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legend “The Hanging Tree.” I fancied I saw a curtain twitch, and just behind it, a narrow, white face with suspicious eyes.
    Behind me, Valerius muttered an oath, but Portia was already striding purposefully across the street. We hurried to catch her up, Morag hard upon my heels, and arrived just as she was being greeted by the innkeeper himself, a dark young man with the somewhat wiry good looks one occasionally finds in the Gaels.
    He nodded solemnly. “Halloo, leddies, sir. Welcome to tha village. Is i’ transport thee needs?”
    Portia quickly extracted a book from her reticule and buried her nose in it, rifling quickly through the pages. I poked her sharply.
    “Portia, the innkeeper has asked us a question. What on earth are you doing?”
    She held up the book so I could read the title. It was an English phrasebook for foreigners. “I am trying to decipher what he just said.”
    The innkeeper was staring at us with a patient air. There was something decidedly otherworldly about him. I noticed then the tips of his ears where his dark curls parted. They were ever so slightly pointed, giving him an elfin look. I smiled at him and poked my sister again.
    “Portia, put that away. He is speaking English.”
    She shoved the book into her reticule, muttering under her breath, “It is no English I have ever heard.”
    “Good afternoon,” I said. “We do need transportation. We have been told you have a wagon—perhaps you have a carriage as well, that would be far more comfortable, I think. There are five in our party, with baggage and a few pets. We are guests of Mr. Brisbane.”
    “Not precisely guests, ” Portia said, sotto voce.
    But her voce was not sotto enough. The innkeeper’s eyes brightened as he sniffed a bit of scandal brewing. “Brisbane? Does thou mean tha new gennelman up Grimsgrave way? No, no carriage will coom, and no carriage will go. Tha way is too rough. It must be a farm cart.”
    Portia blanched and Morag gave a great guffaw. I ignored them both.
    “Then a farm cart it will be,” I said firmly. “And do youthink you could arrange such a conveyance for us? We are very tired and should like to get to Grimsgrave as quickly as possible.”
    “Aye. ’Twill take a moment. If tha’ll step this way to a private room. Deborah will bring thee some tea, and thee can rest awhile.”
    Valerius excused himself to take a turn about the village and stretch his legs, but I thanked the innkeeper and led my dispirited little band after him upstairs to private accommodation. The inn itself was like something out of a children’s picture book. Nothing inside the little building seemed to have changed from the days when highwaymen stalked the great coaching byways, claiming gold and virtue as their right. Still, for all its old-fashioned furnishings, the inn was comfortable enough, furnished with heavy oak pieces and thick velvet draperies to shut out the mists.
    The innkeeper introduced himself as Amos and presented a plump young woman with blond hair, Deborah, who bobbed a swift curtsey and bustled off to bring the tea things. We did not speak until she returned, laden with a tray of sandwiches and cake and bread and butter. A maid followed behind her with another tray for Minna and Morag, who perked up considerably at the sight of food. They were given a little table in the corner some distance from the fire, but Portia and I were settled next to it, our outer garments whisked away to have the dirt of travel brushed from them.
    When the tea things had been handed round, Deborah seemed loath to go, and at a meaningful glance from Portia, I encouraged her to linger. We had not spoken of it, but itoccurred to me—and doubtless to her as well—that it might be a good idea to glean what information we could from the locals about the state of affairs at Grimsgrave Hall.
    For her part, Deborah appeared gratified at the invitation to stay. Her blue eyes were round in her pale face, and she refused Portia’s