Stars, Dogs, Duchesses, and... Pirates!
Willow closed her eyes to hide the fact that she’d rolled them, curling her lip inwards, and counted to seven. Don’t hit him… Don’t hit him… Don’t strangle him… Just wait. Breathe. Some god must have chosen to bless her with infinite willpower in that exact moment, because the local ‘scientist’ made it out the front door completely unscathed. She’d been very, very tempted, to grab the nearby rolling pin and smash it over his head so hard it broke. He’d questioned her intelligence at least ten times, in the five minutes he’d spent inside her bakery, hiding little barbs made of long words he probably thought she didn’t know, but she knew full well the meaning of: ‘philistine’ – thank you very much.
She narrowed her eyes, shaking her head as she watched him skulk down the street, a spring in his uneven step. It was as if he were trying to ‘float’, something the pretty ladies and nobleman did everywhere they went, with horribly upturned noses, and perfume so thick it blinded passerby. It had taken her at least three days to dispel the overwhelming stench from her own nostrils, let alone the bakery, opening all the windows to fumigate the pungent smell of lilac and rose. Usually lovely things, now turned bitter, and far too sweet in their thickness. Of course, that had been a little over a week ago, but she had a feeling the Lady Wentworth and Bennet would return soon for more sweets.
She carefully, slowly, walked outside, and took five strides to the right. She needed a breather, a drink would be wiser, despite her desire to make it through the day completely sober. At this rate, she’d pull her hair out, or lose it by sundown however, and she’d prefer not to. Something crunched under her foot. Her brow furrowed, gaze traveling down, to take in the shards of glass that had embedded themselves along the heels of her boots.
Willow felt her heart give a wild, angry stab against her chest. That couldn’t be good… She hissed, starting into a sprint, completely ignoring the puddle she stumbled into, that soaked right up the middle of her calf, and ran into the neighboring pub. The usual musky air greeted her, the curl of smoke from old pipe, and tang of bourbon and wine and, of course, rum. Willow frowned at the patrons, a few regulars, but there were some faces she distinctively didn’t like – huddled in a corner made of darkness, with hissed words on their lips.
She approached the bar, looking around for the owner…