Rye spent most of her afternoons helping out Mrs O’Chanter at The Willow’s Wares – the finest jewellery shop in all of Drowning. Of course, The Willow’s Wares was the only jewellery shop in Drowning, and more of a curiosity shop than anything else. It was not the type of place you would find the noble class shopping for golden heirlooms or silver wedding goblets. In fact, the only nobles who turned up in Drowning were usually hiding, and were quite often followed by whoever was trying to lock them in a dungeon or lop off their heads. Instead, Drowning attracted wanderers, rapscallions, rogues and other adventurous souls who were long on courage and short on sense. The Willow’s Wares offered the charms and talismans these mysterious travellers needed – or thought they did, anyway.
It had been an hour, and Rye had caught four spiders, a blind rat and something that looked like a worm with teeth, but no wirries. Rye’s boredom was interrupted when she heard footsteps overhead. She put her wirry-hunting tools aside and set off to investigate. The Willow’s Wares’ customers always had tales of misadventure or, at the very least, some good gossip to share.
The hawk-nosed man in the shop had watery eyes and stringy hair and did not look particularly adventurous. He looked like someone who spent most of his days locked in a room full of books. In fact, he had brought one with him. He hovered over the black leather journal he’d laid out on a workbench, a quill in hand. The two soldiers who accompanied him milled around, thumbing the hilts of their sheathed sabres and looking suspiciously at the curiosities lining the shop’s shelves.
“And what is your name, boy?” the man asked, in a voice that creaked like an old iron chest.
“I’m a girl, thank you very much,” Rye said. She was still in her tights. Her arms, legs and face were covered in basement grime.
“Oh. Indeed you are,” he said, eyeballing her disapprovingly.
“R-y-e,” Rye spelled. “Rhymes with lie.”
Mrs O’Chanter frowned and gave her a harsh look.
“Sorry,” Rye said. “Rhymes with ‘die’.”
That didn’t improve Mrs O’Chanter’s mood. She scowled at Rye as the man carefully made markings in his book.
He raised a thick eyebrow and looked up. His eyebrows resembled the grey dust balls that accumulated under Rye’s bed.
“The girl can spell,” he noted. “Interesting.”
“Of course I can spell,” Rye said.
“I see,” he said and made some more markings.
“What she means,” Mrs O’Chanter interjected, “is that she knows how to spell her name. You know how children are these days, Constable Boil. Always curious. You need to indulge them sometimes otherwise they won’t leave you a minute’s peace.”
“In my house,” the Constable said, “I find a good thrashing on the tail does the trick.”
Mrs O’Chanter did not seem at all pleased with the conversation. She stared out at the soldiers from the pile of black hair on top of her head, held fast with a simple blue ribbon and two wooden pins that had come from the shop. One soldier fingered a display of charms made from beeswax and alligator hide. He wasn’t gentle. Rye knew that Mrs O’Chanter hated it when people touched with no intention to buy and she could be downright scary about it – but she said nothing this time.
“Mrs O’Chanter,” the Constable continued, then paused to look her over. “Is it still Mrs or do you finally go by Miss now?”
“It’s ‘Mrs’, thank you very much.”
“How patient of you. Well then, there was quite a disturbance at The Angry Poet today.”
“Was he reading those off colour limericks again?”
“No, Mrs O’Chanter. There was a robbery. Children no less.”
“My goodness,” Mrs O’Chanter said, without alarm.
“Indeed,” Constable Boil said. “They took a bag of gold grommets and two flasks of rare wine.”
Rye’s ears burned. She knew that was a lie. She picked her fingernails as she listened.
“Gold grommets?” Mrs O’Chanter said. “Who would have thought the poet was doing so well? I can’t say I’ve ever seen anyone actually go into that shop.”
Mrs O’Chanter placed a hand on Rye’s shoulder. Rye stopped picking her nails.
“Yes, well, nevertheless,” the Constable said, eyeing Rye, “Earl Longchance takes the upbringing of the village’s youth very seriously. Wayward children must be moulded early. Tamed. The Earl’s sweat farm has been known to do wonders for the strong-willed child.”
Mrs O’Chanter just stared at the Constable without blinking.
“This child,” the Constable continued. “Where has it been today?”
Rye began picking her fingernails again behind her back.
“She has been with me since first light this morning. Working here in the shop.”
Rye held her breath.
“All day you say?”
“Indeed.”
“I see,” Constable Boil said, tapping his bony chin. “Well, do keep your eyes open, Mrs O’Chanter. Roving bands of child thugs are a pox on us all. I shall certainly keep my eyes out for you.”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary.”
“No bother. It will be my pleasure,” he added with a leer.
The Constable turned to leave. Rye started to sigh in relief, but she caught her breath when the Constable stopped and pivoted on his heel.
“Oh, yes,” he added, “since I’m here – it occurs to me that although Assessment does not officially commence until next week, I might as well have a look around now – to save a trip. You don’t object, Mrs O’Chanter.”
It couldn’t possibly have been mistaken for a question.
“No, of course not,” Mrs O’Chanter said.
“Splendid.”
The Constable strolled around, hands behind his back as if shopping. He paused in the doorway and faced the street.
“As you know, it’s illegal to feed pigs on Market Street. That’s a fine of ten bronze bits.”
“That’s a bird feeder,” Rye whispered to Mrs O’Chanter.
Mrs O’Chanter nudged her to stay quiet.
Constable Boil leaned outside and cast his watery eyes up over the door. Of all the weathered grey shops that lined Market Street, each adorned with drab and unremarkable signs, The Willow’s Wares was the only one that flew a colourful flag. Colours had once been used as signals by certain unscrupulous characters, and the Earl now frowned on their overuse by anyone other than his tailors. That day, The Willow’s Wares’ flag was a rich forest-green, adorned with the white silhouette of a dragonfly.
“That flag is too bright,” the Constable said, pointing to the green flag over The Willow’s Wares’ door. “Fifty bits.”
Fifty bits! Rye’s ears burned again.
Constable Boil shambled back inside. He approached Mrs O’Chanter and studied her closely, squinting under his dustball eyebrows.
“No woman may wear any article of blue without the express permission of the Honourable Earl Longchance.”
Rye looked at the ribbon in Mrs O’Chanter’s hair.
“Two shims,” the Constable said, his tone severe. Then he smiled, revealing a mouth of nubby yellow teeth. “And you shall remove it.”