Scryer's Gulch

Annabelle opened her eyes to a scratching at the bedroom window. How had she ended up sitting on the bed? She held the codebook in one hand, and a letter in the other. Someone had lit the lanterns against the night, and the coal fire burned in the little sitting room stove. She must have fallen asleep, but apart from where she sat, the bed was undisturbed. A chill struck her.

The wretched Rabbit woke up at dawn inside the wire cage, naked and shivering. "John?" he called weakly.

"Sheriff's asleepin," said Aloysius. "Hey! Runnels! Wake up! Yer brother's lost his fur!"

John scrambled up from his cot, instantly awake. "Sorry, Rab, sorry! I'm coming." He opened the latch on the cage and helped Rabbit to stand; he wrapped his brother in the still-warm blanket from the cot. "Are you all right?"

"Did I scratch or bite?" said Rabbit. "I'm so afraid I'm going to bite you some day, Johnny--if I ever brought this on you, I'd throw myself in the river!"

In Mamzelle's boudoir, the madam and the cat were still embroiled in their murderous heart-to-heart. "But I do not understand, chéri," she said. "Why would you not wish me to keel your master?"

"Two reasons," Misi answered loftily. "For one, I can't reciprocate. You'd have to maneuver your master into a situation where he became a direct threat to my master."

Mamzelle laughed. "You underestimate me."

"Oh, I doubt that. But for me the more important reason is the second. If anyone kills my master, it's going to be me," he growled. "I've been plotting it for eight years, and no one is going to deny me that pleasure."

Misi had almost fallen asleep in Mamzelle’s lap, when she said, “Well?”

“Well what?” yawned the demon cat.

“‘Ow are we going to keel our masters?”

“Ah. That. Yes.” Think fast, old boy. “Yes. There’s a problem with that.”

“Eh?”

“I’m under orders...general orders...not to kill humans.” It’s even true! he thought, though it hurt his pride to confess to such a weakness. It’s so humilitating, being owned!

“Any human?” said Mamzelle in astonishment.

As soon as they entered, Annabelle's bracelet pricked at her wrist; she hid her surprise. "Children, please sit down. Little ones to the front, older ones to the back. I'll return in a moment."

"Wonder where she's going," she heard Georgie whisper to Jamie.

"Maybe she's gotta pee," said Harry Lockson. Georgie and Jamie guffawed. "But maybe she does!" Harry repeated in earnest concern.

Annabelle rolled her eyes, and walked quickly up and down the street, as if looking for errant pupils; her bracelet made not a tickle. The schoolhouse stood off to itself enough that she knew nothing came from a nearby building. No, it was in the schoolhouse, and it came from either Jamie or Georgie.

Mamzelle stood on the second floor balcony of the Palace, sipping her afternoon cafe au lait as she watched the hurly-burly crowds below. More than a few men tipped their hats to her; she gave them a lazy wave of her elegant hand, and a curl of her cherry lips that at a distance could be taken as a sultry smile.

Before Jed Bonham enslaved her, she had only the disdain for humanity carried by all her kind. But now, she hated the men below her, and this town, with all her black cherry heart, and Jed most of all. The day she was free was the day she would kill them all and burn Scryer’s Gulch to the ground.

Agent Duniway was not one to swoon when confronted with a shock, but Annabelle decided Schoolteacher Duniway should feel a little faint at the sight of the vandalized schoolhouse. She staggered gently into Mr Prake, who caught her elbow with a concerned murmur. “There now! Do you carry smelling salts in your reticule?”

She never needed them, and so, unlike most respectable women, she didn’t even own any. “Oh dear...left them at the Hotel, sir!” she faltered. She made an immediate plan to find a vial somewhere, even if she had to order Misi to steal one.

Annabelle found her rooms just as Hopewell had promised: a clean, modestly but decently appointed sitting room and bedroom, on the second floor of a little addition to the side of the building. Hopewell’s own apartment was on the ground floor, and her rooms were directly above. It was quiet, and private--perhaps not as private as she’d hoped the schoolhouse would be, but it would do. And there were measures she could take, after all. She thanked Hopewell, pressed some coins into Ralph’s hand for carrying her luggage into the bedroom, and closed the door.

Once alone, she carried the cat’s cage to the bedroom and put it on the bed. She took a pair of small, elegant goggles from a case in her breast pocket, and held them up to her face without bothering to strap them on. She scanned the rooms, looking under furniture, inside all the drawers, into all the corners, until she was satisfied the rooms were unobserved; she was unsuspected.