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“And half my bread.”
“Well, you should have eaten it faster.”
He holds the door while I gather my skirts and slip inside, the little bell jingling above our heads amid the clatter of baking trays. Master Farriner is busy shouting instructions at the fellow tending the ovens, and when he pulls open one of the great iron doors, a rush of heat rolls across the shop, leaving the silk clinging damply to my skin. I tug at my bodice, desperate for a little air, though the sight of a fresh tray of golden pasties, their crusts beautifully browned and thick gravy bubbling at the edges, soon has me squeezing between two gentlemen arguing over whose turn it is to be served.
Young Mr Bell spots me as I reach the counter, looking half-dead after a long night of baking. Master Farriner bellows something from the ovens, and the poor lad flinches, black membranes slipping halfway across his eyes before he manages to blink them back.
He gives me a weary smile as he reaches for a sheet of paper. “Mutton pasty, Miss Harrow?”
“Obviously, Bell. And one of those lovely big ones, if you please.”
He selects a particularly plump pasty from the tray and sets about wrapping it while I open my purse.
“Three, please,” he says.
I look up. “Three molars?”
“I'm afraid so, Miss Harrow.”
“For a bloody pasty? Christ, Bell, what have you put in it?”
“Only the finest mutton,” he assures me, looking so pleased with himself that I have half a mind to tell him where he can shove the thing.
“Well, it had better be,” I grumble, counting three molars into my palm.
A woman shoulders her way up beside me, demanding to know whether there are any fresh loaves left, and Bell turns to answer her while I keep the teeth hidden in my closed hand. Once she's occupied with examining the bread, he lowers his hand beneath the counter, and I slip the molars into his waiting fingers.
He gives them a discreet inspection, rolling one between his finger and thumb before tucking the lot into his apron pocket and passing me my parcel. “Always a pleasure doing business with you, Miss Harrow.”
“Yes, well, I should hope so, considering you're robbing me blind.”
Bell laughs as I leave, already turning to serve the next customer, and Iscairn hums with disapproval beside me.
Oh, here we go.
“Three perfectly good molars, Ophelia,” he murmurs as we make our way towards the door. “I seem to recall teaching you to be a little more discerning with your trades.”
“And I seem to recall you spending the better part of five centuries hoarding the things. Surely you can spare a few for my dinner?”
His mouth twitches. “That is hardly the point.”
“Well, you'll have to explain it to me later, because I'm hungry.”
I take his arm, and we step back into the sweltering night, where I tuck my precious pasty safely into the crook of my arm. Iscairn keeps me close as we make our way through the bustle, occasionally steering me around the filthiest stretches of gutter. Gradually, the crowds thin and the lanterns grow fewer, until at last our familiar little shop comes into view.
The Magpie & Mortar.
Our painted sign swings gently above the doorway, a black-and-white magpie perched on the rim of a stone mortar. Iscairn chose the name in memory of our old home above the Cock and Magpie in York, and I still smile whenever I see it.
We'd left that city in such a hurry, with all those dreadful accusations hanging over our heads, that it was months before we learned what had become of them. Apparently, when the Church came asking about a black-eyed witch and a demon doctor, the townsfolk had sworn blind they'd never seen either. Which was rather remarkable, considering how many had witnessed my blackened fingers and watched the blue soulglimmer take Gideon's pain away. They'd known perfectly well who the authorities were looking for, and still not one of them had given us up.
I've been rather fond of York ever since.
The windows of our little shop are crowded with glass bottles and pots of salve, while bundles of dried herbs hang beneath the wooden awning, their leaves rustling in the warm breeze.
I fish the key from my purse as we approach, taking care not to squash my dinner against the door while I wrestle with the lock. Iscairn reaches past me to give the key a little turn, and the stubborn thing finally gives way.
“Thank you,” I mutter, pushing the door open with my hip.
