Depravity, A Beauty and the Beast Novel(18)
For as long as anyone could remember, there had always been water on the bridge, the reason for the village’s name. They’d tried moving the bridge, but the river didn’t tolerate additional bridges well, and they usually fell to ruin shortly after their completion. Only this one remained steadfast with very little repair needed.
Because of the precariousness of the bridge, many merchants ended their routes at Water-On-The-Bridge, not bothering to trade with Konrall. The baker made the journey once a month for his flour from the mill while the tinker only rode this way when his supplies ran low. The seamstress and the candle maker dealt with the single traveling merchant who still traversed the bridge.
My footsteps echoed hollowly on the planks and fine droplets settled on my cheeks as I crossed. The mill stood as a tall sentinel on the opposite side of the river, its elevated floors hovering a few feet above the water, steady on the thick stilts sunk deep into the riverbed. The waterwheel that turned the stone grinder spun slowly in the swift current, but I knew its power and the fine powder it turned out.
The road on the other side of the river suffered deep ruts due to the constant traffic from the town to the mill. I took care to traverse the shoulder so I could view the bustling trade without fear of being run down by horse or wagon. There was much to observe.
Water-On-The-Bridge presented a larger variety of trade than Konrall, including things a proper lady shouldn’t stare at. However, without my father accompanying me, I took the opportunity to watch the alehouse women, whom I knew if asked, would serve more than a drink.
A tall brunette laughed loudly, throwing her head back to expose her neck. It made her look pretty, smoothing the lines of her loose skin and bringing a natural flush to her mottled complexion. Her customer, a man at ease while he sipped ale at a table, watched her chest with interest. Her dress pushed the tops of her pale breasts up on display much as my dress did. The man reached forward and pulled her close with a tug on her skirt. She leaned down to hear what he said, and he buried his face in her cleavage. She laughed harder as I passed from their view.
The scene made me distinctly uncomfortable with my own display, but I persisted forward, knowing the house I sought was highly respectable. Mr. Jolen Pactel, the current Head, lived past the House of Whispering Sisters, which I found entertaining since his purpose was to maintain the peace and theirs was to bring peace, but in completely different ways. As Head, Mr. Pactel settled disputes and set down judgments in place of the Liege Lord, an absent fellow for near fifty years. The title of Head wasn’t an elected one, but an inherited one; and the Pactel family had held the position of Head for the last forty years with fair rulings. The House of Whispering Sisters brought peace, one client at a time, with their sweet smelling smoke, veiled faces, and unveiled bodies.
With nothing to trade and no coin, I suffered the delicious aromas of simmering stews and baking pastries as I walked through the market district. The cloying smoke from the Whispering Sisters house fogged my head briefly as I caught a glimpse of a pale, slim torso and a grey veiled face through an open window.
Away from the noise of commerce, I stepped under the arched stone wall that bordered the two-story house of the Head. After a single knock, the dense oak door swung open, and a thick-armed man greeted me with an impassive look.
“Good day. I have a message for the Head from Mr. Benard Hovtel of Konrall.”
The man stepped aside and bid me to enter. I willingly stepped into the spacious entry and admired the smooth sanded plank floor covered with a pretty, woven rug. Spring flowers adorned the side table, scenting the air sweetly.
“This way,” the man murmured, leading me toward a small room near the back of the house.
A smaller man sat behind a desk there. Sitting in a chair in the corner near the door through which we walked was another thick-armed man. I understood the business of the Head and knew men strong enough to help keep the peace were needed.
“She has a message for the Head,” the man announced behind me once I entered the room. Without waiting for a response from the man behind the desk, my escort left.
The short, thin man at the desk looked up from his papers, and with a pleasant smile, he stood when he saw me.
“Good day, dear lady,” he greeted me. “Mr. Pactel is currently occupied elsewhere in the Water. May I be of assistance?”
“I’m not certain,” I said hesitantly. “My father sent me here to deliver this message to Mr. Pactel.” I reached into my bag, heard the man in the corner shift behind me, and quickly withdrew the sealed letter. When I glanced over my shoulder, the man was just settling back into his chair, eyeing me critically.