2
The girl was late.
The girl was always late.
But today, the girl had yet to show, and it left Hiram…unsettled in a most unsettling way.
He had watched the Winterbourne stall for hours, but three boys worked it today. Two were familiar. Charles Beanington often acted as an escort for the girl. John Winterbourne, who spent most of his time in medical school, had stepped in to help. Perhaps to train the third boy, who had yet to raise his head?
Three boys were required to do the work of one girl.
Where is the girl?
None of his business. It wasn’t his concern where Amalthea Winterbourne had gone. Though the presence of Charles in the family stall, and her absence, painted a vivid picture of a possibility that left him cold. Had Charles proposed? He and Amalthea were young, but they were inseparable. Their eldest sibling, Rebecca, had quit the business when she became engaged, but her beau was wealthy in his own right. Perhaps Charles, who was in law school, would be dependent upon Amalthea’s family to fund the lifestyle to which she had become accustomed until he passed the bar.
The idea of the girl being used for her familial connections left a bitter taste in Hiram’s mouth, but it wasn’t his concern.
Despite his habit of walking downtown to market on Wednesdays, when the girl was guaranteed to work alone, he tended to make his purchases from her family on Fridays, when he was only required to interact with John. Mood darkening, he decided to pick up his parcel early and be done with this ridiculous infatuation that spiraled further and further out of his control with each passing day.
Teeth gritted against his own folly, he prowled to the Winterbourne booth, waiting for John to notice.
“How can I help you?” the new boy asked in an alto voice. “We have fresh herbs, tinctures, teas—”
“John,” Hiram spoke over the hireling. “I’ll take my order today, if you can manage it.”
The young man jerked at his voice then cleared his throat. “Of course, sir.”
“A special order?” The boy glanced after John’s retreating back. “Do you need any help?”
“No, V—” John pinched his lips together. “Howl, stay here with Charles.”
Howl?
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Charles vowed with a wink. “You’ll behave for me, won’t you, Howl?”
“Like an angel,” Howl promised, his voice as soft as his hands. “I’ll polish my halo until you return.”
“Who are you?”
Hiram hadn’t meant to ask, but the question felt wrenched from his dark soul.
“Charles Beanington.” The young fop stuck out a hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Not you.” Ignoring his hand, Hiram compounded his error by demanding of the boy, “I meant you.”
“What business is it of yours?” Howl kept his eyes downcast, but Hiram doubted it was in submission. “Names are for social transactions, not financial ones.”
“You have a sharp tongue.” Hiram ground his molars. “I’m surprised Mr. Winterbourne hired you.”
A snort blasted out of Howl’s nose, and even Charles smiled, as if mocking Hiram for not getting the joke.
“Do I amuse you?” His earlier foul mood redoubled until he saw red. “Perhaps I ought to withdraw my patronage from the Winterbournes’ establishment.”
That sobered them quick enough, though a stall in a market was hardly an establishment. It was a cover, he knew. A way of blending in, of belonging. A store would call more attention to the family, and no white witch coven wanted to draw notice.
And none had ever survived attracting his eye.
He and his coven ought to have dined on the Winterbournes weeks ago, but when Hiram went hunting for his first victim, he found the girl.
Amalthea Winterbourne.
Vonny to her friends.
Hellion to her family.
And a deadly intrigue to him.