The animated conversation rang loud and clear. A young boy was arguing with his mother over his failure to milk the cow properly. The cow stood beside them, shifting its weight and swatting flies with its tail. The woman, boy, and cow paid no attention to Archer and Briar as they walked past, still holding hands.
“They were just hidden?” Archer asked quietly. “But why?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Briar said. “I don’t think this curse uses boundary paintings. Let’s try to find the anchor.”
They strode between the nearest houses and entered the village proper. New Chester looked just as Archer remembered, all thatched-roof houses and cozy leaded-glass windows, but something felt off. It still didn’t smell right. The people went about their early-evening business, coming in from hunting or hurrying home from the market, but they didn’t look at Archer or Briar at all. He rolled his shoulders uneasily. It was a small enough town that two strangers ought to have attracted a few curious glances.
“They can’t see us,” Briar said, as if reading his thoughts. “We’re cloaked to them by the same curse that cloaked them from outside.”
“Why can we see them now?”
“The curse painter must have targeted the villagers specifically when they placed the spell. We’ll know more as soon as we find it.”
Archer suppressed a shiver and scanned the surrounding houses, which were built of weathered pinewood with carvings on the shutters and doors to add variety. “So, we’re looking for a painting? Will it be at the dead center?”
“Possibly. It’s more likely we’ll find it on an important building or meeting place, somewhere that affects the whole village on a daily basis.”
“The tannery?”
“That or the most popular tavern.”
“I see where you’re going with this.” Archer nodded at the slice of the main street visible between the next row of houses. “The common room of the inn is everyone’s favorite watering hole here.” He tightened his grip on her hand, pleased she still hadn’t pulled away. “Shall we?”
The inn, called the Sleepy Fox, was the only two-story structure in New Chester. Archer had spent a number of evenings enjoying a pint there—compliments of his friend the innkeeper. The building had a thatched roof, half a dozen guest rooms, and a spacious common room, which doubled as the village tavern. Someone was lighting candles in the windows when they reached it, the last dregs of daylight fading from the sky.
As Archer and Briar paused to study the Sleepy Fox, a man with a bushy beard stomped up the road and nearly knocked into them. His unseeing gaze passed right over them as he entered the inn. A murmur of voices drifted out the door around him.
“Sounds busy,” Briar said.
“The villagers love this place,” Archer said. “It’s always full.”
“Then this is probably where the curse is,” Briar said. “We’re looking for a large and intricate painting for it to have this much power.”
“Understood.”
They circled the outside of the building together, looking for anything unusual. Splitting up to search would have been more efficient, but something about the way the people looked straight through them made them want to stay close to each other. Archer checked the highest planes of the building carefully, remembering how Briar had hidden her curse under the eaves of Winton’s house. Nothing marked the chipped whitewash as far as he could tell, though it was growing darker by the minute.
“I didn’t see anything,” Archer said when they reached the front again. “Do we need to climb onto the roof? Maybe find an accommodating maple tree?”
Briar gave him a faint smile. “Curses don’t take well to thatch.”
“Inside, then?”
“Yes, but try not to touch anyone. I’m not sure whether or not they’ll feel it.”
They waited on the stoop until a red-faced woman burst out the front door and stomped down the short flight of steps. Archer released Briar’s hand to catch the door as it swung shut. He was a little surprised to feel the rough grain against his palm. New Chester felt like a ghost town, and it wouldn’t have shocked him if his hand had passed right through the wood.
The tavern was busy, the sturdy wooden tables filled with local trappers who’d paused for a pint of ale on their way home. One man had brought the day’s catch inside with him—a rather stringy hare—and the innkeeper was shouting at him about the blood dripping on her polished floor. She was a beautiful woman with finer clothes and a more elegant posture than one would expect in a place like New Chester.
“That’s my contact, Miss Oleander,” Archer whispered to Briar. Her hair tickled his mouth as he leaned close to her ear, and he found himself momentarily distracted by the smell of roses and linseed oil.
“How do you know her?”
“She used to work for my fa—friend.” He had almost said father. He had to be more careful. He was in danger of losing his wits completely around this girl. “We’d better look for that curse, eh?”
“Already found it.” Briar pointed across the common room at a massive painting hanging above the stone fireplace.
“Huh. I didn’t expect it to be out in the open like that.”
Briar hardly seemed to be listening. All the color had drained from her face, and her voice was a little unsteady. “Let’s look closer.”
They edged around Miss Oleander, who was still shouting at the trapper, and crossed the common room, taking care not to bump into anyone. Fortunately, the seats in front of the fireplace were empty, allowing them to examine the strange painting without alarming any of the patrons.
Bordered by a carved wooden frame, the painting depicted the village in impressive detail, from the smoky tannery to the surrounding pastures to the charming pinewood houses. It was like looking through a window from a distance except that the painting showed New Chester in the wintertime with a fine layer of
