Page 38 of The Dead Queen

“More or less.” He nods noncommittally. “Here.” He points toward a shop with filthy windows half covered in old, molding newspaper. Lamplight still glows from the interior.

“Why would that shop be open at this time of night?” I ask, suspicious.

“Exactly my question when I went inside last year.” Hunter puts his hand on the oxidized doorhandle and pushes it open.

Inside, the shop is a mess of overflowing shelves with dusty odds and ends, everything from books and children’s toys to rusty tools and antiques. Along one wall runs a scratched, glass cabinet displaying some of the shop’s more precious items. Old coins, knives with dulled edges, and broaches shine under the dull lamplight.

“What do you want?” a gruff man’s voice calls from behind a black curtain covering a doorway in the back of the shop.

Hunter clears his throat. “Hello, sir. We’re here to inquire about a necklace.”

“Unless you’re here to buy one, I don’t want anything to do with yous,” the voice says. “I’m done giving out charity for other people’s trash.”

Hunter and I share a look.

“I think you misunderstand—” Hunter begins.

The curtain behind the counter is thrown aside as a small, old man with a ruddy face appears. “I don’t misunderstand nothin’. Now go!” When he sees us, he pauses, considering. “You lot don’t have the look of White’s Enders.”

“No,” Hunter says. “We’re not.”

The old man eyes us with suspicion from underneath bushy gray eyebrows. “What is it you said you want?”

“Information,” Hunter says.

I step forward. “What do you know of this?” I take the silver moth out from beneath the neckline of my dress.

The man freezes, holding his breath.

“You know it?” I ask.

His eyes remain on the moth for longer than necessary. Then he makes a decision. He grabs a filthy rag from behind the counter and begins dusting the shelves. He kicks up a veritable cloud in his wake.

“No.” He spits on the ground. “Can’t say that I know it.”

Hunter leans forward across the counter. “I purchased this necklace from your shop last year.”

The shop keeper shrugs, avoiding our eyes as he wipes around a ceramic dog figurine with a chipped nose. “I get a lot of baubles in here. I can’t be expected to remember every single one of ‘em.”

“Do you remember the woman who might have given it to you?” I ask. “Her name was Áine.”

He shakes his head, but the tension in his neck muscles gives him away. He’s nervous, but trying not to show it. “I don’t know nothing about no one. Now, best be on your way.”

Hunter puts a hand on my arm and turns me back toward the exit. “Come on. He isn’t going to tell us anything.”

But I’m not ready to give in so quickly. It’s been years since I had any leads about Grandmother and I’m not about to walk away. Suddenly, something catches my eye near the door. A few inches above the scratched floor, there’s a small carving in the dingy baseboard.

A moth.

We’ve been asking all the wrong questions, I realize. I turn back to the old shopkeeper, who cringes.

Hunter pauses in the doorway. “Sienna, what are you⁠—”

I stomp back up to the counter and look the wrinkly old man straight in the eye. “Then what about moths?”

The silence that follows tells me one important piece of information: the shopkeeper is afraid.

Eventually, he swallows. “Are you implying somethin’?”