Page 34 of Unveiled

Adrian stood in front of the Inn, waving at the children playing in the street, doffing an imaginary hat at people standing outside the market and the village shops. Connor felt as if every step was a negotiation with the ground, to be taken at one step at a time.

“Don’t encourage them,” Connor muttered as he drew near. “We’ve enough on our plate, and don’t need anyone else sharing bloody mysterious prophecies or delivering dire ditties of destiny.”

“Such alliteration,” Adrian commented with a grin. “Quite impressive.” His mouth twitched. “And I’m not encouraging anyone.”

“You are.”

“I’m looking at the buildings and being sociable.”

Connor shot him a look. “You’re dying to visit every damned shop in the village and make new friends.”

Adrian didn’t deny it. As peoples’ faces appeared in windows and doorways, he greeted them. Connor had to admit it felt right. No phones. No whispering. Just a quiet, collective assessment. It should’ve felt hostile. Instead, it felt like being recognised.

They passed a shop with a sign painted in gold leaf: Morrigan & Thread. The window display was a riot of felt and velvet, feathers and braided cords, hats perched on stands like small, proud creatures. A top hat with a band of dark green. A flat cap stitched with silver thread. A wide-brimmed thing that looked like it had been made from midnight.

Adrian slowed. Connor didn’t. He took two more steps before realising Adrian wasn’t beside him and turned back, irritated. “What?”

Adrian nodded at the window. “It’s a hat shop.” He looked like a child at Christmas.

Connor huffed. “It’s a bloody hat shop, so what?”

The door opened before either of them touched it. A man stood in the doorway, tall and narrow as a lamppost, his hair a storm of grey curls held back with—Connor blinked—what looked like a hatpin shaped like a tiny sword. He wore a waistcoat the colour of old wine and a measuring tape draped around his neck like a priest’s stole. His eyes were sharp and amused.

“Connor,” he said, as if they’d had tea last week. Then his gaze slid to Adrian. “And Adrian. Come in. You’re letting the draught in.”

Connor froze. “How do you—”

“Names?” The man waved a hand as if batting away a fly. “Everyone knows names. It’s the shape of you that’s interesting.”

Connor’s jaw tightened. “We’re not buying hats.”

Adrian snorted.

The man’s smile widened. “No. You’re not buying hats. You’re trying not to attract attention in public. Different errand entirely.”

Connor’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

“Morrigan,” the man said with a small bow. “Hatmaker. Keeper of heads. Occasional therapist, though I don’t advertise it. Come. Come. It’s warmer inside.”

Adrian stepped in first. Connor hesitated a beat, then followed. Connor assumed Adrian had decided refusing would be worse than whatever compliance cost them.

The shop smelled of steam and cedar and something metallic, like rain on iron. Hats lined the walls in neat rows, but the longer he looked, the less neat they seemed. Some of them shifted slightly on their stands, as if settling. One feathered trilby gave a delicate shiver, as if offended at being stared at.

Morrigan shut the door with a soft click that sounded too final, and immediately, Connor tried the handle. It opened. Of course it did. Morrigan watched Connor with the patience of someone observing a dog who didn’t know it was safe.

“Right,” Connor said. “We’re leaving.”

“You can,” Morrigan agreed. “But you won’t. Not yet.”

Connor’s accusing gaze snapped to Adrian.

Adrian lifted his hands. “Don’t look at me. I didn’t invite him.”

Morrigan’s eyes glittered. “No, no. The village invited you. I’m merely the first to offer a chair.” He gestured to two mismatched armchairs near a small stove.

Connor didn’t sit. Adrian did, and the moment he did, Connor’s breath hitched.

Adrian frowned. “What?”