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See that girl kneeling next to the bookshelf in the library? She's whispering the book titles to herself. That's me. Back away slowly, and then run.

Molly Moray and the Carpenter (Part One)

February 10, 2020


    Well, it's a funny story. 
    It all started many years ago. I can't think of the exact day, but it must have been around May Day because that pole was still up in the square. I swear, every year it takes them longer to take that pole down. Last year, they—oh, yes, sorry. The story.
    It was a bright sunny May morning. And I was walking about, as I always do, with the basket full of honey jars from the bees. I do the best business in May, right when everyone gets a hankering for white bread and butter and honey for their breakfast. It's a goodly change from dark pumpernickel bread all winter with nothing to top it but the preserves from the last summer. 
    I'm getting to it! If ye don't stop nagging, I'll end it right here and go see about the bees. 
    So, there I am, walking up and down the marketplace. And there's Duncan McCullough, at his store just at the side of the marketplace. He comes out with a good strong wooden chair that he made himself, you know. This was back in the days when he made every piece of furniture in that store by himself, no apprentices or help or anything. This chair was carved with details and curlicues and those little foot things ye see at the bottom of really fine chairs in a manor house or somesuch.
    "Good morning, Duncan!" calls I, and he raises a hand in greeting. "What would ye be doing on this lovely May day?" 
    "Nothing that can't be stopped for a good chat with ye, Grawley," says he, and we stop and talk for a long while. He asks me about the bees, I ask him about the new bit of wood he's getting soon. 
    While we're standing there, talking, I hear a commotion behind me. I turn around, and wouldn't you know, there's Molly Moray, with a dust cloud rising behind her.
    Yes, the Molly Moray. The highwayman—er, highwaywoman—in the flesh. She had two pistols, one at each hip. Both pistols had mother-of-pearl handles, and they had names. One was Revenge, and the other was—oh, I can't remember. Discord or Death or Disappointment or something or that sort. 
    Molly Moray stalks up, and it takes me a moment to realize that she's headed straight for Duncan's store. I get out of the way right quick—I have to protect the honey, you know—but Duncan, brave man, stands his ground, arms folded. This was before his beard got so long, and he cut a fine figure standing there.
    Some folks say it might have been that fine figure that made Molly stop in her tracks at the step of his shop. Other folks say that she never cared a penny for that, and she was just biding her time till she could rob him blind. Whatever the case, Molly Moray stood there, trousers and all. And across her was Duncan.
    The entire marketplace held their breath. Some glanced at the Constable, but he was as frozen as the rest.
    And then—can ye guess what happened next? No, she didn't shoot him. And he didn't throw the chair at her.
    No. Molly Moray opened her mouth, and says she: "How much for the chair?" 


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  • February 10, 2020 - 5:51pm (Now Viewing)

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