Chapter 3

“And they just gave you that money?” Mama asked, staring at the pile of coins on the stained rough wooden table, pitted and scarred with age. Her cheeks were still hollow and her skin sallow, but her pale blue eyes had lost their sunken, haunted look since Mr. Batton’s potions had done their job. She hunched over the table and ran her calloused finger along the coins as though she could not believe they were real.

Afternoon sunbeams lit the coins, as though to call attention to the modest collection. It was, after all, the finest, most important, thing in the room. There was little else of true value around them. The worn table and rickety chairs served their purpose, but little more. The plain linens and blankets on his cot in the corner were stained and worn threadbare in places. Mama’s, in her tiny room behind, them were little better. A few pots and pans and dishes on the shelf near the fireplace might fetch a few coins, but not without making life even harder than it was. And, for now at least, he did not need to worry about the value of any of them and what they might be able to sell and do without. He could simply enjoy the savory aroma of the garden vegetable soup Mama had simmering over the fire and the release from the desperate knot of worry that had taken residence somewhere between his shoulders over the last several months.

“They said it was a reward for seeing their things returned to them.”

“But so much? That must be—”

“It is, Mama. I’ve counted it, twenty shillings. It gives us enough to pay the rent with a bit left over for winter supplies.”

 “I always taught you honesty paid off, but I never seen it work quite so literal-like.” Her jaw dropped and she shook her grey head. “They are not going to change their minds sudden-like and turn on you, thinking you were the thief after all, are they?”

“They already tried that.” Philip swallowed hard. He had left out that part when he’d told her the story initially. She did not need one more thing to worry over.

Her face folded into deep dark furrows. “Then perhaps—”

He lifted an open hand. “It were bad for a few moments there when it seemed as though they might want to hang me right there, without even a trial to make it look proper. But the magistrate and Gingernuts were not having any of it. Mr. Sinclair reminded them that nearly all of the thefts occurred during market days when everyone could see me at the market, so it did not stand to reason that I should have been the thief, and Gingernuts persuaded any who were still not so sure of it.”

“That’s what I cannot follow. What does the Blue Order have to do with this? They don’t often concern themselves with our sort of affairs.” She crossed her arms tight over her chest and rubbed her shoulders over her threadbare grey wool shawl. “I do not like it.”

“It was the magistrate, not the Order, Mama.” He twisted Papa’s ring around his finger, a knot growing in his belly.

“Mr. Sinclair is an Order man, you know.”

“But that doesn’t make this—”

“And the dragon got involved.”

“Gingernuts is a sweet drake who likes it when I scratch behind her ears.”

“Yes, yes, that is true. But it is not enough for her to persuade a whole crowd not only that you should not be accused of a crime, but that you should be rewarded for what you did. That is no small persuasion, considering some of those folks would rather die than give up their coin, Mr. Lorry among them! An entire crown out of him? I am surprised a dragon could work that sort of persuasion.”

“What am I to do about it now?” He looked up at the cobwebby ceiling and tried not to roll his yes. “Can’t you enjoy our good fortune? It seems to me the promise of a roof overhead and a warm fire are worth celebrating. What’s more, we have butter to sell at the market this week and that should leave us far more comfortable when the cold sets in than we ever expected to be. It is a good thing!”

“Yes, yes. I do not mean to be ungrateful, but one never gets something for nothing,” she chewed her lower lip as she rocked back and forth in her chair, “especially when the Blue Order gets involved. Mark my words, there will be a price to be paid for the favor that were done you.”

“Then it will just have to be paid like the rest of the bills. No use worrying about it now, yeh? What is done is done. For me, I will be happy that we aren’t to be turned out into the streets, we can keep the cows, and even have a little hope that a new calf in the spring will make things a mite better for us all. You can mully-grub in the darkness all you want. I prefer to think on better things.” He slapped the table.

Mama had that look that meant she was carefully considering what to say. Probably deciding how to scold him into seeing the grim realities of life. Not an uncommon conversation, all told.

“Very well, son, enjoy your sunny disposition while you can. There is no sense borrowing trouble for today when there’s enough work to be done getting ready for market. There’s butter to be finished for selling and, just to please you, I will say it’s good to have me good scotch hands back. I missed them fiercely.”

This can’t possibly be over with so easily, can it? What could be in store for them next? Tell me in the comments.

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