Chapter Eighteen

"Minerva"

* * * * * * * * * * *

I pulled up Minerva's logs only to be bombarded by a constant stream of entries. They were popping up faster than I could read them. 

[Minerva's Log: Trouble brewing. Can't be see—]

[Minerva's Log: They've called guards. I h—]

[Minerva's Log: I can hear them shouting. They're clo—]

[Minerva's Log: Have to run.]

I couldn't tell what had happened, but one thing was clear—Minerva was in trouble. I quickly scrolled to the earlier entries to figure out what in the world happened.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Minerva walked down the stairs of the inn, each step creaking beneath her weight. When she reached the bottom, a young boy sprinted past, nearly tackling her in the process. 

"Whoa!" Minerva exclaimed.

"Slow down, Conor!" Minerva heard a voice call out. It belonged to the innkeeper, who was wiping down the tables in the common room.

The boy glanced back with a rushed "Sorry." Then he ran off.

The innkeeper emerged from the common room with an apologetic expression, "Sorry about, the boy forgets his manners—Oh! It's you, Ms. Aincroft. I didn't realize you stayed the night."

The innkeeper seemed slightly embarrassed, as if he walked in on something he shouldn't have.

"Oh, It's not what you think," Minerva explained. "I just didn't want to be out at night and Dante is an old friend."

The innkeeper nodded in understanding, "Dangerous times... I didn't realize you were familiar with our guest. You have an interest in antiques?"

Minerva took a moment to realize what he meant, then remembered that Dante was playing the role of an antique merchant.

"Oh... yes. I mean, no. He always has something he wants to sell me, but a bit too pricey in my opinion."

The innkeeper chuckled. "I agree. Loves a haggle that one."

Minerva smiled politely, then left the inn in a bit of a hurry. She was always slightly off-put by the way the residents of Honeywell seemed to recognize her. 

When Minerva had first arrived in this circle, she picked the woodsman role because it was town-adjacent and the residents might be less inclined to suspect somebody they recognized. But that also meant she had to put up the charade of being familiar with these people.

They act as if they had known me for years, she thought. To them, this is all real. The witch has made this circle their reality.

As Minerva walked away from the inn, she glanced up at the window of Dante's room. He was intriguing. More clever than Ulrich, at least. Last night, Dante was her prisoner and she had interrogated him. But at the end of it all, things seemed to work out in his favor.

She remembered his eyes. Those gray eyes never seemed to look away from her for even one moment. They were constantly watching. Analyzing.

But he was too passive. He cared too much about making a mistake, felt too sorry for the people in this manufactured world. 

Minerva preferred direction action, even if it meant a loss or two. 

* * * * * * * * * * *

The first thing Minerva did was stop by the local herbalist's shop. It was owned by an elderly woman named Rosemary. "It was my mother's favorite herb," she had told Minerva.

When Minerva arrived, Rosemary greeted her and said, "Perfect timing. I've got fresh bundles of lavender for you in the back."

"Actually, do you have lavender oil?" Minerva asked. 

Rosemary looked surprised, "Lavender oil? What on earth do you need that for?"

"I just need something with a stronger scent."

"You smell alright to me," Rosemary said, leaning in to catch a whiff of Minerva. "But who am I to judge? Just give me a second."

Rosemary rifled through the cabinet on the wall behind her. The shelves were filled with jars and vials of various herbs and tonics. Eventually, she said, "Aha!" and pulled out a jar filled with lavender floating in a pale yellow fluid.

She set the jar before Minerva, "No oil, but I do have a lavender tincture. It's not as strong and it's only been steeping for a little over two weeks but—"

"That's fine. I'll take a vial."

Rosemary nodded, then proceeded to filter out the liquid into a small, glass vial with a corked top. Minerva paid Rosemary the requested five crowns, thanked her, then left the shop.

Outside, Minerva poured a single drop of the lavender onto the back of her hand. The scent of lavender instantly hit her nose, and she nodded, satisfied. 

She hadn't mentioned the scent marker that her trait required to Dante. He didn't need to know everything about her ability, and even if she did share it with him, there was little he could do with that information.

Minerva moved on to her next stop. She traveled through town towards Mayor Danver's manor, where the High Inquisitor had been given a room to stay during his investigations. It was located atop a hill on the north end of town, so it required a bit of a trek to reach it. 

The manor itself was the largest residence in Honeywell and it towered over the town. It was three-stories high, the walls made of granite, with a sharply angled roof made of a reddish-brown slate. It stood apart from the humble timber-latticed wattle and daub structures that stood around it.

There was a main residence, where the mayor and his family resided and entertained guests, as well as a wing for the servants quarters.

But Minerva was more interested in the stable that was separate from the rest of the manor. 

At this time, it only housed the High Inquisitor's steed, a brown stallion with white socks. Minerva knew that every morning Hawkthorne would ride the horse into town to conduct his investigations and she would have to get to his horse before he did.

The stablehand was currently in the stable, replacing the horse's straw bedding. So Minerva walked around the neighborhood, keeping the stable in her peripheral vision every time she passed. By the third time around, she saw the boy leaving to go run another errand. The moment he was out of sight, Minerva made a beeline towards the stable.

She walked towards it with purpose. She told herself she belonged there. "One of the servants had called for her to help gather some extra firewood," she would say in the case that somebody spotted her. She prepared the story in her mind several times, but found she didn't need it when she arrived at the stable.

The horse was remarkably calm. It glanced at her, then continued to munch on its stack of hay. 

Minerva scanned the area, then found what she was looking for—a black leather saddle with the initials "A.H." embroidered on it, hanging against the wall behind the horse.

A.H... Alistair Hawkthorne.

The horse paid Minerva absolutely no mind as she crept past it towards the saddle. She removed the vial from her pocket, uncorked the top, then poured a few drops of the lavender tincture over the saddle. 

She took in a deep breath through her nose. The scent of lavender was strong and noticeable.

Good... That should be strong enough to last until nighttime.

Minerva began to make her way out of the stable, when she saw a commotion stirring at the manor. At first, she heard people shouting from within. Then, several servants ran out of the building, screaming.

"Somebody, we need help! Quick!"

One of the servants, a young girl, dashed straight towards Minerva, who ducked into the stable, searching desperately for a place to hide. Without thinking, she leaped upwards, grabbed a wooden beam, then pulled herself up. 

While clinging to the beam, she realized her braid was hanging noticeably in the air. She quickly shoved it between her teeth, then remained as quiet as possible, holding on for dear life.

Suddenly footsteps approached and entered the stable. Minerva felt her arms trembling from the weight.

"I'll ride out to fetch a physician!" the servant called out.

Is somebody sick?

Minerva craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the servant. She seemed frantic as she grabbed the saddle off the wall and set it on the horse's back. 

As the servant prepared the horse to ride, the sharp scent of cleaning solution wafted over Minerva's nose, burning the inside of her nostrils. 

What do they have the servants using in there... 

Minerva desperately wanted to cover her nose with her hand, but she couldn't let go of the wooden beam. She just closed her eyes and prayed for the servant to leave.

She listened closely as the hoofbeats rode off. When she couldn't hear them anymore, Minerva let go and dropped to the ground in relief. She shook her hands to get the blood flowing to them, then peeked out the barn doors. 

Another servant, an older woman, escorted a concerned Inquisitor Stowton up the hill towards the manor.

"What happened?" he asked in a frantic tone.

"I don't know, sir!" she replied, equally frantic. "The High Inquisitor, he was in his room getting ready for the morning, and then we heard him scream. When we went to take a look, we found him on the ground, stabbed in the back!"

Minerva couldn't quite believe what she heard. 

Stabbed? By who?