Hemlock And The Dread Sorceress (Book 3) by B. Throwsnaill Page A

to the ground, Hemlock and Tored rushed on.
    I t won’t due to have them sound an alarm on me.
    Hemlock navigated through alleys that she hoped would intersect the path the white robed man had been walking.  Luckily, there were no more close encounters with cutpurse sentries, though another was spotted and avoided.
    They reached a corner where the dusty track of a main road led toward the market.  Hemlock expected to spot the white robed man there, but nobody was on the street. The back and forth squeaking of a wooden tavern sign was the only sound she heard.
    A door that marked the home of a renowned fortune teller closed softly in front of a notorious building.   The fortune teller was old—older than most—and her contemporaries were so aged that nobody seemed to remember her real name.  She was known simply as “The Old Mother.”  Many people in the Warrens revered her as a kind of benevolent figure, but Hemlock had a less favorable opinion.  She thought the old woman was nothing more than a charlatan.
    “The Old Mother’s door just closed.  Maybe the white robed man went in there,” said Hemlock.
    “It could be a coincidence,” said Tored.
    “Maybe.  But what else do we have to go on?”
    “Still, it seems unlikely that Old Mother would be involved.”
    “Why do you think that?”
    “I just…have a feeling.”
    “Well , I want to follow up.  What can it hurt?”
    Hemlock hoped she was imagin ing things, but Tored looked strangely discomfited.
    “Come on ,” she said and trotted across the street toward the Old Mother’s home.
    The red light outside the door was not lit, which meant the Old Mother was not open for business.  Hemlock knocked , nonetheless.
    After a few moments without an answer, Hemlock knocked again, harder.
    A few seconds later, there was a muffled reply from behind the door. “Go away!”
    Hemlock knocked ag ain and shouted, “Open the door!  I need to speak with you.  I’m with the City Watch!”
    The heavy wooden door opened slightly, held in check by a taut brass chain.  A bloodshot eye framed by a wrinkled brow glared at Hemlock.
    “What’s your business?” asked an aged female voice.
    “Some suspicious people were just seen in this neighborhood, and I saw your door close just as they escaped.  I’d like to come in for a moment, if that’s alright,” said Hemlock.
    “No, it’s not alright.  There’s nobody here that’s suspicious,” said the woman.
    “It’s suspicious that you won’t let me in.”
    Hemlock felt Tored’s hand gently rest on her arm.  “Hemlock,” he began but was interrupted by a muffled thumping sound from the interior of the house.
    Hemlock ignored Tored.  “What was that?” she demanded.
    A look of concern flashed over the old crone’s features before she composed herself.  “Something musta fell in the basement.  Was nothing.”
    “If it was nothing , let us in for a moment!”
    “No, I’m sorry.  It’s early and I need to sleep.”
    Hemlock placed her foot in the crack of the doorway.  “I’ve tried to be civil here, but either let me in or I’m kicking this door down.”
    Tored grip ped her arm, but she shrugged him off.
    The woman disappeared from view for a moment and then her voice sounded from behind the door.  “Fine.  Move your foot so I can loosen the chain.”
    “Alright.  Don’t do anything foolish.”  Hemlock removed her foot and the door closed.  There was a scratching sound as the chain was unlatched from the inside.  The door slowly creaked open.
    The crone known as the Old Mother glared at Hemlock over a hawkish nose.  Her slate grey eyes, though slightly rheumy, communicated an energy that belied the fragile and aged frame that housed them.  An abundance of ghost white hair was carefully curled, pinned and worn in a finely netted coif atop her head that simultaneously lent a regal and sterile character to her appearance.  Her back curved forward near the neck, forcing her to