The Forest of Sleepers (Nowhere Book 2)

s e v e n t e e n : h i c k o r y

Marigold and Birdie hit the ground as if the sky were falling down on top of them.

"Yer trespassin'!" a ragged voice shouted.

"Jiminy Christmas," Birdie hissed, sharing a startled look with Marigold before slowly easing herself back to her feet, her hands lifted in the air.

The gruff voice didn't belong to a man, but to a woman wearing an apron. She held a long rifle that still smoked at the barrel.

Her wiry hair was tied back in a tight bun and her face looked old--not because she was aged, it seemed, but because she'd lived a life whose story was told by her wrinkles.

"We don't mean any trouble," Birdie said once she found her voice.

"Then get off my property!" the woman shouted back.

"Birdie," Marigold warned under her breath.

"We only came to talk," Birdie replied to the woman. "I--I brought cookies?"

The woman glared at them but lowered her gun, not because she was particularly enticed by the promise of baked goods more so than she was perplexed by the offer itself.

Birdie backed up before quickly retrieving the tin of cookies. She held them in front of her like a shield.

"Y'all lost or somethin'?!" the woman yelled.

"Can we come in?" Birdie asked. "Just for a spell?"

The woman squinted at them as if she were wondering what type of lunatics were at her doorstep.

She scratched her chin warily. "Just a spell."

Birdie let out a relieved laugh. "Close one," she whispered to Marigold.

"Bernadette Penny," was Marigold's muttered curse.

They picked their way over broken glass, a stray cat or two, and an array of things that were too rusted to identify until they got to the door.

The woman blocked their way suspiciously before they could go inside. "Now whaddya want here?"

"I'm with the Nowhere Post," Birdie said. "I wanted to do a story on your husband."

At the mention of her husband, the woman blanched noticeably. "A-a story?"

"We're interviewing all former staff of the Post," Birdie said quickly. "When Mr. Hickory resigned, he left quite a legacy."

She was lying, of course. Nelson Hickory hadn't done much other than producing a mediocre newspaper every week that had more blank spaces than actual articles between the pages.

But her words seemed to ease the woman's mind a little, though there was still some hesitation in her countenance.

Birdie held up the cookie tin. "Can we come in?"

The woman eyed the cookies dubiously. "How do I know they ain't got nothing unsavory in 'em?"

Birdie blinked. "Oh, well, I have the recipe memorized. There's sugar, butter, vanilla--"

"That's not what she means," Marigold said under her breath.

Realization dawned on Birdie. "Oh! Oh. They're not poisoned, see look--" she fished one out of the tin and took a bite.

The woman squinted again.

Then she moved aside.

Birdie thanked her earnestly and stepped into a damp, dark cabin.