Spellbreaker (Spellbreaker Duology, #1)(72)

Her throat constricted on that last one.

Surprisingly, Juniper Down came too soon, even with the driver having to stop to ask a farmer for directions. It was a tiny place, with only one carriage-sized road running alongside it, and it was in poor care, judging by the way Elsie jostled about. The horses stopped, Elsie’s heart leapt into her throat, and the driver opened her door.

“Sure this is it?” he asked, lending a hand to help her down.

Coming around the carriage, Elsie scanned the place. There was farmland off in the distance. The houses weren’t too dissimilar from those of the duke’s tenants, though they varied a little more in size and looked to be in worse repair. Each had a small garden. Narrow dirt paths crisscrossed around. An old man in a chair by a beehive near the road squinted at her.

Sensing her hesitation, the driver shouted, “Ho! This is Juniper Down, is it not?”

The man bellowed back, “’Tis! What’s it to ya?”

Drawing in a large breath, Elsie turned back to the driver. “I’ll find it, thank you.”

The man nodded and pulled down her valise from the back of the carriage. “Good luck to you.”

Elsie nodded and stayed on the road until the carriage turned about and pulled away. Then, trying not to chew on her lip, she approached the old man.

“I’m sorry, but do you know where the Halls live?” she asked.

“Henry’s lot?” he repeated, eyeing her. All his clothes, including his hat, boasted at least one hole, and here she was in one of her best dresses. Perhaps she had made a mistake, primping before coming here. But the man lifted an empty pipe and pointed it south. “Down the road, they is.”

He didn’t offer to escort her, which was just as well. “Thank you,” she said, and followed his direction.

The noises of young children—one of them a crying baby—reached her ears. A woman knelt in her garden, pulling weeds. Another drew water from a well, watching her pass. She wore a black hat and black ribbon around her wrists. Was she in mourning? Folk here likely couldn’t afford a special wardrobe for it.

Elsie nodded to her and continued on, soon spying a little girl also in black, and a black-dyed dress hanging on a clothesline. How terrible. What had happened here?

The path forked up ahead, but fortunately a woman perhaps in her late thirties stepped out of her house just then. “Oh!” she exclaimed, looking Elsie up and down. “Are you in from Foxstone?”

Elsie shook her head. “I’m from Brookley, actually. Near London.”

The woman whistled. “What are you doing in these parts?” She shook her head. “Don’t mean to be rude, just curious. Are you lost?”

Elsie’s shoulders began to ache, and she forced her posture to relax. “Only a little. I’m looking for Agatha Hall.”

“Agatha?” The woman stepped onto the path and gestured for Elsie to follow. “She’s just around this way.” They passed an older woman washing clothes. “Here to see Agatha,” the first said, as though the other had asked. They continued along, but Elsie heard the second woman pass the information along to someone else before leaving earshot.

“Right here.” Her guide gestured to a house that looked like all the others. “Need me to come along?”

“Uh, no, thank you.” She nodded her gratitude and, holding her breath, approached the house.

She knocked thrice, feeling eyes on her back.

Footsteps sounded within, followed by a sharp word, likely to a child. The door opened. Elsie barely recognized her—she was working off the memory of a six-year-old child, after all, and the woman had aged since then. Perhaps it was the dress, or the obvious fact that Elsie didn’t belong, but Agatha knew her immediately.

“Elsie Camden!” The words were uttered on a gasp. “Oh goodness, you came. And so fast! Come in, come in.” She put a hand on Elsie’s elbow and ushered her inside.

The home was cozy. Small. An old dining table took up half the room, and the bottom floor had only one room. A narrow set of stairs led up to what Elsie presumed would be one or two bedrooms. A boy of perhaps ten sat by the window, polishing a pair of shoes. There was a fire in the hearth, warming a great iron pot, and the air was overly hot, but it smelled like bread and earth. That smell was more familiar to her than anything else she saw.

Elsie set down her valise, her manners fleeing her. “Where is he? She?”

“He,” Agatha corrected. “And he didn’t stay. I mean, he’s here, but he ain’t here.” She turned and ventured toward a wooden shelf. Pulled an envelope from it and handed it over. The edge was smeared with some sort of grease. “Sorry,” she added, gesturing to it, “one of the littles got to it.”

An envelope? Elsie turned it over. No seal. “What’s this?”

Agatha shrugged. “He wouldn’t say much about it. Only to give that to you.”

Clutching the envelope in her trembling hands, Elsie asked, “How old is he?”

Agatha shrugged. “Maybe a bit older than meself. Grew out a beard; swear he was clean shaven when you all came around the first time, but it’s been so long, and it was only the one night.”

Father, she thought, and a chill flowed down her arms. “But he’s still here? In Juniper Down?” She broke the wax on the envelope. It was made of fine parchment. The letter within was delicate, the paper small.