Page 6 of The Wicked Lies of Habren Faire
Cold leaks through the bed in the dark night and my first thought is that Ceridwen is dead. I sit bolt upright, heart hammering. IpromisedDad that I would keep her safe. I can’t fail the very night he leaves us.
My guilty, beringed hand jerks toward her side of the bed only to find it—for the first time in my life—empty.
4
anedifeiriol
(UNREPENTANT)
I leap out of bed and fumble for my bloomers and old brown coat. With battered boots fastened to my feet I hurry down the stairs.
Soft snores emanate from Gran’s room, and the fire in the hearth has long since burned out. The clock on the mantel chimes midnight. Wind snakes over the flagstone floor, ruffling tablecloths and decaying flowers. I follow its call to the kitchen, where the only sound is the ticking of the clock and the bang of the back door against the outside wall.
I hesitate in the gloom. I shut that door before going to bed, I’m sure of it. With a flutter in my chest, I stick my head out into the cool, damp night.
Sheets flap on the line, the forest rustles beyond and my boot sloshes into something wet. The saucer is broken clean in two. Milk leaks over the step. Ceridwen must have knocked it over; she’s not been gone long.
I tighten my coat and duck between the sheets on my way to the back gate.
Ceridwen never leaves the house alone—that’s my bad habit. The thought of her wandering by herself through the dark turns me cold, and the stolen ring on my finger tightens like a vise. I search every shadow, but none are my sister.
We have no gas lamps to light the way in Llanadwen. Light usually comes only from candles burning low in windows and thepub on the horizon. The pub should still be busy at this hour, but since the mine collapsed and took half the working men in the valley, the town has been somber and the pub stands empty. Tonight I’m the only person worrying at the carcass of our village.
My boot heels click over the cobbled main street, the stones shimmering underfoot—wet from an earlier downpour. A fine mist of rain still lingers in the air, carrying the promise of a storm.
I trudge down the main street toward the light of the forgotten pub. I can’t even imagine where Ceridwen would have gone. Most of her friends married in the last year while she was ill, so they’ve either moved or are at home with their babies. I pull my coat tighter around myself, glancing into upstairs windows and squinting into alleyways. I’ll trace this same path in a few hours on my way to work, and the thought curdles my worry into an irritation that momentarily overpowers my concern. My sister doesn’t work—cannot work—and here she is, wandering the streets so that I must come looking for her, because God forbid Ceridwen catch a cold or get lost.
My bitter thoughts fall to the floor when a booming laugh echoes through the night. Three figures approach from the top of the street. I curse as I realize who they are and turn promptly on my heel, hoping they haven’t noticed me.
Too late. I’m on the edge of shadow when John Branshaw calls out: “Is that Mad Parry?”
Of course John would be the one to find me. There’s a reason he and his cronies are the only boys out drinking tonight, reveling while the rest of us mourn. Our loss is his victory and he wants everyone to know it.
“It is indeed,” he says to his company, two boys from the village who think they will become something better by association with him. “What in God’s name are you doing out at this hour?”
“Couldn’t sleep,” I lie.
John doesn’t need to know that Ceridwen is out here alone. Hedoesn’t understand why she doesn’t bend over backward to bask in the glow of the candle he holds for her. John is far too mean for Ceridwen, and no amount of money can fix that. He is twenty, taller and prettier than most men, and determined to make that everyone’s problem.
“Guilt, is it?” Bill Griffiths says. His hands are still dirty from the mine, but he’s daft enough to think that John actually likes him.
“What do I have to feel guilty for?” My cheeks flush red. I hope they can’t see.
“Your father made everyone go as mad as you lot,” the other snaps. “It’s his fault them boys swung.”
I step toward them indignantly. “Tied the noose, did he?”
“As good as,” Bill says.
I clench my shaking hands into fists and take a steadying breath through my nose. Arguing with John will only cause trouble for me. John laughs and puts a hand on his friend’s shoulder, leading him back.
“Sabrina knows as well as any what a fool her father was.” John looks down at me. “It was always going to end this way.”
An insult almost falls from my lips, until I remember Dad’s parting words.Be smarter than trouble.My retort tastes bitter when I swallow it, and my skin prickles with anger.
“Did you know your grandmama has been asking about positions at the house for you?”
I grit my teeth. “’Course I know. And you can shove your jobs up your arse for all I care.”
