Page 89 of The Filigree Key

He gave me one begrudging pinch.

“Use the excuse you’re feeding Bruno on my behalf if you need to. And, it actually would be helpful if—”

Sawyer thrust his paws into my face, wiggling his toes. No thumbs.

I shook my head and brought him close for a cuddle before setting him down outside the hallway that led to the stables. “Love you, little cat.”

Sawyer ceased his pouting to rub against my ankles. He still bit me one last time before scampering off. If only we could risk returning to my old room. I had to finish the layering on the hickory nuts and it would be nice to rearm myself with what remained of various potions and powders now that my foraging bag was gone. Though, where to keep them?

Alec had pitched my bag into the fireplace, along with all the keepsakes Shari had crocheted for me. Of all of them, I’d miss the little fruit bat the most.

Sensing my agitation, the horses in the stables pawed at the straw in their stalls and banged their hooves against the stall doors. Shushing them, I moved down the aisle in search of my usual mount.

I’d never actually saddled or bridled my own horse before, and while my dapple gray was patient with me, it was clear I didn’t know what I was doing. But I was a primal witch, a descendant of Violet with ancestral ties to Mother Nature herself, so . . ..

Pressing my hand against the gray’s shoulder, I released a trickle of magic and a request.

The horse swiveled his long neck around to inspect me with one ink-dark eye, then lowered onto his knees.

Ha-cha! Intention and politeness for the win!

I mounted and smothered a yelp as the horse lurched upright. Gripping the charcoal-colored mane, I gave the horse instructions where I wanted to go, and the gray trotted out of the stable and cantered over the bridge into town.

My solo appearance surprised the townsfolk gathering for another cold morning of bartering, sipping plain hot coffee, and doing their best to prepare for a hard winter. The sky overhead was gray from the storm I’d sensed yesterday, but it wasn’t ready to snow yet. That didn’t stop the wind from being bitter and cutting right through your clothes to frost your bones.

Cohen offered to make me my customary latte, and Mrs. Squirrel insisted I looked hungry and in need of her finest acorn-flour flapjacks. And where were my hat, scarf, and mittens, Emmett wanted to know. I should help myself to whatever I liked at his open-air trading post. And did I want a jar of roasted crickets to snack on? What about boiled peanuts? Why have boiled peanuts when Alder Ranch had beef bacon?

I dismissed it all with a firm, “I’m here to right a wrong. Where was the hobgoblin Wystan last seen?”

The townsfolk quieted, instantly understanding the subtext. When Cody, standing upon his stack of firewood, opened his mouth to berate the Stag Man and land himself in the hanging shed by way of a Brother’s manacles, Emmett hurled a wooden hairbrush at him. It clocked the beaver on the side of his head, rattling some sense into his brain.

No one spoke.

I turned the dapple gray in a circle, eyeing every face and marking those who looked away. “If you’re keeping quiet because you think you’ll be accused of harboring a criminal, or of being complicit with him, don’t be. I am not the Brotherhood. I keep the promises I make.”

“It’s true,” Emmett called out. “She got Ms. Harris, Axel, and Bensen released yesterday afternoon, just like she said she would!”

“Bensen,” the beaver muttered from the top of his woodpile.

Still, no one spoke.

“Charlotte,” Rosalie shrilled. Mayor Robert’s sister had been turned into a svelte black rabbit with the most velvety fur, and she stomped her back foot as she called out her rival. “We all know you were the last one to see the hobgoblin. Got all your gossiping hens to tell the whole town how you barely got away with your feathers. Well, speak up!”

Of course it had to be her.

Ms. Harris gave me an up-down bob of her head. Most birds lack the ability to display facial expressions other than a flare of a feather or two that most couldn’t even hope to interpret, but this egret managed it in spades. And she kept her mouth shut—I was a hussy, after all.

The silence became as oppressive as a thundercloud, until the raccoon snapped.

“She didn’t steal that birdhouse,” Emmett shouted, pounding his fists against the table and making the oil lamps jump and clatter. “It was never on layaway, and you need to find a better way of flirting or making time with gentlemen you’re interested in other than causing a scene! Or baking them scones. Half the women do that in this town. Now tell her!”

The raccoon snatched up the top handkerchief from a pile of folded ones and hastily dabbed his brow. “Oh my nerves,” he shuddered.

Abashed, the old egret resettled her wings and straightened her neck. “The gristmill on Crystal Creek.” Then she stalked off, head held high though there was a tremor to her thin yellow legs.

“Thank you,” I said, urging the dapple gray to the east.

Crystal Creek was an offshoot of the river in Cedar Haven’s Forest, flowing southeast through town and into the rocky hill country of Southern Indiana. The gristmill doubled as a canoe- and kayak-rental station, though all the boats were dry-docked for the cold season. Since the attack, someone had closed the lock on the channel that diverted a portion of Crystal Creek towards the water mill. The grinding stones were silent, but the skittering of mousy feet could still be heard.