Unwritten Books 3 - The Young City Read Online Free PDF Page A

come up with a better idea of how to find food, clothes, and shelter!”
    The shopkeeper looked from seething Rosemary to cowed Peter and back. “Right,” he said at last, and he pulled a magnifying glass from the drawer.
    “Gold,” he muttered. “No diamonds. A claddagh. Oddly stylized. The detail work is ....” He stopped, stared, then dropped his magnifying glass and put a jeweller’s loupe to his eye. His eyebrows shot up. “Exceptional! The goldsmith that made this must have had a rock-steady hand! How could you afford such a ring?” He stared at them, then looked back. “Ah, an inscription. ‘March 21/08’ — odd misprint, that. ‘To Rosemary Forever, Love Peter.’”
    He looked up. The jeweller’s glass fell into his hand. “Peter. Rosemary. Those
are
your names.”
    Peter and Rosemary nodded.
    “This really
is
your wedding ring!”
    Rosemary’s mouth dropped open. Peter spluttered. But before either could say anything, the shopkeeper thrust the ring back. “I canna take this!”
    “What?” gasped Rosemary. “You have to! It’s all we have!”
    “But to give up your wedding ring?” the shopkeeper cut in. “I know times are bad, but this is a treasure beyond money. I’ll not take it from you. As for food and shelter ...,” he pulled open a drawer and took out paper, a pen, and an ink bottle, “... there is a church up the street; the priest will help you. With my letter of reference, you may find shelter, perhaps work. What’s your name?”
    “Rosemary Watson,” replied Rosemary. “But —”
    The man dropped his pen. “Watson?” he repeated. “Mr. and Mrs. Watson?”
    Peter started to say something, but Rosemary pressed her heel to his toe.
    The shopkeeper levered up the oak counter and pressed the promise ring into Rosemary’s palm. “My name is Edmund Watson. Come back with me.”
    As Edmund led them through a door to the back, Peter leaned close to Rosemary. “Why did you tell him we’re married?”
    “I didn’t,” she whispered. “I just didn’t correct him.”
    “Great! Now I’m Peter Watson.”
    “Fine, you explain the quaint twenty-first-century custom of hyphenated last names!”
    They walked through a long, candlelit hallway. They passed a bedroom doing double duty as a storeroom and went through a door at the end of the hall.
    The smell of woodsmoke and stew struck them as they entered a bright, cluttered kitchen. The setting sun caused the shelves and canisters to glow. They heard a bubbling on the pot-bellied stove, and the sound of a woman muttering in the pantry.
    Edmund cleared his throat. “Faith, let me introduce Peter and Rosemary Watson.” He turned to them. “My sister, Faith.”
    Peter blinked. “Faith? It couldn’t —”
    The woman stepped out of the pantry, dusting flour from her hands. She froze. Then her flour-covered arms crossed her chest. She may have changed into a fadedbrown dress and a frayed apron, but she was still the same woman who’d tended to Peter after the accident. Rosemary swallowed hard.
    “We’ve met,” said Peter.
    “Yes,” said Faith. “I recognize the back of you.”
    “Um ...,” said Rosemary, “sorry about that.”
    “Faith?” Edmund looked from one woman to the other. “Why do you frown?”
    “This was the young couple I found on the street after church,” said Faith, not taking her eyes off Rosemary. “The same ones who ran as soon as the constabulary arrived, leaving me to look a fool.”
    “In our defence,” said Peter, “we were facing a hostile crowd.”
    “Making me look a fool before an audience,” said Faith.
    “I ... I’m sorry!” Rosemary backed away. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you. We’ll be leaving —”
    Edmund blocked her path. “Faith, these two are destitute; they tried to sell their wedding ring. They are Watsons: family! We must help them.”
    Faith’s expression kept its edge. “We should help the destitute, but I’ll not have fugitives under my roof. I demand an