Free Mistress of the Storm by M. L. Welsh Page B

bang.
    *   *   *
    On the other side of Wellow, Villainous Usage opened the front door of the fisherman’s cottage that he and Mother shared, letting in a fierce gust of cold in the process. His stoaty face scrunched up as he squinted into the gloom of the front room.
    ‘Muvver,’ he bellowed (quite unnecessarily given that the entire property consisted of two downstairs rooms and two up).
    She was in the kitchen, treating the range to a monologue. ‘Who’s he to talk to me like that?’ she demanded, surveying it with ill-concealed contempt.
    Villainous stood at the doorway and extracted the carcass of a rabbit from inside his coat. ‘Gutted it just now, I did,’ he explained with enthusiasm. ‘Fair stank.’
    ‘Who’s he to deny me my family’s trade?’ she continued, grabbing the proffered gift without a word of thanks. ‘If the
Storm
isn’t here to do business, then what’s her purpose?’
    Villainous stared anxiously and said nothing. No words sufficed when Mother got like this.
    ‘Well, there’s more ’n one way to skin a rabbit,’ she snarled, holding up the bloody specimen in illustration of her point. ‘The
Lady Georgia
heads this way in November, packed with gold, and I must have that cargo. If he won’t provide the service I need, I’ll go round him.’

Chapter Seven
    Sunday morning dawned with a crisp, fresh autumn breeze. Verity needed to be at the sailing club for nine o’clock so she was already gathering together Mother’s suggested outfit, trying to ignore a quiet sense of misgiving.
    She hadn’t packed any cotton trousers when evicted from her room, so she went upstairs to get some. Standing at the door, she breathed in the familiar scent for a second or two. A ray of late autumn sun shone through the window. A few motes of dust floated peacefully through the air. It was so calm up here, but already it looked completely different somehow.
    Verity went over to the window. On the sill lay a pair of delicate gilt and enamel binoculars. Without thinking she picked them up and looked out across the rooftops. The binoculars were superbly crafted: they made everything seem so close. Verity felt like a bird swooping above the town and heading out over the sea. The
Storm
came into her line of sight, still anchored in the bay.
    Adjusting the binoculars with their mother-of-pearlwheel, Verity eagerly focused on her. First the rows of mullioned windows and the elaborate decoration of the taffrail at the stern. Then the galleries and intricate ship’s lanterns. Then the vast lattice of spars and sheets, shrouds and ratlines that held and controlled the sails.
    Suddenly the faintest of noises … Verity hadn’t heard anyone coming up the stairs, but she knew she was being watched. Turning round, she saw her grandmother standing in the doorway. Verity felt a cold shadow pass across her. The old lady was clearly very angry. As Verity looked into her eyes, a blast of fury hit her as if she had been slapped.
    She hugged both arms around herself for comfort. For some idiotic reason she wished she had the strange wooden ball with her, but it was still tucked under her bedcovers with the book. Grandmother looked completely different – just as she had when the strange boy bowed to her yesterday, or perhaps more so. Her face was warped. There were no traces of the usual imperious good looks: her eyes were sunken and hollow; her parched skin showed every angle of bone.
    Grandmother advanced angrily. Her anger pinned Verity back against the window like a gale. Snatching the binoculars from Verity’s hand, she leaned in very close. ‘Do you make a habit of prying in other people’s rooms?’ she hissed.
    Verity’s stomach shrank instinctively into a tight ball of fear. Grandmother’s reaction to her presence was as petrifyingas it was extraordinary. This had been her room, after all. ‘I was looking for some clothes—’ she tried to explain.
    Grandmother’s face flickered with animosity.