A Mischief in the Snow - By Margaret Miles Page 0,37
thin hand, Phineas picked up the leather-bound volume to read the glowing words along its spine.
“It's something like a history,” Jack explained. “Written by a man of London. But you'll say he's exercised his imagination along with his pen, when I've told you more.”
“Where does the story take place?”
“In the ancient land of S-s-s-sicily.”
The landlord gave a groan and rolled his eyes; lately that area of the world had sent them more than a little trouble.
“A dark sort of place,” Jack revealed, “where ghosts walk with the living. I suppose they might even have witches there, still.”
“Witches!” Wise's curling eyebrows shot up, for he'd been born and raised in Salem. Earlier activities in that seaside town had given even its current inhabitants a bad name. But the spree of hanging had occurred well before New England learned the value of scientific ways of thinking—and, that such unpleasantness greatly disrupts commerce.
Scratching at a stubbly chin, Phineas Wise went off to pour Jack's cider, while a few more customers blew in. Jack bent quietly to finish his work, ignoring the rest.
Within a quarter of an hour, a donation of ale had, indeed, come his way, though its main purpose was to move him out of his comfortable chair and onto a nearby bench. With his book and elbows resting on the rough planks of the table before him, Jack watched Mr. Flint and Mr. Tinder begin their morning. Soon, they began to discuss a few of Otranto's many mysteries.
“Read the prophecy once more, Jack,” Mr. Flint requested, pulling anew on his long pipe of white clay. The little man ruffled the pages back to the beginning, and read slowly and carefully.
“‘The castle and lordship of Otranto should pass from the present family, whenever the real owner should be grown too large to inhabit it.’
“Too large,” Flint said thoughtfully. “Round, do you think?” He patted his own girth, situated today beneath a pair of flannel under-vests. “I hardly see—”
“Quite a bit bigger than that, I'd say,” Jack answered. “One fellow has a leg said to fill an entire room!”
“A metaphor, then,” Mr. Tinder surmised, drinking in smoke more quickly. “Occasionally men become too big for the comfort of their fellows. Most especially, when they've been inflated by listening to puff-praise!”
“Yes, indeed,” Flint agreed. “Like many in Boston these days, friend and foe alike.”
“And in London,” Tinder added sagely. “In palaces and Parliament. I sometimes wonder if they will run out of room in Britain, and begin to push one another off their little island.”
“Do you imagine our lords may become cursed like Otranto, Mr. Tinder, if they will not give over Massachusetts to her rightful heirs, one day?”
“A good many curse them regularly now, I believe,” answered Tinder jovially. “And I would not be surprised to see a few more evicted quite handily, as was poor Mr. Hutchinson. The governor already seems to prefer the safety and society of Castle William, out among the lobsters!” Both chuckled at their humorous remarks, though they verged on treason.
Jack did not entirely understand the new drift of the conversation. But he agreed that many in Boston seemed to care little for the interests of the rest of the colony.
Still, he would say no ill against the Bostonian he knew best, who'd moved in among them, and had yesterday paid for today's breakfast. While he went on with his description of the novel's plot, the older men re-loaded their pipes, and continued to smoke in a contented fashion.
“But why,” Jack asked eventually, “do you think this helmet fell out of the sky, on top of Prince Conrad? And what got it up in the air in the first place?”
“The wind today is liable to send several things up and down again,” said Flint, who watched the trees bending outside. “Mark my words!”
“But it will not move a statue,” said Tinder, who thought more deeply on the question. “Could it be, Jack, that there was a war on, nearby? Did Mr. Walpole mention that? Gunpowder could have been used to blow the thing apart. Perhaps this helmet, with its bouncing black feathers, was hit by a cannon ball? I know for a fact such missiles may take the head of a man off quite cleanly, if they come in at the proper angle. Though I've not seen a statue with feathers in all my travels.”
“It may have something to do with the great arm,” Jack said finally.