The Cursed Blood, стр. 54
“Oh. Dear. Gods,” Aunt Milly moaned in horror as she stared up about the buildings as if she genuinely feared a urine and fecal shower would toss down on her from a window at any moment.
I honestly half expected her to conjure up an umbrella. Instead, she just pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders and hurried up, her designer luggage, a whole train of it, hovering and trailing after her like a train of expensive bright pink flower printed ducklings.
The doorway to the Rovers Rest Bed and Breakfast is huge, round, painted a rich green, and had a polished golden doorknob. Over the fairy light strung entry a wooden sign with faded, peeling golden lettering creaking and swaying from a worked iron post depicted a red clad youth in a feathered hat with a stick and sack over his shoulder whistling as he walked with a foaming flagon mug in his other hand.
“Oh, this looks delightful,” Aunt Milly exclaimed as if she was trying too hard to convince herself of the fact as she opened the door. I remember being curious as I peered past Gramps into the candlelit foyer, my own very heavy baggage dragging after me.
It’s surprisingly brightly lit from latticed windows and candles on sconces on tall iron stands along the timber and cream-colored plaster walls. Ancient round iron chandeliers hang from the timber beams and in colored jars at the center of the long wooden communal dining tables and more private and exclusive red leather cushioned booths that enjoy privacy afforded by colorfully beaded curtains. Soft, mellow jazz plays from a record player in the corner.
A truly massive red brick mantled hearth is settled at the back and there is always a nice happily roaring fire over which more often than not a cauldron of stew or brace of ducks is roasting in their own fats. It always smells wonderful, a pleasant and cloying mix of bee’s wax candle, fresh bread, cooking food, pipe smoke, fresh cut flowers that are in vases everywhere you can find to put one, spirits, and the perfume of the serving girls.
The owner “Mac” is an enormously fat, impressively mustached man with an ever-present dirty apron who bears a striking resemblance to an ill-tempered walrus with a sweaty bald head watched the dining room happily from behind the bar, absently cleaning mugs with a cloth, a tiny gold honeycomb shaped signet ring with a bee engraved at its center shining on his right pinky. His small, dark, beady eyes don’t miss a thing.
The flirtatiously voluptuous, dusky skinned all-female staff laughed, giggled and sauntered about with shapely swaying hips in old fashioned wenches’ attire as they served food on silver platters and refilled drinks. All the while bending over and lingering in front of their mostly male customers, in what Gramps always refers to as “cleavage fishing” for tips, and information as they worked their charms with red painted lips and batting lashes.
Aunt Milly stood stock still, absolutely dumbfounded as she observed with opened mouth and wide eyes. She rounded on Artur but seemed to be unable to find the words to scold him correctly. He just snickered and rolled his eyes at her as he walked past and made his way to the bar to check in, Manx trailing after his heels dutifully but looking back more than once at me as he sniffed at everything.
Mac saw him coming, his glittering, shrewd gaze slipping from the demonic dog back to Gramps as his crooked, toothy smile melted. Slowly, he put down the tankard he’d been wiping and went very still. He frowned and stared, squinting as Gramps approached almost desperately trying to see the face beneath the brim of the hat.
I couldn’t hear what was said, but whatever it was had the fat owner sheet white and his once tiny dark eyes the size of saucers as he stared slack jawed at Gramps, leaning heavily with both hands on the counter
Slowly, a huge smile spread on his fat lips and he began to laugh a great big booming laugh, and he clapped Gramps on the shoulder in a very comradely way and shook his bolder like head, the entire dining room staring at them and murmuring.
It appeared like quite the happy reunion, as if long ago, the pair had shared many an adventure together. And that the innkeeper was far more delighted by the meeting than his old comrade in arms seemed to be. In fact, I had the feeling the only thing preventing the fat man from scooping Gramps up into a huge bear hug was the bar, which was a shame as I’d have loved to see that happen.
Manx barked once and put his huge paws up on the bar as he panted up at the big Witch and happily received a scratch between the ears as the two men talked, all the while Aunt Milly stared after him in horror.
It took a few moments but almost everyone eventually returned their attentions to their drinks and food, the low undertone of conversation and utensils clinking on flatware returned.
Well, mostly everyone.
One figure seated at a table by the fire in the back gave me a creepy, tingly feeling as he continued to stare. Not in a passingly curious way, but something far more intense and calculating. His scarred visage covered in shadows and a short-cropped silver beard partially lighted beneath his hood by the glow from his pipe.
What really stood out was something seemed to be off about his right hand that he was using to hold his curiously long-stemmed pipe. It was bulky, as if he was wearing a gauntlet of some kind but in the poor light, I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.
After a long uncomfortable moment of me watching him he pointedly rose from his chair, dumped some coins noisily on the table and