Nettle Blackthorn and the Three Wicked Sisters (38 page)

Jazz shrugged. “I’m just a little over it all. I really
need a break from the sisters and all their fussing.”
OK,
thought Nettle, her
eyebrows raised in a disbelieving arch,
I never thought I’d ever hear her say
she was bored being the centre of attention.

She gave Nettle a disparaging look. “Sure I’ve agreed to be
their Queen, but enough already. I don’t want to keep hearing about
it every five minutes. Besides
, one of the Balfrey’s could just as easily take
my place. They all look like Lysette anyway.” She turned on her
heel and trudged up the steps.

Though
Jazz had suggested to ask Claudine if they could stay with her,
Nettle was always one for alternatives and back-up plans. It
wouldn’t hurt to check whether or not there would be room on one of
the buses just in case Claudine couldn’t take them in. As Nettle
approached the bus parked in the cul-de-sac, she noted there was
still no sign of Mr. Fussbinder or even a driver. The door was
slightly ajar, just wide enough for her to slip through and as she
tentatively stepped aboard she was immediately enshrouded in a dim
muted light. Nettle climbed up out of the stairwell, her boots
making a clanking noise on the metal steps.

The bus was only a third full, populated mainly by couples
or single visitors. There wasn’t a single family with children
aboard the bus. Everyone sat quietly facing forward, politely
still.
Weird,
thought Nettle. She clutched the metal pole at the top of
the stair well, leaning against it. “Excuse me,” she addressed the
man sitting in the first row. He swivelled her way. He didn’t say a
thing, just stared at her, unblinking. He was thin and sallow in
the face and there was an air of exhaustion about him. His clothes,
though freshly washed were frayed and worn, as if they’d seen
better days. “I was wondering where the bus was
heading?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t even respond with a single
blink or shrug of the shoulder. He just stared blankly at her.
Nettle’s grip on the metal pole grew tighter. The way he sat
looking at her gave her the creeps.
No one should be that still.

Suddenly, a giant hand descended upon her shoulder. She
nearly shrieked with fright. It felt as if a rock had grabbed hold
of her, cold and leaden, and she stumbled under its weight. Nettle
turned to find the bus driver looming above her, a great hulking
man in an inky black uniform too tight for him. He must have been
in the driver’s seat all this time and she hadn’t
noticed.

“
What are you doing here?!” He boomed.

“
I… I was just asking… where the bus was going?”

He was wearing
dark glasses but was peering above the rims at her with tiny
pinprick eyes. “What’s it to you?”

“I know
Miss Claudine,” Nettle quickly added, hoping her name might keep
her out of any real trouble. “She’s a friend of my fathers.” She
had no idea why her father would help, but she figured maybe
another adult might give weight to her reason to being somewhere
she shouldn’t be. She crossed her fingers behind her back. “She’s
been kind enough to let us have a seat on the bus tomorrow.” It was
a blatant lie, but she trusted it would hold.

The driver let
go of her, looking a little baffled. “Mr. Fussbinder is the one who
arranges those kind of things.”

Nettle rubbed
her tender shoulder where the man’s hand had gripped her. “Yes,
yes, of course.” She squirmed past the burly man, edging toward the
open door. “I’ll go see Miss Claudine right now and talk to
her.”

The driver
jabbed a bulky finger her way, his fingernail was dirt encrusted
and jagged. His meaty face began to scrunch up angrily. “We take
our orders from Mr. Fussbinder. He’s the one who tells us where to
go, who to pick up, and who gets to go home.”

Nettle backed down the steps. “Right then, of course. We’ll
arrange everything through Mr. Fussbinder. Thank you.”
It was an utter
relief to scramble away from the bus.
No wonder those passengers sat so
still, who’d want to upset someone like him.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Dryad’s Breath

At Goodmire
Grocers, the elderly Mr. Goodmire did indeed have another box of
Nutella out in the back storeroom, and under his inquisitive stare
Nettle bought as many jars she could stuff inside her satchel.

As Nettle made her way up to the Three Wicked Sisters’ Tea
House, she dawdled along the winding cobblestone path, finding it
terribly hot and humid. She stopped to remove her jacket and tie it
around her waist. As she continued on, trudging up the path, sweat
beaded at her hairline and the satchels strap cut into her shoulder
from the weight she carried, she stopped to lean against the stone
wall of the Footless Cobblers, relishing the coolness of the shade
it provided.
She didn’t understand why it was so blatantly
summery,
it’s supposed to be Autumn, isn’t it?
She rubbed her aching shoulder
where the satchel had dug in, silently bemoaning the spriggans and
their ferocious appetite for Nutella.

The
earth began to tremble. A little. Enough for Nettle to straighten
and nervously glance about, wondering if she’d felt the tremor or
imagined it. Oblivious tourists were going about their day but a
few had paused, two of them happening to be the pretty Norwegian
backpackers who had been present in the beauty annex the first day
Nettle had come upon Olde Town. The two girls shared a concerned
glance, then as Nettle felt the ground stop shaking, they shook
their heads and pulled self-deprecating faces at one another before
carrying on back down the hill. Nettle blew out a pent-up breath,
her erratic heartbeat began to slow back down. Earthquakes made her
nervous, but obviously these minor tremors were
common-place.

Her mind flitted back to the fact that the hill was a
goblin mound,
and what could be buried inside.
Maybe the earthquakes have nothing to
do with the Balfrey’s mining the cave? Maybe it has everything to
do with whatever is hidden within?

All of a
sudden, her wrist was snatched by someone with a strong grip and
nails that bit into her skin. Nettle near screamed.

She spun around and found herself facing a wizened old
woman. She was hunched over, covered in a dirty threadbare cloak
with the hood pulled over her matted head. Nettle frantically
tugged her arm, desperate to be free. “
Ouch
, you’re hurting me,” she
wailed.

But the old
woman with her skeletal fingers and dirty ragged nails held tight.
“Come now Missy, you be polite to your elders. I mean you no harm.”
Nettle’s nose crinkled in revulsion, the old lady’s breath stunk of
rotten eggs.

Beneath the
hood Nettle could see the old lady’s gaunt face was deeply gouged
with wrinkles and she realised with a start that the old woman was
the stranger that had been following her. Nettle stopped
struggling, though her heartbeat raced on. She asked warily, “What
do you want?”

The old
lady licked her dry chapped lips with a tongue holding little
moisture. It sounded like sandpaper against concrete. Her sharp
brown eyes looked upon Nettle hungrily. “I just been hoping you
might take pity on an old woman who don’t have much in this
world-“

“
OK, OK,” interrupted Nettle hoping to buy her freedom. “Do
you want some money?” She hurriedly dug around her back pocket with
her free hand for a fistful of coins.

“
No, no,” the old woman shook her head. “I has no need for
coin. I need something else, something only you could get
me…”

Nettle eyed the old woman suspiciously. What could the old
woman want?
Alcohol? Clearly I’m too young to buy that.
“What?”

The old woman
jerked her chin toward the next flight of stairs, her thin lips
pursed together jutted out. “I been hankering for some of that
Dryad’s Breath they sell at the tea house. But they won’t sell to
me. Me and my pretty face puts off their precious patrons.” And she
cackled as if it was the funniest joke she’d ever heard.

A shiver ran down Nettle’s spine at the noise, it sounded
like bones rattling around in a bucket. She was at least thankful
the old woman wanted some confectionary and not anything
sinister.
What harm could some candy do, but rot her teeth
further?
“OK, I’ll do it.”

The old woman
gleefully released her. “Thank ye Missy. A blessing be on your
house.” Nettle rubbed her sore wrist taking a few steps back. “I’ll
wait here for you.” The old woman’s gaze narrowed sharply and her
lips curled back from a row of rotten teeth. “Be sure to be quick,
and don’t think about double-crossing me.”

Nettle
swiftly scuttled up the steps, casting an anxious glance over her
shoulder, only to find the old woman had gone.

Pippa was
behind the counter restocking a jar of phookie tusks. “Well, hello
there,” she greeted in a low whispery voice, her freckled cheeks
widening into a hesitant smile. “Miss Claudine’s upstairs with your
cousin.”

“Oh it’s alright, I’ll see her later,” Nettle replied, she
found her own smile faltering a little. “I’m actually here for
something else.” She scanned the confectionary counter. The kitten
paws and imp heads were there, but no sign of Dryad’s Breath. She
wondered what it looked and tasted like.
Cotton candy?
Sherbet? Liquorice?
“Dryad’s Breath, do
you have any?”

Pippa’s
hazel eyes got big and round. “Dryad’s Breath?” Nettle nodded,
wondering if she was right in thinking Pippa had paled slightly.
“I’ll have to ask,” the other girl said, and she swiftly rounded
the counter to disappear into the tea house.

A moment later
Pippa trailed quietly behind Margot as the middle sister arrived in
the annex. Margot looked tired, more so than the last time she’d
seen her. Her complexion seemed dry and rough and for a moment
Nettle wondered if that really was a mole in the corner of her
nose.

Margot approached with a smile, not delivered as warmly as
Claudine would have, but a pleasant-enough imitation, except Nettle
wasn’t fooled. She’d already begun to suspect Claudine’s sisters
had a problem with her. Maybe they were reluctant for their sister
to enter a relationship with someone with children. She hadn’t
anticipated that, but supposed it would put some people off. It’d
be hard work raising children that aren’t your own.
Especially if those
kids had baggage,
she thought wryly.

Margot said
coolly, “Pippa tells me you’re asking for Dryad’s Breath.” She
cocked her head to the side and her eyelids dropped to half-mast.
She ran her fingers through the feather of her quill as she spoke.
“Tell me, what do you want with it?”

What’s the big deal with the Dryad’s Breath?
The way Margot and
Pippa were reacting
she began to fear it may not be legal. Instead she answered
lightly,
meeting Margot’s steely gaze. “It’s not for me, an old
woman begged me to buy it for her.”

Margot snapped
her head upright. Her thin eyebrows arched in incredulity. She
peered over Nettle’s shoulder through the store’s open door but
couldn’t see anyone outside. Her gaze came back to Nettle, her eyes
narrowed as sharply as her cheekbones. “The Crone, I’m
assuming.”

Nettle’s own black eyebrows rose in astonishment. She
supposed the old woman could be described as a crone, it was a
little harsh, but entirely valid.
Maybe I’m not the first person the old
lady has bullied into buying her candy.
“She didn’t tell me her
name.”

Pippa
was unobtrusively re-adjusting the glass canisters so they were
perfectly aligned with one another. For some peculiar reason she
gave Nettle a rather covert glance, her expression portraying
trepidation. But before Nettle was able to wonder about it, Margot
smiled - she really smiled, and Nettle felt the iciness thawing
between them. “You are in luck, we have one or two.” She bent her
tall frame down to retrieve a small vial beneath the countertop and
handed it to her.

Nettle held
the glass vial up to the sunlight, watching the purplish vapours
swirl around inside. “This is Dryad’s Breath?” It looked
intoxicating. “What’s it used for?”

Margot flicked
the quill so it tickled the underside of her chin. “It’s an energy
booster. A recharge if you will.”

“
Like Berocca?” She supposed it made sense for the old lady to
hanker for something to give her a jolt of energy, she looked
positively ancient.

“
Something like that,” Margot answered vaguely. She gave Pippa
a look at which the girl nodded and retreated from the store
ducking back into the dining room. Pippa cast a troubled glance at
Nettle as she left.

Nettle dug her
hand into her pocket, wondering why Pippa seemed so fretful. “How
much do I owe?”

Margot waved
her money away. “Nothing. This time it’s on the house.”

“Really? Thanks.” She beamed, stuffing her money back into
her pocket, thinking,
maybe Margot isn’t so bad after all.

Margot gave a wistful sigh, staring out the open door.
“Sometimes, even
I
feel sorry for her.” She waved Nettle toward her,
encouraging her to round the store’s counter. “Come, you can see
your cousin upstairs.”