Page 8 of Poison Nights & Twilight Alchemy

Reed knew of no wealthy physicians in the Glen and had no interest in hauling a body around even if he did, especially since he had no cart. Besides, though he was willing to steal jewels off a dead heiress, this method of stabbing into her sounded barbaric.

Did rich people nail wooden coffins shut? Or would the dead bride be buried in some kind of stone casket? Ifthat was the case, he had no hope of prying it open alone.

The sun was beginning to set by the time Reed checked on Philip, borrowed tools from a farm he knew wouldn’t miss them anytime soon, and made his way toward Moonglade. His brother’s condition was not noticeably worse, and he’d managed to eat some of the berries Reed offered him, along with warm water with stewed mushrooms. Reed tried to assure him everything would be okay by morning, but he could see Philip didn’t believe him.

“After I’m gone,” he’d said, his voice barely above a whisper, “get as far from here as you can. You’ll find a better life for yourself, Reed—you’re too smart for this place.”

Reed had only nodded, though he had no idea where he would go or what he would do. He wasn’t smart—he was only reckless.

Once Philip was better, they could take whatever money was left and travel the world on grand adventures, finding peace and happiness away from the filth of the Glen together.

Reed walked hidden within the tall grass alongside the road, ducking down at any sound of horses, staying out of sight as he traveled. Oscar was journeying to the south, but there were other ways to find out the precise location of the dead bride’s manor. When Reed reached Moonglade, he planned to ask the oldest barkeep in the emptiest tavern about the heiress.

Sure enough, a lonely tavern stood atop a hill just outside the village, its dusty porch looking down on the crowded streets of Moonglade. As the sun set, lanterns glowed one by one before the storefronts, their warmlight shining through the tree-lined lanes while passersby hurried on their way between a blur of carriages. Someone played a lute, its delicate chords drifting along the warm breeze in melancholy harmonies.

Reed secured his tools beneath his tattered cloak and entered the tavern, the picture of an innocent country bumpkin.

“One pint of your finest mead, my good man,” Reed called cheerfully as he settled onto the worn stool in front of the solemn barkeep with a large gray mustache. The man stood wiping mugs of foggy glass using a towel that looked the worse for wear, ignoring him.

Reed kept his white hair hidden beneath the hood of his dark cloak, knowing it would be memorable to anyone asking after strangers in the unlikely event his crime was discovered. His formerly dark hair had turned white after his fifth birthday when he’d fallen ill with the same fever that claimed his parents, and it had never regained its natural color. Philip insisted it made him more strikingly handsome, but Reed felt his unruly white hair was an unfortunate thing for the criminally inclined to possess.

“Word in the villages is a recently wed couple is in search of stable hands,” Reed said, sipping his drink with a cough as if it were the first of his innocent life. “I wonder if you might direct me to the home of the Hale’s?”

The barkeep glanced at Reed’s hands, then resumed wiping glasses and placing them along the shelf.

“Good with the horses, are you?”

So. He was the suspicious type. Reed would need to move along quickly, but nottooquickly.

Reed held up his clean hands and wiggled his fingers,offering the man what he hoped was a non-suspicious smile.

“I walk the horses to the blacksmith more than I do the mucking out, most days.” He took another ungraceful gulp from his mug. “But lifting bales of hay for bedding, fetching water at all hours of the day, and preparing the bran mash after a hunting party was my main duty. Well, that and grooming. The grooming never ends, does it? But a job is a job—I had no complaints.”

The barkeep nodded in approval, though Reed could see he was still untrusting. For one thing, he hadn’t given up the dead bride’s abode.

“Rumor has it”—Reed leaned in—“the newlyweds only have four horses in their stable. Four! Can you imagine? What a dream it will be to get the job. Why, half the day to sleep away the idle hours…”

The barkeep at last looked at Reed with a sympathetic gaze, even refilling his nearly empty mug.

“I’m sorry to tell you this, my boy,” he said, “but that house is in mourning. The bride is dead, buried just this morning.”

Reed slammed his mug against the worn counter, spilling mead along the wood. “Dead?”

“I doubt if they’ll be keeping a running estate,” the man continued. “Not for a while. My guess is those horses are already gone, them and the rest. Wouldn’t look good to be carrying on like normal for the rich, no sir. Goes against tradition, doesn’t it? Especially with the mistress so young and childless…”

“Would it be all right if I inquired all the same?”

“Doubt anyone will answer at the gate,” the barkeep told him, shaking his head sorrowfully. Then, meetingReed’s hopefully heartbroken expression, he added, “But I don’t suppose there’s any harm in trying.”

Finally.Reed was beginning to wonder if he’d need to make himself sick with mead before the spleeny old geezer gave up the fobbing residence.

“If you follow that road for the better part of an hour, you can’t miss the place.” He pointed to the only visible road in sight. “Largest manor in Moonglade, half hidden behind a wall of ivy and honeysuckle vines.”

“A stone wall?”

“Its obsidian gate is one of a kind, decorated in golden pomegranates and unicorns.”

Reed had to remind himself not to roll his eyes at this. What ridiculous anomalies the rich were. Golden fruit and nonsensical creatures all over their gorbellied gates, while the rest of the malt-worm population nearly starved. If he had ever felt an ounce of guilt over robbing the dead bride before, he certainly felt none of it now.

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