I find I’m exhausted again by the skittering and scampering of thoughts, and I settle down to sleep once again.
15
I’m sitting up beside the little man on the driver’s seat of the covered cart. Behind us the automaton’s box quietly rattles with our movement. A few hours out of Breakwater, the caravan came to a halt and Mr Orin Ellingham set me free, much to the interest and amusement of the troupe, who peppered their leader with questions. A lad, Ben I think his name is, asked ‘Are we recruiting like this now?’ and laughed at his own joke.
‘You could probably do with a break, Miss,’ Ellingham said and pointed me to the woods off the side of the road. Dignity be damned, I fair ran to relieve myself after hours in captivity. When I returned, a grinning woman with red-white hair offered me brown bread with cheese and jam and a mug of hot tea, all of which I scoffed. I could smell my own sweat and the musky scent of the automaton’s clothing, which surely haven’t been washed in a long time, and I wondered when I’d next have the chance to bathe; it didn’t bother me enough to ask or try to find a stream.
By then he’d told his people that I was in trouble and needed their help, that I’d cause no difficulty (we both hoped). Call her Molly, he said – which wasn’t the same as telling them my name – and I could see from the grins and lifted eyebrows that they knew this too. There were nods and tips of caps, but no more questions were asked and I wondered how often it happened, that they smuggled people from bad places. Part of me wanted to relax then, but I couldn’t help but feel Aidan was mere seconds from arriving; the back of my neck burned as if his breath was too close.
I hoped the feeling would lessen and a few hours later, it seems to have settled into no more than a low hum in a corner of my mind. Two roan horses plod ahead, drawing us along; behind come the prettily painted wagons and carts bearing the remaining twelve souls of the troupe. Actors, actresses, singers, jugglers and clowns all have at least two other roles – driver, cook, props master, wardrobe mistress, scene painter, general dogsbody. The road is not so well-maintained as those closer to cities and towns and villages. We’re winding through a forest of oak and yew, a lot of scrubby underbrush ranging off into the distance to be lost in shadow. There’s just birdsong and the occasional fox cry, some snuffling of things that might be badgerish but diurnal.
To the left, between the trees, I spot a house or what’s left of one. As we continue on, there are more buildings, all ruins. Most are overgrown with vines, tall grasses creeping across their steps and porches and up walls, but the timbers that can still be seen are as black as ash. Ellingham notices me looking.
‘ Southarp,’ he says. ‘They say an abbot put it to the torch after the townsfolk burned his lover as a witch.’
I shiver. ‘And no one ever rebuilt it?’
‘Abandoned. They say he made a bargain that no one would escape. They say the ghosts remained for long years until one day they were gone. Never seen one there myself though in all the time I’ve travelled these roads.’ He grins. ‘Perhaps they hide when we come past.’
‘Do you ever camp here?’ I keep my eyes on the ruins. Did I see the swift blur of a white mist darting behind a tree? Or is it my imagination?
‘Oh no. Even if I were willing, this lot?’ He jerks a thumb over his shoulder to indicate the troupe. ‘Gareth would never allow it. Yellow as piss, he is.’
The man driving the wagon behind shouts something rude; he can’t hear us but I’m guessing this is simply a repeated action. He knows when Ellingham points thusly an insult is attached.
He nods. ‘First came by here with my Da – he brought this lot together after Mam died and he couldn’t bear to stay in one place anymore. I guess I caught that from him.’
‘Do you ever consider settling down?’ I think about Brigid.
He shakes his head. ‘Not really. Who’d keep them in check?’ Again, the thumb; again, the profanity.
‘Miss Molly, Miss Molly!’ A voice from beside me, half manly, half boyish. I look down into blue eyes; the lad, Ben, running along by us. His eyebrows join in the middle. He’s holding out a wildflower, vibrant purple. I take it with a grin.
‘Thank you.’
He hares away, his cheeks burning, back to one of the other wagons.
Ellingham snorts with laughter. ‘Won a heart, you have.’
‘Speaking of which, how long have you loved my cousin?’
He startles and I touch his arm gently to calm him.
He sighs. ‘You noticed, did you?’
‘Only because I was looking, I suppose.’
‘I met her four years ago, the first trip to Breakwater without my Da. I was a bit older than Ben then but not much.’ He frowns again. ‘I’d known Aidan a while
