Miss Pettigrew exclaimed, "Well, and I never!"
Her plump cheeks were flushed, and her brown eyes burned with an inner anger. "He did that?"
"Oh, yes, I regret to say," a woman said, shaking her head. "Killed her, right on the spot."
Miss Pettigrew gasped, and ran her hand over her white hair. "The nerve of that young man, I say," she stammered. The other woman shook her head silently.
"He is a child! A malicious little animal without the control of a grown man."
They stood from their chairs, the eldest of them (being Miss Pettigrew) running her hands over her green, buttoned coat.
"Oh, my dear Adrienne; how much that man grinds me up. I promise to you that Francine will be avenged." To that, Miss Pettigrew shook her finger in the air. The nerve! Oh, the nerve it took to treat such a lovely lady like Adrienne so poorly. And then, to end it all with killing her poor, sweet cat. Well, this would be the end of it, that was for sure.
"No longer will you have worry about Michael," she said to the younger lady, guiding her gently to the door of her warm office with her hands on Adrienne's shoulders. "I promise you that."
"Thank you," Adrienne replied gingerly. She nodded her head to make a point. "It will be a good cause for the whole estate."
Miss Pettigrew nodded her head and closed the door behind Adrienne. Now, where had that weasel gotten to.
Michael strode down the wooden sidewalk of the quiet town of Hapleston. The loose floorboards bounced and creaked under his feet, but it was always better than walking over the dirt roads, which were muddy from the light sprinkle that had just subsided. The smell of rain and dirt mixed together, and a light morning fog filled the street. It was about midmorning, eight or so, and the sky was the most solid gray he had seen. Despite the chilly nip in the air, he was warm and cozy, much thanks to the wool-and-cotton coat Old Marthe had given him. The shawled neck hugged his own, and he smiled at the comfort.
He turned to his left, minding the wooden buildings that continued in a solid row down the street, their second floors sometimes sporting balconies made of the same drab timber.
He was making his way to the edge of town; that was where he'd usually met with Puck, during the last couple days. Though having only met a week prior, they'd become friends fast, and being the travellar's only link to the town, they spent much of their time together.
Michael exhaled, a cloud of mist bellowing out from his mouth, and he shivered. He pulled his arms out from their cross st his chest and ran a hand through his trimmed, charcoal hair.
Ahead, at last, was the slight timber gate—well, more of a sign—that hailed the edge of the town. He slightened his pace as he walked under, and looked about for his friend.
