handed down but were dirty around their hem. The same was true of his doublet, a rich blue velvet, but some of the seams had frayed and had been poorly resewn. A wealthy man, once upon a time. Now he was down on his luck. Getting nowhere with the woman, he sidled towards us, a wet smile on his face. The transformation from belligerent accuser to sycophantic patron was astonishing and I marked him as someone who lived by dint of manipulation and cunning. I suspected he didn’t have an honest bone in his body and I immediately took against him.

Clio kept her hood raised and lowered her face as she carried on chewing her drumstick. To the untrained eye, she was the personification of disinterest.

‘Greetings, Brothers.’

His tone wavered between confident and belligerent. He was certain that we would accede to his wishes where the innkeeper wouldn’t. I looked over at her, but she had already moved on to serve a group of travellers who had just walked in, mud on the hems of their cloaks.

I looked back at the trader and bowed my head. ‘Greetings.’ I took a swig as I raised my eyebrows. Clio drained her pint then belched loudly and called for ale. Whilst she waited she returned to her food ignoring the man who hovered uncomfortably. His smile was forced and he kept clearing his throat, tugging at his collar. There was an air of desperation about him that stank of foolish choices.

‘I find I need to avail myself of your charity.’

I took another swig. Whatever he wanted, we couldn’t get involved. Our brief, as always, was to lie low. I hoped my disinterest would dissuade him from continuing, but his need overrode my polite dismissal.

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