Free The Five Faces (The Markhat Files) by Frank Tuttle Page A

that witch-woman cackle, but I’m telling you, I’m fine.”
    “Fine, like you were when you walked with the huldra? You lied then too.”
    I knew she regretted the words as soon as she spoke them.
    But, being pig-headed and occasionally foolish, I let go of her hands, stood, and marched out the door without a word.
    I milled around on the street for half an hour, torn between going back to Darla and getting to work.
    Foolishness won out. Hatless and empty of pocket, I made my way on foot to Cambrit, all thirty-six blocks away.
    I added another block to my aching feet to avoid passing by Mama’s place. Finally, I made the corner at Cambrit, only to be greeted by the sight of Watch officers at my office, pounding away and shouting.
    I cussed and turned on my heel. Of course the damned Watch was scratching at my door. I realized I’d been lucky I hadn’t been grabbed on the street.
    Maybe Mama was right, said a little voice in the back of my mind. Maybe I am not quite myself.
    I pushed the thought aside. The Watch officers hurled a final fusillade of blows on my door, yelled a final pair of demands, and then put their backs to the wall, crossed their beefy arms over their barrel chests, and settled in for a long morning of muttering and glaring.
    I was engaging in glaring of my own when a tiny little hand slipped into mine.
    Buttercup beamed up at me, then put her finger to her lips in a perfect mimicry of Darla’s own signal for silence.
    “Sweety, you shouldn’t be out on the street in daylight,” I whispered.
    She giggled and did a dainty little dance step. Her shadow lagged a bit too long behind her actual movements, and the sight made my hair want to stand on end.
    “Does Mama know where you are?”
    Maybe she squinted because the sun was in her eyes.
    Or maybe she winked, knowing exactly what she was doing.
    She tugged at me, trying to lead me toward my office.
    “I can’t go that way, honey. Those rude men will shout if they see me.”
    She seemed to ponder that. Then she giggled and tried to pull me again, not toward the street, but into the alley old Mr. Bull uses to dump his night soil.
    There, propped against the alley wall, was a ladder.
    Now, following a banshee onto a series of poorly maintained rooftops in an effort to escape the Watch and gain entry to my office by banshee wall-walking might not seem like the best way to start one’s day. But I was without my hat, without any coin, and completely bereft of beer or revolvers, so I followed Buttercup up onto the roof and we climbed and crawled our way slowly toward my office.
    We disturbed a surprising number of astonished pigeons and half a dozen sleeping crows, but we found my warped roof without falling headfirst into a Watch wagon. Once above my place, I closed my eyes and braced myself, and Buttercup took that little banshee magic hop that takes her through walls. An instant later, we stood atop my desk, none the worse for wear.
    Buttercup preened and grinned. I patted her head and tousled her hair and let her wear my second-best hat. Then I filled my pockets with the necessities, loaded my revolver, and looked up to find Buttercup and set about making her understand Uncle Markhat needed to leave the same way he came in.
    But Buttercup was gone, with last year’s grey hat.
    “Buttercup, honey,” I whispered, hoping she was playing hide-and-seek. “Come out!”
    Silence.
    I cussed softly. I’d managed to solve the dilemma of the empty pockets by replacing it with the equally knotty problem of being behind a door guarded by a pair of determined Watchmen.
    I sat heavily down in my chair. Paper rustled. I stood, turned, found the note, recognized the handwriting, and cussed some more.
    Maybe I was going soft in the head.
    Boy, read the letter. I reckon you’ll sit down and take notice now, won’t ye? I knowed you’d wind up here, and I knowed you’d come tiptoeing past my door. But you needs to hear what I’ve got to tell, so you just keep