They didn't bring his body home.
All they sent was a letter bearing the news. Signed and stamped with red wax and the general's seal. The sergeant had stayed and watched while Dahlia read the letter, then said that she and their family – her family, now – had the sincerest sympathies of the general.
Lieutenant Karol Tibor Gray was killed in action during a military skirmish with an armed band of mages. Connlaoth owes its gratitude and sympathy to Lady Gray and their three children.
That was all the letter had said. Dahlia had simply looked up, speechless, at the sergeant as his meaningless words fell from his lips onto the ground at Dahlia's feet. She barely heard them and, after waiting several minutes for a reply he did not get, the sergeant simply left, unable to offer condolence to a woman who could hardly believe she was a widow.
The next several days had been a blur. Dahlia had, somehow, told the children. It had been the only time she'd cried in front of them. She was, after all, their sole parent now. But even as she had told them, she couldn't quite believe it. It wasn't possible that Kerry, her Kerry, was dead. He had been part of her life for too long. They had only been kids when they met; she'd been his sweetheart since she was... twelve? eleven? Dahlia didn't know anymore, she'd lost count, but she knew that she could not imagine her life without him. It couldn't be real. It just couldn't.
In the weeks that followed, a new routine began to emerge. The management of the Gray estate now fell to Dahlia. Kerry's father had died only a year before, the victim of an illness that had consumed him in a mere matter of months. That had made Kerry Lord Gray and Dahlia, by extension, Lady Gray. So though Kerry's mother, Helen, still lived in the manor with them, responsibility now fell to Dahlia. Responsibility for the estate, responsibility for their children. Dahlia had always been one to keep busy, and now during the day she kept herself busier than ever before. She managed the books, tended the children, grieved solemnly with her mother-in-law, all with a brave face.
But when she was alone, she fell apart. Especially at night. She couldn't bear to sleep in the bed that she had shared with Kerry. But she couldn't bear to leave it. She'd slept here alone before, of course, when Kerry was away on military duties. But he always came back. He was always going to come back. But not any more. Every night, Dahlia exhausted herself crying in that bed and, when there were finally no tears left in her, she would lay on her side and stare wide-eyed at the empty space in the bed. Until she could cry again. On the rare occasion that she could sleep, she was plagued with dreams – some terrifying imaginings of Kerry's death, and some sweet remembrances of their courtship – either way she would wake up in a cold sweat and the entire process would start over.
But it hadn't gone unnoticed, and one night the housekeeper, a kind but usually reserved woman in her fifties, slipped unbidden into Dahlia's room and laid a hand on her employer's wet face. Her brother, she said, owned a bakery next door to what he swore was the best apothecary in Uthlyn. The housekeeper herself said that the only relief she'd found for the migraines that sometimes plagued her were there. Maybe, she suggested gently to Dahlia, she could find some help there, as well.
So Dahlia found herself now entering the small shop crowded with healing herbs and elixirs. She had dressed down for the occasion; the last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself. But it was clear to look at her that she was not well, if not sick. Somehow the act of doing something for herself, rather than busying herself with her children, her mother-in-law, and the estate, left her feeling anxious. And the lack of regular sleep left her looking harried and drawn. It was a relief to her that so early in the day, the shop was empty. But it also appeared to be lacking a keeper. Mustering her poise as she hung back slightly near the doorway, she called into the shop, "Hello?"
No-one usually came in just after opening. With the morning mist still waiting to be whipped away by the wind, the street in front of the shop wasn't empty, but it may as well have been for Barnabas. They flocked into the bakery on one side, milled around whatever new venture they were trying on the other side (dreadful at business, the Palmer's), but not to his door. People did not crowd the apothecary so early.
"Folk see us as a last resort." His grandmother had once said, and his mother had picked up the refrain. "Oh yes, they always wait to see if it goes away first. No-one wants to have to go to the apothecary."
"That's true." His dear wife had nodded, "But when they have to, it's us they come to."
It was a sound theory: Barnabas had never known a morning to be truly busy - not unless one counted the plague scare six years since, but that had been the bleating of misinformed gossip-mongers, so he didn't. No, before midday he invariably had an easy time of it, lending his time to quiet preparation and maybe some light bookkeeping, should the mood take him. Today however, he was decanting, pouring liquid the colour of melted gold into a tall glass bottle. It was a lovely thing: all flowing curves and a slender neck with an ornate stopper for the top. It had been payment from the craftsmen up at the glass blowers, and was easily his finest - and most expensive. He'd never admit to admiring glass of all bloody things, but he'd deliberately put up the price of that one, loath to sell something so fine. He was about halfway through when the call came from the front of the shop.
He didn't turn his eyes from his work, pouring with an unhurried hand as though he hadn't heard the customer enter. A new crease in his frown put paid to that, though. It was a minute or two before the last drop was poured, the stopper fastened to his liking. Then, with a murmured grumble and a sigh, he turned the lantern down low to save the oil, and with his stick in one hand and the fine decanter in the other, Barnabas limped into the apothecary proper, the stick thudding too loudly in the quiet.
He didn't recognise the woman waiting for him, but he did know sickness when he saw it. The woman looked haggard, exhausted, and more than a little worried. He'd seen that slumped, near-defeated look on more people than he'd care to count, and while it didn't earn her any increase in speed or urgency, it at least earned her a not of greeting - which was better than most got.
"'Pologies ma'am." He grunted. His voice was low and a little hoarse, as though he'd swallowed some gravel. "Decanting can't be interrupted. S'bad for a tincture to sit half-poured." He limped out from behind the counter to an empty space along the wall. This area was lined with coloured bottles filled with powders and liquids of all kinds, and he placed the green decanter among them, sniffing with satisfaction. Finally, work done, he turned to acknowledge her properly, his back straight even as both hands rested on his stick for balance. "Were there somethin' you were after?"
"Oh, no, of course, that's no problem," came Dahlia's quick response to the apothecary-keeper's apology and note on decanting. Dahlia, of course, knew nothing about decanting and whether or not it could be interrupted, but she was anxious not to be a disruption to anyone else. Honestly, the whole thing made her uncomfortable. Maybe it was because in her task-oriented mindset, she felt guilty about taking time away from her primary responsibilities: taking care of her grieving family and running the household. But what might have been more likely was that, the child of neglectful parents and, amongst her siblings, in that odd age group where she was too young to be viewed as one of the "older kids" by her older siblings, but too old to be one of the "younger kids" who needed to be taken care of, Dahlia had grown used to being self-reliant. And this hadn't really changed into adulthood. Admitting that there was something out of her control, much less seeking help for it, was fairly foreign to her. And she didn't like it one bit.
"Yes, actually," she answered, watching the healer limp into the storefront. Her grey eyes seemed fixed in a sort of wide, wild animal manner and as she watched Barnabas limp, she couldn't help but wonder distractedly if there wasn't anyone left unscathed by this ugly, violent world. But of course that was ridiculous; she knew nothing about this man or his limp. She was projecting her tragedy into everything around her and, though she was vaguely aware of this, she couldn't quite stop herself. Dahlia gave a short shake of her head, refocusing her attention.
"Yes, sorry. I've started having trouble, um, I've started having trouble sleeping. I was told I might find help here from my, from a friend." Dahlia tried to hold the man's gaze while she spoke, but struggled to keep her eyes on his rather than on the colorful bottles and potions in the store in the face of the mix of shame and grief churning in her stomach. "I was hoping I might find something, something to help me sleep through the night. Without dreaming," she added. "Sleep without dreams."
Barnabas grunted, acknowledging her pleasantries without a word. He was very much aware of her eyes on him, and he didn't spare her from it either, taking in her haunted eyes and hair frizzing at the ends with cool, piercing blue eyes. Even when her eyes wandered he didn't look away, just watched, quietly and carefully as though cataloguing every detail. When she finally emerged from her fantasy world to explain what she wanted, his expression did not so much as flicker.
"Obviously." He muttered, not troubling to speak up in the silence of the shop. "Gather you ain't slept in some time."
He turned, finally looking away to take in the row of bottles she'd been examining. "Not those." He grunted. "I can mix up what you need - it works better fresh." He gave her another long, calculating look. "What are you willing to pay?"
[Sorry, it's kinda short...]
Dahlia was not so caught up in distraction as to not notice the apothecary's words. A slight blush colored her cheeks and she unwittingly tried to smooth her curly blonde hair, though without much success. "It's been a rough few weeks," she admitted, looking a bit guilty for being called out on it.
But his question made her pause. How much was she willing to pay? Dahlia had no idea how much something like this ought to cost. She didn't even know what something like this would be. The family had tried everything when Kerry's father had fallen ill a few years ago; they'd spent near a fortune and what good had it done in the end. But surely a simple concoction for sleep wouldn't cost so much? Dahlia hated the idea of having to spend anything to do something she'd done with no problem for the past thirty-odd years, but there was no denying that her current state was taking a real toll on her.
"Oh, I don't know, I hadn't thought about..." Dahlia didn't really want to say 'whatever it cost,' though in truth she would pay anything to just sleep again. But it wasn't a good time for people, for businesses, and she didn't want to sound frivolous about money. "Is it very expensive, then? I can't pay anything, but..." Oh, this was stupid. Maybe she should just go. She just needed to pull herself together, then surely she'd be fine. What kind of idiot can't sleep? But then she thought of the gaping space in her bed and a feeling of defeat swept over her. "I need something, though."
It was just for a moment - a blink could have missed it - but expression softened, his mouth twitching at the corners. The poor woman was more than just tired, she was worn: emotionally as well as physically. That kind of frailty wasn't just hurtful, it was rather humiliating, strength drained away until it took all of ones effort just to remain standing. In a way, it was worse than physical pain, and Barnabas wouldn't wish it on anyone. So he managed a tiny smile, inclining his head in understanding. "Aye." He muttered, "That'll happen in tough times."
Sadly though, it couldn't last. As soon as it had been there, the softness was gone, the crotchety businessman back firmly in place. Her confusion earned her a little sigh, though it was more resignation than true annoyance. Clearly this woman didn't come to this kind of shop often. Not a big surprise - he knew what it took to shelve ones pride and search for a strangers help - but it was still more time he'd have to waste explaining the whole damned process.
But the lass clearly needed it...
He grunted, eventually taking pity on her. "Ain't going to ruin you ma'am, there's just a range for to choose from, is all." He took a breath, as though preparing himself for a long speech - and for him, it was. "Good sleep aid'll cost you 'tween ten and thirty, depending on the strength." He pointed his stick over his shoulder to a row of clear bottles behind them. "Don't bother with the ten, that's a relaxant, not strong enough. Dreamless sleep's on the higher end, twenty-five to thirty. Anythin' higher than that's a cheat: idiots throwin' in shaved gold or the hair off a white horses arse 'cause they think the high-end stuff's going to work better. It won't. S'just water with stuff thrown in."
His mouth twisted in disgust, as though the very thought of these charlatans was enough to make him spit. He drew himself up to his full height, nodding decisively. "Aye, mine'll work alright. You decide what you're wantin' and we'll go in back and have it mixed."
"Oh, twenty-five or thirty is fine," Dahlia answered quickly, not able to hide her relief. A moment later she realized how quickly she'd responded - and how quickly she'd suggested the highest price he'd listed was no problem - and she turned her eyes down momentarily. Though she felt bad for thinking it, this encounter couldn't be over quickly enough for Dahlia. The initial discomfort of seeking out help seemed to just multiply every time she opened her mouth. And his small signs of pity weren't lost on her. "Does it take awhile to fix, should I..."
Dahlia was cut off, however, by the sound of a growing commotion outside. Disgruntled noises and shuffling came from the crowded bakery next door, interjected by the authoritative voices of soldiers and guards. A muscle in Dahlia's face twitched. Soldiers.
Before she could wonder aloud what was going on - or before she could come up with a venomous curse for the soldiers - two soldiers entered the apothecary. "A fugitive criminal mage has been tracked to this area," the first soldier announced brusquely, not bothering with any introductions or niceties. "We have reason to believe that it's hiding in one a building on this street. With your permission, sir," the man talked as though Dahlia, a woman, wasn't present and she could barely keep a sneer from her face, "we need to search the premises."
((OOC: Bleh, sorry this is so short!))
If Barnabas was surprised by how quickly his customer agreed, he showed no sign of it, nodding curtly in the face of her relief. "Alright." He muttered, already peering around at his shelves for the right bottle, the proper herbs. He opened his mouth to answer her question, mildly put out that he had to explain even more - he'd done more talking this morning than he'd done in a long time - but before he could even begin they became aware of a ruckus outside. Barnabas frowned, gripping his stick tighter as he turned to the door, right when the soldiers barged in.
His eyes narrowed, his expression far from welcoming. It? Charming. "I'd sooner not give it to you." Barnabas snapped, "Barging into a man's bloody place of business while he's tryin' to make an honest living." However, he was acutely aware of the abilities of Connlaoth's soldiers, and the kind of figure he cut - or the lack of one. Standing there white-haired and lame next to the vibrant young men, he could hardly throw them out. "But clearly I ain't got call to stop you. So go ahead. Find your fugitive."
Thus defeated, he limped aside to allow them access to the shop, giving them a poisonous glare. "Break anything, and I'll have your hides, soldiers or bloody not." He moved to stand beside Dahlia, glancing over at her carefully neutral face. He shrugged at her, still scowling. "Sorry. S'pose we'll have to wait."
Dahlia was left rigid and scowling in the wake of the soldiers as they passed through the threshold of the shop and began searching its back rooms and storage. Soldiers, mages: right now, Dahlia hated them all. A month ago, she wouldn't say that she 'hated' anyone. But now she had no illusions about it anymore. All of her energy was going into drying her children's tears, consoling her mother-in-law who had lost her last child, running their estate, and keeping herself – just – standing. She didn't have any spare energy to challenge the bitter feelings that had grown inside of her towards the murderers of her husband. But her anger at the nameless mage who had killed Kerry didn't blind her to who had put him there in the first place, and Dahlia's ire was equally directed to the army and the Grand Duke and everyone else responsible for this senseless war.
Still, Dahlia didn't fail to notice the defiant way the apothecary keeper spoke his disapproval to the soldiers. That was brave. The last thing anyone needed these days was to be suspected of sympathizing with mages and defying the government. She gave him a sideways, surprised and appreciative glance.
Based on the sounds coming from the storage and work rooms, the soldiers were more concerned with finding their fugitive than the fragility of Barnabas's stores. But it didn't sound like they were breaking anything. Dahlia's eyes fixed keenly in the direction of the sound. If anything, the woman seemed more awake and present than she had before. Bristling rather than slumping.
"I don't think you need to apologize," she said. Her posture softened a little as she began to think about what a fugitive mage would mean, if they were really criminal and violent. No, she didn't want someone like that creeping around undetected in the city. The prospect was, perhaps, a little frightening. But Dahlia's feelings were all tangled up: mages, soldiers, anger, fear were all tied up in Kerry. Kerry's death. More than anything, Dahlia just hated the war. "I suppose this is the sort of thing we should expect now."
It was clear that Barnabas was not happy with this arrangement, not one bit. The soldiers didn't really trouble to be gentle, going through his livelihood to root out a blasted enemy with no consideration. Every time something clattered too loud or thumped when it shouldn't, he flinched and stiffened, working his jaw as though he'd like to start scolding again. Sadly though, he knew from experience that it would do no good to him or his stores - and in this day and age, complaining again might very well put him in a cell. He was forced to just stand there, fuming while they did who-knew-what kinds of damage.
What little consolation there was he got from his equally indignant customer. He could plainly see her own bristling alongside him, nor did he miss her appreciative glance. So someone didn't like them either. Their arrival had her more alert than he'd yet seen her.
"I s'pose so." He grumbled under the noise, fingers drumming irritably on his stick. The look he gave her was wry and annoyed, but there was no venom directed at her. "Though I shouldn't be surprised. Bastards thought they owned the place when I was a soldier too, 'fore they did my knee in." And to his shame, he'd actually felt the same as they did, an invincible feeling the mace had abruptly shattered. He didn't say that aloud, but the bitter twist of mouth, hands gripping his stick like he'd very much like to throttle it, were loud enough to be getting along with. "What is taking them so long? I ain't got a bloody mage in the herb racks!"
Dahlia's sharp expression softened a little at Barnabas's words, morphing into a curious and cautious look when he referred to the soldiers as 'bastards.' It wasn't a chastising look, but it might have suggested that he be careful. She watched him for a few moments longer before issuing a non-comital, "Hm." When she spoke again, her voice was loud enough to carry into the room the soldiers were in. "Yes, I suppose. But let's be grateful that we have the soldiers here and not the criminal."
Dahlia sighed, watching the doorways the soldiers had marched through to conduct their search. "Though honestly," she added in a low voice, speaking half to herself, "sometimes I wish I could just take my family and disappear to a place without either. Mages, soldiers: all too much trouble." It was a much more open statement than Dahlia would normally make to a stranger, but she was in a less guarded place than she might have been before. She let out a little puff of a sigh. "Too late for that."
Dahlia fell silent after her last comment, lost in the thought of a safe, intact family somewhere far away. The sharp sound of breaking glass made her wince, though, and she glanced over to the apothecary to gage his reaction.
The soldiers reappeared a few moments later, making no comment on the broken glass. "You're clear," the first soldier declared bluntly. "But you'll have to both stay here until we've cleared the area. We don't want anyone slipping away and causing an opening for the criminal, or putting themselves in harm's way. Someone will come and inform you when it is safe to leave the premises again."
With no more pomp or nicety, the soldiers nodded to the two, and left.
Barnabas resisted the urge to snort, but it was a close thing, looking very much like he'd swallowed something sour. "Aye." He agreed, with a glance in her direction. "But just barely."
He watched the doorway they'd vanished through as though his gaze could burn right through it to where they manhandled his precious wares. He glanced her way again as she spoke, an eyebrow raised. Whether that was surprise or mild interest was difficult to tell, though judging from his voice, it could have been both. The sleep-deprived woman had more to her than first implied. He nodded, sighing through his nose.
"I get you." He muttered, low so they couldn't be heard over the activity. "Reckon our lives'd be a lot easier without all this nonsense. Just mages, mages, mages, all the damn time, 'til you want to shake the lot of 'em and give their skulls a good rattle."
He let her fall silent after that, both of them preoccupied in their own thoughts. The sound of breaking glass had him groan and swear, raising his eyes to the ceiling in exasperation. When they finally showed up, they ignored the daggers the shopkeeper was glaring at them. Their pronouncement didn't earn them much civility either.
"Well, thank you very bloody much." He snapped, dripping with sarcasm. "I reckon there's no point asking you to pay for the merchandise you wrecked?"
They didn't pay the slightest bit of attention, Barnabas' scowl following them out the door as it slammed closed, the bell jingling wildly. He let out another huff of annoyance, shaking his head. "Of course you won't." He muttered, turning with a resigned frown to his newly trapped customer. "So now what? Reckon we're stuck here for a couple of hours at least."
"But I have children at..."
Her words were directed at the backs of the soldiers as they left and she let herself trail off as the soldiers disappeared out the door and back into the street. They closed the very definitively behind them. Dahlia stared at the closed door for several moments, unblinking. Her children were, of course, with their grandmother, but Dahlia didn't like to be kept away. She had felt badly enough for taking the time away from them to come here in the first place.
Would this be the new norm? Soldiers barging into shops and, she supposed, homes while dangerous criminals hid in the city and countryside? She didn't know who she dreaded more: the very present soldiers or the phantom mages. Stuff them all in a cannon and blow them into the ocean. That's what she'd do.
"I wouldn't hold your breath waiting for that reimbursement," she said wryly to Barnabas, taking her eyes off of the door and looking sideways at him.
"I wonder who they're chasing, though, and what their crime is..."
She sighed, running her fingers through her somewhat unkempt curls. What now indeed. Who knew how long it would take for them to go through each and every home and shop on this street. If a mage was even hiding there. "Sorry, don't let me get in your way or hold you up. This is your shop, after all, and I'm sure you have plenty to do."
As if to excuse him from having to worry any more over, she began looking over the various herbs and brightly colored bottled cures lining the walls of the shop. In attempt to lighten the situation a little, she mustered the energy to give him a knowing little grin. "Don't worry. I won't touch anything."
There was silence after the door slammed, equal parts resentful and shocked at the unfortunate twist their morning had taken. Barnabas for his part sighed, shoulders slumped in begrudging defeat. Not that it was a battle he'd ever expected to win, but the inconvenience of it still rankled. Nevertheless, he managed a chuckle at Dahlia's comment, his first sign of levity that day.
"Nah, they never do. Damn jug-eared little pissants ain't got any respect" He gave her a sidelong glance, mumbling a belated "Sorry." for the language. Not that he looked like he meant the apology much, but he was at least trying to be civil. He sighed heavily, tapping his stick irritably against the floorboards. "Does it matter? One side or another's always gonna be causing some bl- some trouble."
Her wittering earned her another sidelong look, a tiny smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth. "You ain't." He said, blunt and simple. "Decanting's done, deliveries were an hour ago. Besides-" He swept his arm wide, taking in the deserted shop. "S'not like I got a lot of customers this time of the morning."
And now she was trying to excuse herself - as if she was somehow more intrusive than those damn soldiers. He rolled his eyes at her back, pointedly clearing his throat. "Thought you were wantin' a sleep aid? Reckon we've got time to mix it now."
"Oh yes, of course, please," Dahlia answered hastily. Then added with attempted levity, "Yes, I suppose I'm not going anywhere, after all."
Dahlia was curious to see how it was all done and watched Barnabas carefully as he worked. Though from a polite distance, of course! But when Barnabas was only half way through the operation, there came a
Clink!
from the storeroom in the back of the shop.
And then the muffled sound of a landing.
The 'clink' was the sound of the small window in the storeroom hitting an empty bottle left near it as the window slowly opened. But the bottle didn't break; it was simply moved carefully out of the way. The perpatrator squeezed their body through the small window, landing with a soft 'thud' on the floor of the store room. The soldiers had already come through here, they'd seen it, so if they could just hide here for a few hours...
The 'they' in question was, in fact, a girl. She was no older than fourteen. Thin as a rake, pale as a sheet, and covered in dirt. Her hair was an unkempt mess of dirty, loose black curls chopped off at her jaw, and her eyes were large, magenta, and terrified. But what an observant person would notice about her was her clothing. At first there was nothing notable about them; they were old, ragged, and as dirty as she was. But on the left breast of her tunic a patch had been torn out. The patch that would have, when intact, marked her as a mage.
Barnabas took her at face value, giving her a curt nod and the barest hint of a smile. "Then you just follow me in the back an' we'll get something started."
It was a slow process, but to give his work credit, it was at least an interesting one. Both Barnabas and his customer wore muslin masks over their nose and mouth as the fumes filled the little mixing room, a chimney-like structure above their heads taking the worst of it, but as he told her at the beginning: "Fumes on a sleep aid're potent. Y'don't want to be passin' out and drowning in the mixture. Many a bad apothecary's been lost that way - and I ain't joking either. S'actually happened.
He even explained a little as he worked, telling her what this herb did or what that tincture reacted to as he stirred the mixture to a pale, spring green. He was just adding a sprig of strong-smelling mint ("Way I see it, a bitter medicine ain't going to help relaxing much.") when they both heard the commotion. Barnabas rose immediately, taking his handiwork off the flames and covering it for later. He pulled his mask away, murmuring softly to himself. "The hell was that...?"
He caught her eye, putting a finger to his lips. The other hand gripped his stick like one would a mace or cudgel, and with a worrying degree of finesse to boot.
"Summat's got in the storeroom." He mouthed, eyes flickering to the cluttered mass of shelves beyond his brewing room. He jerked his head towards it, indicating his intention to go and see. For a man with a severe limp he moved surprisingly quietly, setting his bad leg down softly each time - old soldier's training at work, no doubt. He never looked back to see if his customer followed him or not, creeping unnoticed among the shelves until he could see the bedraggled creature huddled by the cold remedies. He stepped out with a curse and an accusing glare, his voice sharp.
"What the hell are you doing sneaking around in 'ere, you-"
He froze, his arm stuck in mid-air halfway to threatening with his stick. For a very long moment, he looked at the girl. She looked at him, frightened and wide-eyed.
He lowered his makeshift weapon.
"...Ah shit."
[Sorry about all his swearing by the way. He's not really the sort to clean that up.]
((No, I like the way he talks!))
Dahlia watched Barnabas work attentively, following him through to the work room and listening carefully as he described his work. Dahlia enjoyed learning new skills and trades; or at least learning about them. It kept her mind occupied, which was a blessing she was rarely afforded anymore. She was especially interested in the chimney Barnabas had constructed for working with fuming ingredients and pulled an intrigued face when he described the sleepy death met by some of the sloppier apothecaries.
But like all respite, it seemed, it wasn't meant to last. Dahlia nearly jumped out of her skin when the soft clank and thud came from the store room. What would normally be alarming, given the fugitive mage, was that much more so for lack of decent sleep. Uninvited and unannounced, she followed Barnabas towards the noise. This could be excused by the fact that it might be the fugitive, but in reality Dahlia did it without thinking.
She was tense as they entered the store room, ready for – well, she wasn't sure. But what she wasn't ready for was what they found.
The girl stood there, defiant and afraid, frozen in indecision between fight and flight. There was a wildness in her eyes that suggested she was capable of anything.
Dahlia saw the missing patch of tunic almost immediately and felt a wave of anger and even disgust. In the weeks since Kerry's death, she had needed someone to blame, and that someone was the nameless mage who'd killed her husband. And the nameless mage became, naturally, all mages. But it was only a matter of moments before the disgust was reflected back onto herself. This was a child. A terrified child. A wave of confused emotions crashed inside of her, plain on her face. All she could say was:
"Fuck."
The girl, for her part, saw her opportunity when Barnabas paused to cast away his stick. In the half second he was engaged in that motion, she darted and grabbed a spare iron rod. Probably used for opening crates of glass and stored herbs. She raised it menacingly, but looked more scared than ever.
"You can't tel them I'm here," she warned, her voice shaking. "You can't tell them or, or I'll..." but she didn't finish the thread. It simply hung in the electrified air between them.
As far as Barnabas was concerned, Dahlia had summed it up perfectly. The three of them stood as though frozen in time, staring as though they'd never seen fellow human beings before. For his part, Barnabas's eyes flickered from the girl to his customer, who wore an expression he could not place. He couldn't blame her: for all the harping on about mages and the danger thereof, he'd never given what was beyond his own four walls much thought. Now that the outside had come to him he had no idea what to make of it.
The mageling on the other hand seemed to see the man before her as nothing but a threat, and before he could do a thing, she had darted forward and snatched his iron pry bar from where it leant against the shelves. Silently he cursed himself, automatically raising his stick again. He looked very much like he wanted to knock the thing right out of her hands, and was certainly considering it - but the look on her face gave him pause.
She was... such a small thing, this mageling, and undoubtedly terrified, voice and hands shaking in equal measure. She couldn't have been any older than fourteen, malnourished and filthy and about as much danger as a stray cat. She'd been backed into a corner and was attempting to bare her teeth, to intimidate them into leaving her alone, for all the good it would do. But much like cornered prey, if he actually pressed his advantage and lunged, she was likely to react just as violently.
He lowered his stick again, putting his weight back onto it with a silent sigh of relief. His voice however was no less stern. "Put that down, lass." He took a careful step forward, holding out his empty hand, "Violence'll do you no favours. Just be calm, alright?"
"You're going to turn me into the guards!" the girl growled, nostrils flaring and eyes wild. "I won't let you!" she warned. She pulled the iron bar further back, poised to strike as Barnabas took a step forward.
Dahlia didn't know what to make of the situation. She had chosen not to think of mages as anything more than one-dimensional villains since Kerry's death. This wasn't particularly typical of her, but she felt she was owed it. Her life had been turned upside down. Let her grieve. Let her be angry. Give her an easy target for that anger, that grief. But this pathetic, frightened child was not an easy scapegoat for either. Still, Dahlia wanted to resist it. She didn't want the complications of reality. She'd had enough of that already, thanks. But it wasn't possible. The mother in her, maybe, took over and she couldn't think of this wayward, wild thing as only a mage, only a villain.
In her heart of hearts, Dahlia knew she'd have to help the girl. Whether or not she wanted to.
So she tried a different tactic than Barnabas. Forcing herself into a calm posture and soft voice. She put a hand momentarily on Barnabas' shoulder as she moved a step past him. "What's your name?"
This seemed to throw the girl off and she looked, momentarily, confused. But it didn't last and was soon replaced by a snarl.
Dahlia saw the moment of uncertainty, though, and pressed on. "I think you're about my son's age." She watched the girl carefully, then told her, "I know I would never send my son to the guards."
Again, there was a flicker of confusion on the girl's face. She didn't put down the iron bar and it was still pulled back to strike. But Dahlia persisted. "What's your name?"
The girl snarled, but answered, "Wren."
He stopped again, raising his free hand. "Easy there, girl. I ain't out for blood." But it didn't do any good, and she may well have taken a swing for him had it not been for his customer. The hand on his shoulder made him start, and he even opened his mouth to protest as she approached, but clearly the woman's touch was the more appropriate method here. He kept his silence, listening intently as she gently prised a name from the child. Wren. So the little mageling was called Wren. Whether it was her real name or not, he rather found it suited her. In truth her colouring was more crow or raven, but what else would this bedraggled young thing be, if not a wren? He was hardly going to turn poetic over it though, watching her quietly through narrowed eyes. Despite Dahlia's efforts to calm her, young Wren stared right back, her stare steady and fierce despite how terribly her hands shook. He sighed.
"You ain't got to do that, y'know." He heard a gruff voice say, and was surprised to find out that it was his own. "Reckon the lady's right: we've got no call to be running off to them damn soldiers over a child."
"I'm not a child!" Wren's eyes narrowed, but her grip on the iron bar faltered. Barnabas sighed again.
Gods be good, but she was just a child. He'd be in more danger of tripping over that iron bar than of her using it on him. And to think that that could well be the 'dangerous fugitive' they were all losing their heads about? He would've laughed had it not been so serious. But as much as he hated to admit it, hated to risk it, Dahlia had it right: what sort of man handed over a frightened girl, mage or no, to a load of thugs like that? What would Jeyne, his mother and grandmother, what would they have said? He'd no sooner have turned them over than a kid, and damn if he knew it. The lass however, clearly didn't. He'd have to do something about that. He rolled his eyes, and as Wren's face creased in confusion he took the last step to reach her, tugging the iron bar calmly out of her hands before she could do anything else.
"I'll have that, m'girl." He stepped away in no hurry, setting it far out of anyone's reach on a high shelf. When he turned back, it was difficult to tell whether the smirk on his face was exasperated or amused. "Ain't anyone told you not to wave a weapon around you ain't intendin' to use? Good way to get yourself killed, that is."
Wren blinked, and he laughed - a brief, hoarse bark.
"No, course nobody did, did they?" He approached them both again, shooting Dahlia a significant look. He tapped his cane pointedly on a large crate, jerking his head towards it. "Now, reckon you should sit yourself down here... and then you can tell us how you got into this bleedin' mess."
Dahlia glanced over at Barnabas. Clearly the man had no children. Or, if he did, they had yet to reach this age. Rule Number One of adolescents was to never call them a child. But the girl seemed to be thrown off her balance enough to cease to be an immediate threat. For now. And Dahlia was very grateful to see Barnabas take the iron rod away from the girl and put it out of the way, at least for now.
Wren, for her part, looked suspiciously, still half-snarling, between the woman, the man, and the crate. As if any of them might turn out to be an enemy or a trap. But she was so clearly scared, her knee trembling, that with great reticence and a more vicious snarl at the two adults, she sat down.
"Fine," she spat, glaring daggers at them, "I sat. Happy?" The barbs in the voice were the give-away of someone who wanted to say something mean and clever, but couldn't quite manage. Though she glared at them with all her might, her gaze kept returning to the iron bar, now out of reach.
Dahlia watched the girl at a loss. What on earth were they going to do now? She was like a trapped animal who lay still while the cage was closed, but would leap the moment it saw an opening. No, Dahlia had to remind herself, she wasn't a wild animal. She was a girl. A scared, bone-thin girl no more than a year older than her Milo.
But there were things common to animals and human alike. Tentatively, Dahlia took a step closer to the girl.
"When was the last time you had something to eat, Wren?" she asked gently. "You look like you could use something." This immediately got Wren's attention and the sneer left her face – though it could hardly be called 'tame' now.
Dahlia looked at Barnabas hopefully. "Do you have something here?" Please, please let him have something here. "Otherwise," she turned back to Wren.
"My name's Dahlia, Wren. Once the guards have passed, there's a bakery next door. I'll go get you something to eat. I won't tell anyone else you're here, promise."
Wren still looked defiant, but for once she didn't retort with any threats.
Barnabas seemed to have settled now that the initial shock had worn off - at least on the outside. He wore the same vaguely amused expression even while the wheels turned frantically behind his eyes. So she was weaponless, that was progress, but he still hadn't the slightest inkling of where to take this next. She obviously wasn't inclined to explain her predicament, and even his customers superior social skills were falling flat most of the time. Lucky she was here, he supposed, because it was better than nothing, or worse, him alone.
Dahlia? That's right... he never had asked her name, had he? He was stuck in this mess with a woman whose name he'd never even bothered to learn. He bit his lip, allowing himself to feel a little sheepish over that. All in all, he wasn't a stellar example in the kindness department, but he could at least try a little harder. Jeyne would have despaired to see him act in such a way, she really would.
"I'm Barnabas." He offered, inclining his head as politely as he ever tended to do. Dahlia earned herself a tiny smile, acknowledging her plea even if he didn't directly address her. "And I reckon I have somethin' for ya. I live just above, so we got a fair stock in the larder." He cocked his head, regarding her for a moment. The smile widened just a fraction. "Reckon you're a bread and honey fan, meself."
"How did you know that?" Wren snapped, even turning this olive branch into something suspicious. Barnabas merely shrugged.
"Cause everyone is, lass." He hesitated, then gave Dahlia a brief, comforting pat on the shoulder. "Be back in just a few minutes."
- - -
He was as good as his word, the sound of rummaging and the thumping of his stick coming through the floorboards above them. Once or twice something clinked or a cupboard closed, but after about five minutes, his stick could be heard on the stairs again, much slower and more laborious this time with the occasional muttered curse. When he eventually reappeared, they could see why: laden down as he was with his stick, a muslin bag filled with several large lumps, and what looked to be a small flagon. He managed to limp to them without dropping them however, dropping the bag of paraphernalia into young Wren's lap.
"There ya go." He set the tankard down on the crate next to her with a thud. His voice was gruff, but behind it was another faint twitch of a smile. "Don't eat it too fast, or you'll be sick. Got some milk an' cheese too, f'you want it."
The rest of the world seemed to disappear for the scraggly little bird when Wren dug into the food Barnabas plopped in front of her. She looked like she hadn't eaten for days and, for all Dahlia knew, she hadn't. But she didn't stuff it all into her face, but ate with a slow focus of someone who truly appreciated the opportunity to eat. Dahlia couldn't keep from watching her eat for the first few moments, wondering at Wren's intensity. What if that were one of her children, dirty and scared and starving. No, she had no idea what they would do about this girl, but Dahlia knew that she wouldn't be able to turn her in. And she was already wondering what the costs of that would be.
She retreated, standing close to Barnabas to give Wren some space. And also to share her thoughts with Barnabas.
"We can't turn her in, whether anyone is looking for her or not," she said under her breath, her grey eyes beseeching Barnabas. "But we can't just let her go, either. Look at her."
((Short post is short. Sorry!))
As expected, the mageling absorbed herself in her meal like she'd never expected to eat again, the world fading away until it was just her and her food. If she'd torn into it ravenously, Barnabas might have managed to crack a smile, but as it couldn't have seemed less funny. He was aware that he was staring, and after a moment he turned a shoulder away, as if watching the girl eat were something too personal for him to be involved in. It was in doing this that he noticed Dahlia's approach, her pale face haunted and serious. He didn't need to ask why.
"This all got complicated pretty damn quick." He murmured, nodding in agreement. "Y'can see she's in some sorta trouble, it'd be better for the both of us if we did just hand her over. Consequences're getting worse for everyone..." Nevertheless, he sighed, shooting down his own idea before Dahlia could even react. "But you an' I both know that ain't happening. She's just a kid, for Angsar's sake, what the hell could she have done that's so bad?"
His eyes flickered to Wren, who was taking slow sips of milk in silence. His expression softened. "By the hells, she's a state... Reckon I ain't seen someone half so worn down in me life - and I nursed through the damn Pox."
Barnabas wasn't exaggerating. The girl looked like she'd been to Hell and back again. And it certainly had gotten awfully complicated. And he was right: For Barnabas and Dahlia, the better, safer option would be to hand her into the guards. It would be better to not even find out why she had been so worried about them doing just that.
And part of Dahlia wanted to do just that. This little mage wasn't her responsibility. What did she owe the girl? Surely not the safety of her family, for whom she was the sole protector, the sole provider. The nameless mage who had murdered her husband hadn't stopped to wonder who he was. They hadn't stopped to ask themselves if he was really the enemy. So why should she?
But how disappointed in her would Kerry be if she took out her grief over him on a child. How disappointed would she be.
She's not a mage Dahlia had to remind herself, she's a child.
Dahlia looked over at Wren again, watching her eat slowly and steadily. At the very least, they needed to clean her up. Make her look less like a runaway. Washed, clean clothes. Preferably clothes that didn't have the Mark ripped out of them. Lilly was younger than Wren, but the thing was so skinny, she'd probably fit into some of her clothes... Or maybe something of Dahlia's. Or hell, she could go buy the girl something. But what would they do with her then?
Well, first things first. What was she running from?
Wren looked considerably more sedate as she finished the last bit of bread and cheese. But her eyes still held suspicion and she kept a fierceness on her face that didn't match her overall condition. But she didn't look like she was going to pounce at any moment now, and her eyes didn't wander back to the iron bar.
"Wren?" Dahlia sat down on another crate to bring herself to the girl's level. "We're going to help you,if you'll let us. But we need to know what you're running from. Why were you so worried about us calling the guards? Are they looking for you?"
It was a dumb question, and Dahlia knew it. It'd been over a year since they started rounding up Marked Mages and shipping them to the camps in the north. Any known mage would need to be on the run now. But she needed to start somewhere with the girl.
Wren looked suspiciously at Dahlia's question for a moment, then to Barnabas. "I'm not a criminal," was her defiant response. Then, a moment later her expression faltered, and she looked down at her feet. "It wasn't my fault. There was a family hiding me, but... I didn't mean to hurt anyone! It was an accident."
Barnabas winced. Out of all the questions in all the world, why did she have to start with that one? The agreement to help was hardly a surprise, the two of them knowing despite their better judgement that it was the only route to take if they wanted to sleep at night. But why did she have to ask that particular question? Little wonder Wren would be suspicious after something like that - and getting her to talk would be like pulling teeth as it was.
At least she'd set the groundwork though. With great difficulty he maneuvered himself onto one knee, the movement stiff and obviously uncomfortable. Nevertheless, he did it, bringing himself down to her eye level "T'ain't our business, lass, but if we're gonna do this right, Ms Dahlia and me have to know what's going on." He let that sink in for a moment, those sharp blue eyes boring into hers. "Now come on, y'can tell us: 'summat go wrong? Get out of control?"
Wren looked very much like she'd rather not say anything, her eyes flickering between the two of them. Barnabas didn't say anything, waiting patient and still despite the growing discomfort of kneeling there. Him, stern and no-nonsense, her soft and safe - the poor girl was stuck between two extremes, but it was two extremes that were at least on her side. Finally, she dropped her gaze, nodding minutely at her own lap.
"I didn't hide well enough." She said, and there was a distinct quiver in her voice. "They came after me and I- I lashed out. I don't know if they were coming to help me or the soldiers but they-- I didn't mean to. They were always kind to me." She swallowed hard, meeting their gaze with her jaw set and her eyes suddenly brimming. "But I'm not a criminal! I hadn't done a thing before that, I'd n-never done nothing wrong!"
Her voice cracked, she screwed her eyes up, and from there she said no more, pressing her face into the grubby rags she called clothing and refusing to come out again. Sharing a helpless look with his associate, Barnabas bit his lip, uncertain of whether or not to reach out. Dahlia could probably pull it off, but the way things were going his ineffectual brand of comfort might lose him a finger or two - or make her clam up even more. Bad knee shaking with the effort of keeping this position, he glared down at the floorboards for a moment, one nail scratching along a long black burn in the wood.
Then again, maybe he did have one method of comfort.
"I get ya - reckon that shook you up, didn't it?" He aimed for something wry and bracing, as though mages injuring or killing their benefactors was something he saw every day. "Sort o' thing always does. Hell, my line o' work I can't count the damage I've done through messin' somethin' up. See the scorch marks?" He pointed his stick towards the marks on the floorboards, and more than a few black burns on the walls. "Happens to the best of us, mageling or no."
"Who says I did any damage?" Wren demanded sharply, looking up with Barnabas with red eyes. But it only lasted a moment before her face fell again and she looked like nothing more than a scared child. But she looked hopefully at Barnabas' words. Her voice quiet and thick, she insisted again, "I'm not a criminal.
"Of course you're not a criminal." How could she be? "Neither of us think you are."
Despite her words, though, it took great effort on Dahlia's part to keep her expression composed as Wren shared the little that she did. Dahlia had been hoping that it would be some petty 'crime' that the zealous soldiers were overreacting to. Accident or not, though, they may have been right: the girl was dangerous. Criminal or no. Who could blame her, though? Trapped like prey with the predators closing in on her.
Well, they knew now that she wasn't just a stray thing that happened to coincide with the guards' search for some other, real threat. Not some skinny little girl. It had been a long shot, but the one Dahlia had been hoping for.
"That's okay, Wren," Dahlia said gently. She considered going to put a hand on the girl, but decided not to push it just yet. "You don't have to say anymore. No one's calling the guards."
But now they had a problem. The guards weren't going to find their prey out there. And what would they think when they didn't? Would they just move on to the next neighborhood, or would they revisit some of the homes and businesses they cleared? Just to make sure. Just so everyone understood how serious of a matter it was, hiding mages. And where would you go back to: the terrified baker, or the coldly defiant apothecary?
Dahlia frowned and looked seriously to Barnabas. She knew the suggestion would not go down well, with Barnabas or Wren, but she didn't think they had much of a choice. "We need to get her out of here."
"What?!" Wren demanded, wide-eyed and wild again. "They're lookin' for me out there! You said - you weren't - !"
Keen not to overdo it, Barnabas only nodded along with Dahlia's reassurances, and soon they all lapsed into thoughtful silence. He couldn't say what his customer was thinking, but it didn't take a genius to guess. Young Wren's presence in his shop was problematic at best, at least in her current state. All the soldiers had to do was call a second inspection, and it'd take one look at her scared face and the torn-off patch of her clothing to jump to the right conclusion. He had a feeling none of them would enjoy the result of that very much. He supposed that was why her announcement didn't come as that much of a surprise - even if it was quite a nasty one to the poor mageling.
"Calm down, girl, she ain't changed her mind." He struggled to rise from his position on the floor, leaning heavily on his stick and hissing out a few choice curses. The look he gave to Dahlia was sharp and searching, trying to figure her out - though for the life of him he had no idea where she was going with this. "Then what're you suggestin'? It's not like we can just smuggle her out of here in a sack-"
"-I wouldn't want you to!"
"-But those high-and-mighty gets outside'll be keeping a hawks eye on things." He continued, patiently ignoring Wren's outburst. He tapped his stick impatiently on the floor, making the girl jump. "F'we're stuck in this mess, we need a plan."
"Oh lord, of course." Dahlia rubbed her temple. Had she really forgotten that they'd been ordered to stay in the shop until the soldiers gave them the 'all clear?' This was bad. They were in a tight situation and Barnabas was right: they needed a plan. It wasn't the time for Dahlia's wits to leave her. "Sorry, I can't believe I..."
"You can't believe it?! How could you forget that?" Wren demanded, looking angry now. "It ain't your life on the line if they find me!"
Once, Dahlia never lost her temper. She wasn't sure if she used to have a temper to lose. But that time had gone the way of a solid night's sleep, the way of her husband. So when she answered Wren, the gentleness she'd used with the girl was all but absent. "It's all of our lives if we're found helping you," she snapped back, keeping her voice low, but her own anger was clear. "I have three children at home with no other parent, so you can take your attitude and stuff it. We're all taking risks now."
"Oh fine!" Wren gaped back at her. "Why don't you just turn me in, then? Protect your precious children! What do I care! It's obvious y'want to!"
Dahlia pursed her lips, looking away. She was angry with the girl, but she was angrier with herself for snapping at her. She was a child, she told herself, no more than two years older than her own Milo. A scared, hunted child. After several moments of tense silence, Dahlia turned back to the mageling, having regained some of her composure.
"I'm sorry. I haven't been my best self lately," she said quietly, tired. Then she looked the girl in the eye, and said, "I don't want to turn you in, Wren. If I did, I would. Because your'e right, it would be safer for me and especially for my kids. And also for Barnabas, and his business. There's no point in pretending it wouldn't be. So I think if either of us were going to call the guards, we'd have done it by now."
"Here now, both of you! Ain't none of us in a good situation-" But he might not have been there for all the good it did. Honestly, with all the tension in the room he was surprised they hadn't started snapping at each other sooner, but it certainly wasn't helping their situation any. Until they were either allowed to go or given an alternative, the three of them were stuck here, and he wasn't about to have his shop torn apart.
He gripped his stick tighter, eyes narrowed as he debated the best way to separate the two women if need be - but it thankfully turned out not to be necessary. Wren may have been defensive - and understandably so - but Dahlia was at least willing to act the adult.
She was wrong though: the way things were escalating in Connloath, they would be in trouble either way. Maybe it wouldn't mean their heads if they handed the girl over, but Barnabas knew from experience that an aura of suspicion would be difficult to shift. The paranoia was such that even a tangential connection with a mage would result in life becoming that much more difficult - for if one mage could be found there, why not more? It would mean more searches, whispers behind hands from their neighbours, a pair of eyes trained upon the door... It was preferable to losing ones head, but Barnabas would be damned if he trusted the military to just leave them alone.
However, he was not about to say any of that aloud. Talk about throwing oil upon a fire.
"The lady's right, mageling. We wouldn't be wastin' time on a girl we were plannin' to throw to the wolves." He gave Dahlia the tiniest flicker of a smile, his version of a show of support. "You got to understand though that this ain't gonna be easy, an' sometimes we're gonna say stuff you ain't goin' to like." His expression hardened for a moment, became stern. "But we're on your side, and I ain't havin' you talk to us like that when we're trying to help. Miss Dahlia's got enough on her plate, an' I ain't got time fer it. Understand?"
Wren flushed angrily, "You can't talk to me like I'm some kind of kid! Who do you-"
"Do you understand?"
Her colour deepened, but Wren ducked her head like a naughty schoolgirl, her shoulders slumped in defeat. "Yes."
"Good lass. Now what in the buggery are we gonna do?"
Dahlia watched appreciatively as Barnabas talked Wren down, glad for the chance to calm herself down a bit more. Her eyes softened on Wren when the girl blushed. She knew the look of children ashamed at their mistakes. This was no ordinary child, though. Dahlia hadn't only asked Wren to stop telling them about what she had done to lead up to this for the girl's sake. She didn't want to know. Not yet. If she were going to see this girl as a child, if they were going to put themselves on the line for her, Dahlia didn't want to know yet exactly what they were taking on. To her own shame, she was worried that her resolve to help Wren rather than clean her hands of her would waver. The thought that she might turn this girl in to who knows what fate made her queasy. But Dahlia didn't know what to expect of herself anymore. Such was the war.
And what were they going to do?
"If we get an 'all clear' from the guard, if they move on to another neighborhood, we can take her to my house for a few days until hopefully they've given up on her. God knows they have enough other shadows and suspicions to chase. I have a workshop that no one will enter," Dahlia offered wearily. She knew the 'plan' overlooked the possibility of not being released by the guard without them asking more questions or having another look around, but it felt better to offer some idea. "I... I don't think I could bring you in the house proper, Wren. Children ask a lot of questions," so would the household staff, but she didn't want to add that now, "and I think it'd be safer for everyone if only Barnabas and I knew you were there. What do you think? We can clean you up, get you new clothes..."
But Dahlia didn't get a chance to finish her sentence, and she was released from having to hypothesize about what might happen if the guard returned, because before she could speak her next word, the door slammed open.
"Apothecary? Show yourselves!"
It was the unmistakable voice of the soldiers who had already searched the shop. Dahlia swore under her breath and quickly pulled off her shawl and threw it around Wren, tying it over her to hide the tear in her shirt. It would probably be a useless gesture if the soldiers came in, but any small detail might help. Then she looked from Wren to Barnabas to see what the apothecary keeper would do.
It sounded like a reasonable plan, and it probably had a chance of working too, were it not for one small detail. The barking voice of a soldier caused poor Wren to jump, the door of his shop slamming open so hard that Barnabas winced. There was a moment of horrified silence, then both he and Dahlia sprang into action. The shawl was around Wren's scrawny little neck before he could blink, the mageling's face pale and her knuckles white where she gripped the crate. Barnabas however, was already halfway to the door, turning to catch Dahlia in a piercing stare. He pointed at her, then at the ground by his feet. You, stay. He pointed to the door, cupping his ear. Listen.
He gave both women what was probably a bracing nod, and left without a word. The soldiers were not about to be so lucky.
"What?" He demanded, the moment he entered the shop. His cane was set firmly on the ground, his hands folded atop it to quell any signs of nerves - not that he'd have any with these green little excuses for 'soldiers'. Disrespectful bullies not yet shaving was more like it. "I've shown myself, called like a bloody dog, so what is it?"
"The fugitive has not been apprehended." One of them told him as if he hadn't spoken, and Barnabas looked daggers at him. Unfortunately, neither of them was quelled by his glare, matching it with two of their own. "You should be free to go about your business when we move on, sir. Inform your customer that she is advised to return to her home immediately. Unless-" And here, the soldiers voice took on what he clearly thought was a sly, conspiratorial tone. "You have something you want to tell us...?"
"No." Barnabas declared flatly, before the words were fully out of his mouth. "I ain't - and ain't you got places to be 'stead of asking stupid questions? Do I have something to say? Gods be good, man, how the 'ell do you expect a cripple to do anythin' with them mages? Use your bloody brains."
The soldiers eyes went cold. "Careful now." He sneered, and he shared a look with his comrade that Barnabas didn't especially like. "You don't want to get yourself arrested, do you... sir?"
Barnabas snorted, with a bravado he didn't wholly feel. "What? So a man speakin' his mind is a crime, now?" Inside however, his stomach dropped.
Ah yes. The other problem with bullies. Sometimes they didn't care for being talked back to.
Dahlia put an arm around Wren in what she knew would be a futile gesture of comfort if the soldiers decided to come back here. and watched Barnabas leave the store room to go deal with the soldiers. The two women both sat motionless and rapt, listening to what transpired in the shop front. Or Dahlia, at least, was motionless. Wren was shaking like a leaf. Dahlia squeezed her a little tighter, listening, and felt like a ton of bricks had been lifted off her shoulders when she heard, “The fugitive has not been apprehended. You should be free to go about your business when we move on, sir. Inform your customer that she is advised to return to her home immediately.”
Dahlia exhaled slowly, thanking Angsar, and even Wren managed a hopeful smile. But then the conversation turned icy again and Wren went rigid. The girl looked at Dahlia with wide, frightened eyes as the soldiers ‘casually’ asked Barnabas if he wanted to end up arrested. This was not good. For any of them. And, though she didn’t know the man, Dahlia found herself doubtful that Barnabas would be able to charm or argue himself gracefully out of this situation. So she gave Wren another squeeze, and an encouraging smile that was probably devoid of confidence, and picked herself up. Motioning for Wren to stay put, Dahlia crept out of the storeroom. Once she was in the work room, she didn’t make a large effort to be silent. After all, she was meant to be here. She picked something up and set it down, as though she’d been doing something, then made her way into the front room.
“Barnabas, the mixture is -” she started, as though she’d come to update the apothecary keeper about some goings on in the work room, but turned to the soldiers upon seeing them. “Sorry, have you caught the fugitive? Are we free to go?”
“No, we-”
One guard started answering, but the other cut him off with a smug sneer. “Depends on what’s going on here. Our friend,” he nodded to Barnabas, “was just volunteering to come in for some questioning.”
Dahlia hadn’t really decided what tactic to use when she’d entered the store front, but once she saw the smug confidence of the guards - who couldn’t have been more than 18 - anger flashed through her and she decided to follow it and double down on Barnabas’s indignation. It might not be the best plan, but an incensed woman might still strike fear where an angry man would not.
“Excuse me,” Dahlia snapped authoritatively, pulling herself up to her full height, “do you mean that you haven’t found the mage, and you’re here interrogating civilians when there’s a dangerous criminal still on the streets? Do you know there’s a war going on?”
The left guard shuffled a bit, looking uncertain, but the right guard’s sneer only darkened. “Listen here, ma’am -”
But Dahlia didn’t let him finish. “No, you listen here. I'm sure you feel very self-important patrolling the streets here in Uthlyn where there’s almost no conflict. But there are real soldiers out there dying in real conflict. My husband, Lord Karol Gray, was killed in conflict only weeks ago. And I don’t think he died so that some teenagers can threaten invalids and widows.”
“Oh, Lady Gray, we didn’t realize…” the left guard muttered awkwardly, looking thoroughly chastised.
But the right guard glowered, and Dahlia knew she’d made a mistake using her name and found herself making a mental note that she needed to ask Leanna if she would take her children, if anything ever happened to her. Then, hoping to make up for it and turn the tables, she added the demand, “What are your names and ranks? I think my father, Lord Treyburn, might need to talk to the head of the guards about how things are being run here.”
Dahlia hated using clout like this, but she knew she couldn’t pose enough of a threat as a woman, Lady or not, and Darryn Treyburn still had sway in the military after his retirement, and hopefully these soldiers would know it.
The soldiers grudgingly provided the information requested and the left guard looked like he was more than ready to leave the apothecary, but the right guard paused, his expression smoldering, and glared beyond Dahlia and Barnabas at the door to the back rooms of the apothecary.
Barnabas was gripping his stick so tightly it was a wonder it didn't snap, eyes narrowed and jaw set. Damn, damn, damn his temper and damn his mouth along with it! That was the problem with these sorts, especially in wartime: mouth off to them and there was only a fifty percent chance of them being cowed. The other fifty involved a cell and a few good kicks when the more law-abiding officers weren't watching. He'd never been one to keep his indignation secret, and now that might very well make things worse. He opened his mouth again, but before he could come out with whatever protest or tirade he'd been planning, there was a genteel little voice behind them.
Three heads whipped around at once with varying degrees of glares and questioning stares. One of the soldiers sneered, and Barnabas had the sudden urge to whack the smug little git about the head. Thankfully, this turned out to be exactly the wrong thing to do, and Dahlia switched instantly from civility to pure ice.
Gods, he could almost have kissed her for that - up until the point where she mentioned her late husband. He stiffened, turning to look at her with wide eyes.
Lady Grey? Gods be good, he had nobility in his shop?
No, clearly none of us bloody realised! He wanted to snap back, but for once he held his tongue as the soldiers cringed, suddenly not nearly so brave in the face of retribution from higher up the pecking order. Well, far be it for him to look a gift horse in the mouth. He let them squirm, passing on their information like scolded schoolchildren, and it was all he could do not to crow. That said, the bully of the bunch still didn't look too happy, and Barnabas doubted that snarling again would help that much. Instead, he opted for a different tactic.
"Alright, alright, we've all thrown our weight about now." He groaned, looking from one to the other with the same (not entirely feigned) utterly weary look. "Look, I jus' want to get back to work, alright? I've 'ad this mixture on the simmer for three days, an' f'this boils over I got to start all over again." He jerked his thumb to the back room. "Come on, lads, be reasonable: this war's got us all a to-do list long as yer arm."
"That is hardly our concern." The officer sneered, but he quickly seemed to be losing enthusiasm for his bullying, especially with a very annoyed member of the aristocracy glaring at him. "But we have more important things to do than waste time here." Barnabas bit back a retort as he whispered something to his comrade, and the two of them wheeled about and marched back out of the door without so much as a goodbye, the door slamming behind them. The instant that it did, Barnabas's poise left him, sinking back against the counter with a groan.
"Flamin' 'ell... Not that I ain't grateful an' all, but Lady Grey? You were keepin' that quiet!"
Dahlia watched stiffly, her stance remaining assertive, until the guards finally left the shop. She was grateful for Barnabas's low-key return to the confrontation. She wasn't sure how much more hot air she could have conjured up to send them off. Her body remained tense for a few moments after they left, her eyes set hard on the door through which they'd exited, until some cracks began to appear in her posture, and finally she completely deflated in a long exhale. She ran her hand uncertainly into her mess of curls, still watching the door, until Barnabas's words reached her and she looked at him, exhausted and perhaps a hint of embarrassment.
"Well, it didn't seem pertinent until then," she answered sheepishly. Then added, even mores, "Sorry about the 'invalid' remark. Just trying to cow them. I'm not entirely sure how successful it was, though. I wouldn't be surprised if they pay you another visit later when they expect they can catch you off your guard..." She'd just have to hope that her status was privileged enough that she didn't have to worry about the same thing. But Dahlia wasn't entirely certain that would be the case... She didn't speak this concern now, though.
"I think," she finally said, "that once these goons have cleared he neighborhood - it shouldn't be too long now - we don't waste any time in moving our scraggly little bird. I have a small carriage. I can drive you both to my home for the time being..."
All the energy seemed to have drained out of them along with the tension, Dahlia drooping the moment the door snapped shut behind them. He couldn't see his own face, but Barnabas doubted he fared better: standing tense and ramrod straight had set his old wound to aching, and it hadn't done his mood a world of good either. Slumped back against the counter, he massaged at his knee with both hands, paying little attention to Lady Dahlia's sheepish expression.
"Reckon you're right. Don't matter f'you're a lady or not when you're gettin' a remedy." He said, giving her a thin little smile. He straightened up with a grunt, her apology earning her a wry chuckle. "S'alright." He shrugged. "S'not exactly an insult when it's true, is it? I call meself a cripple all the time, it is how it is." He was not nearly so amiable at the mention of those damn soldiers though, shooting a dark look at the door as though they were still standing on the other side. "You think so?" He sniffed, face settling back into a scowl. "Well. Ain't that something to look forward to? Bunch of bloody wastes of space..."
He might have settled further into a little muttering jag, insulting them nice and roundly for a while, but Dahlia's pronouncement had him blinking in surprise. Eyebrows arched, he looked back to the storage room where Wren was presumably still sat shaking. "What, the lot of us? As in all three?"
Dahlia had, somehow, never thought of taking Wren on her own, of leaving Barnabas behind and it showed. Though the lack of necessity of the apothecary - who was, after all, a stranger - going with her now seemed perfectly obvious once he posed the question. Somehow it had just seemed that since, well, they had come into this unfortunate predicament together they would naturally see it out together. She hadn't even thought of it. But, then again, Dahlia wasn't thinking too clearly these days.
"Oh. No. I suppose that doesn't..." But she trailed off, her grey eyes wandering to their corners as Dahlia recalculated the situation in her head. The weight of taking Wren on her own seemed to physically fall onto her. Suddenly she found herself remembering what Wren said happened to the last people who harbored her. Shouldn't Dahlia be thinking of her own children? But those questions were pointless. She knew that she wouldn't go back on this now. But alone... Maybe, she thought to herself, Jana could help, though Dahlia didn't even know how to get in touch with her. Dahlia was beginning to feel more than a little frightened. (As though she hadn't been already).
Kerry, she was sure, would have known what to do.
Slowly emerging again from her reverie, she finally said, somewhat robotically, "Okay, then. I can, um, I can draw the carriage around, then, in a minute. Do you have a crate or something... large enough?" She didn't want to openly say 'to hide her in.' "That you could, um, get read, then?"
Somewhere down the line, it seemed that both of them had misunderstood. While Dahlia had never dreamed of going alone, Barnabas had always assumed he'd be left behind. Once that door shut behind the lady and her mageling charge, he hadn't expected to ever see them again - which, to his credit, had had him feeling rather concerned. Evidently though, some communication had failed somewhere.
"Well." He said, floundering, "I, uh, I wouldn't say no, ye understand. Reckon you could do with all the help you can get right this minute. I just assumed..." He too, trailed off, awkwardly scratching at the back of his neck. Her shoulders looked ready to buckle under some imagined weight, the grey quality that he'd seen when she entered settling back onto her face. Gods be good, what kind of man left a lady to shoulder a burden like that by herself? Especially when she, a lady already so burdened as it was, had worked so hard to be helpful that morning.
"Look." He said briskly, straightening up with a grunt. "You get yer carriage, and I'll see ter packin' the little bird in somethin', nab a bit o' food and that..." He cast about his shop for more ideas, eyes alighting on the bottles nearest to him. "We can say I'm supervisin' a delivery as your, uh... physician. Or something like that." His grin was a little uncertain, shrugging. "I mean, I've still got yer sleep solution to give you, ain't I?"
In other circumstances, Dahlia might have remembered that it would be more polite to refuse Barnabas's offer of help - at least once! - but in that moment, she was only relieved, and extremely grateful. She looked up at him with a small, almost shy smile and soft gray eyes in a silent 'thank you.' One might think by looking at her that Barnabas had just saved her life. She knew, of course, that he was no more interested in being tied up in this than she was.
"Alright," she agreed, nodding slowly. "I... I probably shouldn't be trusted making such a delivery on my own, anyway. Especially when the contents are so volatile." Dahlia tried a wry smile, though it came out a bit feebly. "I don't think anyone would question that. Fragile, demure little thing that I am." This was meant of course as a joke, or an attempt at one, but there was probably much more truth in than Dahlia would like to admit. Dahlia nodded resolutely, for her own benefit as much as anyone else's. "Right. I'll be back soon."
...
People were slowly starting to mill about the street again after the soldiers had come through to give the All Clear. Dahlia's ears burned with the whispers she heard on her short walk to her horse and carriage. All about how the soldiers didn't find the mage and how, Angsar help us, the criminal might still be at large on this very street, and whether someone in their midst wasn't a secret mage sympathizer, and how there were, after all, rumors of misguided fools and traitors smuggling mages out of Connlaoth, probably to form mage armies in Serendipity and come back and kill them all. The jumble of it all made Dahlia a bit faint. She shook herself out of it, but couldn't help but worry that everyone could see through her. That it was obvious that she had the criminal, that she was the one who might end up smuggling a mage... out of Connlaoth? Maybe. Dahlia hadn't made it quite that far yet.
When she reached the carriage, she untied the cream-colored horse, "Clover," and led her by the reins rather than driving the carriage the short distance. Barnabas, she guessed, might need the extra time for dealing with Wren. There was a small access around the side of Barnabas's shop, no doubt for receiving and sending shipments, though probably usually of a different nature! Securing the horse again, Dahlia gave her a pet on the nose before returning into the shop to see how Barnabas was faring.