Chapter 267: The Laughter and The Fear
Chapter 266: The Laughter and The Fear
The competition was over, but the commoners still filled the streets.
There were conversations everywhere, even though it was nighttime. Mercers’ Row especially was filled with raucous energy.
Numerous people walked through the streets laughing and discussing the evening’s events. The topic of discussion had been the competition that had taken place earlier.
The evening air was thick with the scent of ale and roasted meat, and the sound of voices rose and fell like waves against the shore.
The Tallow and Tide was overflowing. Every table was occupied. Patrons leaned against the bar, crowded the corners, and even spilled out onto the street, mugs in hand and grins on their faces.
Helen moved through the chaos with practised efficiency, her tray balanced on one hand, the other reaching out to steady a patron who had laughed so hard he nearly toppled from his stool.
Olly was at the centre of it all, his voice carrying above the din.
"How is it," he bellowed, slapping his hand against the worn wooden table, "that the nobles cannae even play a simple tune?"
A chorus of laughter answered him.
"Did ye see it?" one man called out, his face red from drink and mirth. "Earl Hawthorne—he raised the bow and hit the instrument like it was a drum!"
Another patron burst out laughing, tears streaming down his cheeks.
"Like a drum!" he repeated, gasping for breath.
"Aye, a drum!" someone else echoed.
The laughter rolled through the tavern.
Then a man climbed onto a table. He was young, with a wild look in his eyes and a mug clutched in his hand. He swayed slightly, and Helen pointed at him.
"Get down from there, ye!" she called.
He did not.
"Row, row, row your boat," he began, his voice entirely off-key, "gently down the stream."
He sang with complete conviction, his notes wobbling and cracking, his rhythm as uneven as a cart on a cobbled road. The tavern erupted in laughter once more.
"Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily," he continued, swaying dangerously, "life is but a dream."
He bowed, nearly toppling off the table.
The patrons cheered.
Helen shook her head, but she could not stay angry. A laugh escaped her, and she pressed a hand to her stomach as the laughter overtook her.
"Get down before ye break yer neck," she managed between gasps.
The man did not listen.
"Ye heard me playin’!" he called out to the crowd. "That’s exactly why I’m votin’ for the Duke!"
Another patron slammed his mug on the table.
"Duke Thorncrest has my vote! A man who can play ’Twinkle, Twinkle’ with one finger and not laugh—that’s a man I can respect!"
A woman near the bar laughed.
"Earl Hawthorne’s got mine. Anyone who can turn a violin into a drum knows how to think differently!"
The debate continued, jovial and rowdy, as the patrons argued good-naturedly over who had earned their vote.
"And what about the Baron?" a woman asked. "The one who played the pretty piece?"
There was a pause.
"Aye, he was good," someone admitted. "But he didn’t make me laugh."
More laughter followed.
"Sometimes laughin’ is better than pretty," Olly said, raising his mug. "And tonight, we’ve had plenty of that!"
The patrons cheered and raised their mugs in response.
Soon they started singing "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" this time.
---
Meanwhile, back at the palace, a very different scene was unfolding.
Baron Frederick slipped through the corridor like a shadow, his footsteps quick and uneven. His eyes darted from side to side, scanning the darkness, searching for something.
He sniffed the air, willing his wolf senses to pick up anything unusual, but there was nothing.
He reached his chambers and pushed the door open. He stepped inside and immediately closed it behind him.
But even as he did so, the nervous energy around him remained.
He had just turned when he suddenly noticed a figure in the room and jumped in shock, perhaps even fear.
Then he let out a breath of relief when he realised it was his guard.
The man was tall and broad-shouldered, with the sort of face that had seen too many things to be easily surprised.
And he looked mildly concerned.
"Your Lordship," the guard said, "is everything all right?"
Baron Frederick did not answer.
He kept looking around—at the walls, at the corners, at the ceiling. His eyes moved constantly, never resting, never still.
"My lord?" the guard repeated.
"We need to leave," Baron Frederick said finally.
His voice was low, urgent, barely more than a whisper.
"Leave?"
"Now," Baron Frederick said. "We are not safe here. We need to leave immediately."
The guard’s brow furrowed.
"What is wrong, my lord?"
Baron Frederick did not answer.
He crossed to the window and pulled the curtain back just enough to peer outside.
The grounds were quiet.
The gardens were empty.
But he did not look relieved.
He looked more afraid than before.
He pulled the curtain shut. Then he crossed to the desk and began writing, his hand moving across the page in quick, jerky strokes.
The door opened then and his valet entered.
He had gone to procure herbs for his lord, but now he took in the scene before him and a frown formed on his face.
He turned to the guard.
"What is going on?"
The guard shook his head.
"I do not know," he said.
Baron Frederick approached the valet then, a letter in his hand.
"Send this," he said, thrusting the letter toward him. "Send it to the territory. Immediately."
The valet accepted the letter.
"My lord—"
"All is not as it seems," Baron Frederick said. "There are things happening. Things we did not know. Things are different from what we thought."
He looked up, his eyes wide.
"We must leave. We truly must leave."
---
Outside the chamber, just beyond the door, a shadow listened.
And within the chamber itself, another shadow stood motionless near the far wall, hidden in darkness.
And outside the window, where the Baron had looked but not seen, a third shadow crouched in the night.
And in the corridor beyond, more shadows listened as well.
But the Baron had no idea who those shadows were.
Nor did he know that they had been listening to him all along.
