The three of us stepped into the dark night, unable to hear a sound from the pub once the door closed. Sen’s muting charm extended further than I’d thought. It was very late; the moon was hidden behind a thick swath of cloud.

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Even from the end of the alley, I could feel the stillness of sleep in the town. The silence was heavy. Everyone had settled down for the night—well, almost everyone.

A damp chill had settled over the town; I pulled a wool cloak from my satchel and threw it over my shoulders, sinking into the itchy warmth it provided. Prince shivered beneath his waistcoat, drew his heavier overcoat tight around his chest, and tucked his chin into the silk folds. “I can’t see a blasted thing,” he muttered, squinting at the shadows.

Prudence and I shared a baffled glance. “Really?” Prudence said, eyeing Prince with suspicion. “Most frogs have superior night vision.”

Prince didn’t reply. Wanting to get a move on, I mentally filed his reaction, or lack thereof, and held out my arm to him. I’d consider his behavior when I had more time to think things through. “Hold on to my cloak, and I’ll guide you.”

“Thank you, Shirley,” he replied, grasping the material.

A strange tremor in his voice gave me pause. He looked ill. “Are you all right?”

“Just tired from all the excitement.”

I felt certain he was hiding something but didn’t press him to elaborate. I did, however, strengthen my resolve to keep him close. How does the adage go? “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

“Stay hidden,” Prudence said. “If the soldiers find us out after curfew they’ll throw us in the stockade.” A few quick hops and he was lost in the deepest shadows at the end of the alley.

Photo courtesy of: Jasmin Sessler: courtesy of: Pixabay

“Curfew?” I said as Prince and I caught up to him. “Isn’t Rockledge in Prince Charming and Queen Cinderella’s province?”

“Yes.”

“I thought they had balls at the castle that lasted late into the night. Why should Rockledge be any different?”

“Not anymore. Sheriff Shacklen is in charge here, and he demands everyone to be indoors by dusk.”

“That’s absurd. Since when does a sheriff’s authority overrule a King’s?”

Prudence cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “Since the rumors started.”

Considering all the strange things I’d seen and heard since taking on High Queen Rosamont’s task, I don’t know why this news surprised me. “What rumors?”

Photo courtesy of: Gerhard Gellinger; courtesy of” Pixabay

From the street, footsteps approached. Under the ruddy light of a streetlamp, two bulky shapes lurked toward us from opposite directions, armor chirping like a pair of sick birds. Our conversation cut off. With bated breath, we pressed ourselves flat against the wall, darkness bearing down on us.

“How goes it, Dunlap?” one soldier said, clamping to a stop a stone’s throw from where we stood.

“Another quiet night,” Dunlap said disgruntled. “Just once I wish we’d find someone out after dark. I want to crack some heads.”

The other soldier chuckled and leaned on his sword like a cane. “Not me. People obeying the law makes our job easier.”

“But it’s bloody boring, Knobb,” Dunlap shot back. He whipped out his sword and jabbed at the air. “Shacklen promised us action. All we do is mope about this town pecking after a bunch of frightened rustics.”

“I got no problem with that. It’s easy work, and we get fed well for it.”

“Aye, we do,” Dunlap said, lowering his sword. “But it’s still boring work.”

“Won’t be boring too much longer,” Knobb said in a knowing tone.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s been whispers of Scrivenger returning,” Knobb whispered. “Crimes across the realm are out of control, just like they were back when he was powerful. Shacklen says the high queen will soon be gone for good.”

Dunlap guffawed and sheathed his sword. “Aw, that’s just a bunch of nonsense. All you old-timers scare too easily.”

Knobb snorted derisively. “I‘m taking another turn around the block. Keep an eye open. There’s talk of a pub in town that serves unsavory sorts. Shacklen wants the people in there found and thrown in the stocks.”

“Really? What’d they do?” Dunlap asked with keen interest. He pitched a slapdash glance down the alley, his hasty gaze sweeping right over us.

“Conspirin’ ways to bring back Scrivenger,” Knobb replied with a shudder.

Dunlap chuckled again. “If you say so.”

Heart hammering, I held my breath and flattened even tighter against the wall, wishing I could melt right into it. I  suspected Shacklen would toss an emissary of the High Queen into the deepest dungeon — or worse.

What had led Shacklen to believe people at the pub were supporting Scrivenger’s return? Was he spreading the rumor, or did he actually believe it? So many questions. One thing was certain, I had to warn Rosamont of the threat against her as soon as possible.

“Don’t waste your time down there.” Knobb poked a thumb at the alley. “Shacklen searched that pub himself and found nothin’ outta the ordinary.”

Prudence’s breath caught in his throat, his beady eyes wild with fear. Sharing his alarm, I patted his back. If they discovered the pub’s true purpose, many of Rosamont’s honest and loyal subjects would suffer.

Knobb and Dunlap moved off; even after their voices had faded, we waited to leave our concealment. After a few rounds of trying to piece together what was going on in Rockledge, my thoughts returned to what Prudence had mentioned earlier. “Tell me these rumors about Charming and Cinderella.”

Prudence gazed up at me, fear still haunting his eyes. “Charming is ill, and Cinderella hasn’t been… herself lately. Shacklen says Cinderella appointed him for our protection, what with all the crime happening everywhere. Charming’s men patrol the town. Those two buffoons are from the castle.”

I thought of the surly men who greeted Prince and me at the gate earlier that afternoon. “Are you sure all the soldiers are Charming’s men?”

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“They wear his Cockerel emblem on their uniforms.”

Like the growing list of occurrences in the Kingdom, something sounded off. “That doesn’t mean they’re his men,” I muttered. “Let’s get moving.”

We sped along the streets, clinging to pools of shadow and darkness that swallowed us whole and made our passage through the town undetected.

“Tell me more about Gepetto’s son. What’s wrong with the boy?”

We crossed several more streets before Prudence replied. “He’s a terrible child. Always running off with no clothes on. He’s squished every Courage who’s watched over him.”

“Even the hatchlings?”

“No,” Prudence replied with a note of relief.   “After he killed the last full-grown Courage, Patience took over.”

“You’ve lost me,” Prince cut in. “What are courage and patience?”

“Not what, who,” Prudence replied indignantly. “They’re crickets.”

“Oh,” Prince said, still sounding confused.

When Prudence didn’t elaborate, I explained some cricket culture to Prince. “Crickets embody the nine virtues of the Kingdom: prudence, chastity, patience, charity, temperance, faith, hope, justice, and courage. They give each cricket one of these nine names when they’re born.”

“And Pinocchio has killed most of the Courages?”

Prudence gave a curt reply. “Yes, and now the Patiences are dwindling.”

“Why are crickets watching over Pinocchio?” Prince asked.

“We are problem solvers and the conscience of the realm. If anyone needed a conscience, it’s Pinocchio.”

Big and brassy foolishness echoed through the silence. Prince and I halted and huddled beside a building, but Prudence, unfazed by the cacophony, stepped boldly into the gauzy light on the street corner.

“You can come out,” he said in a tired voice. “The soldiers don’t patrol this road.”

“Why not?”

“Because everyone avoids it.”

Prince and I turned the last corner; one house was lit up like a sunrise, many candles burned from every window and a child’s voice bellowed a crude song about an evil knight torturing a beetle. Between verses, a small voice pleaded with the child to behave.

We were in the merchant district. Store owners typically lived above their shops, but all of these were deserted; their canvas awnings tattered, their glass windows shattered. All except one with a sign reading “Gepetto’s: Maker Of Fine Woodworks.”

“What happened here?” I asked, fearful that a soldier like Dunlap or Knobb would spot us and arrest us.

“Shacklen moved the merchants to another location.”

A quarrelsome bellow poured from Gepetto’s front window followed by a thunderous crash. Someone had knocked over a shelf full of dishes.

“Why does Shacknel allow this to go on?” I asked.

Prudence shrugged. “No one knows for sure, but we have a theory.”

“Which is?”

“Like Shacknel, Gepetto is a supporter of Scrivenger’s return.”

I gasped and nearly choked on my outrage. “That’s ridiculous!”

Prudence shrugged again. “It’s just a theory, Mr. Tims.”

“A preposterous one!”

Prudence and I stared at the front of the house. We listened as more shouting erupted from Gepetto’s; gaze averted, Prince cringed and shook all over at the sound.

“Good evening, Gentleman.” Prudence bowed then vanished before I could thank him for his help.

Prince and I approached the two-story dwelling. I knocked on the door; the sound lost to the commotion inside. After the third unanswered knock, I entered Gepetto’s with Prince trailing behind me.

The sight was shocking. The workshop was in turmoil; wood shavings littered the floor, carving tools hung from a rope that swung precariously above our heads. A wooden boy with a long thin nose was banging two of Gepetto’s hammers on the walls peppering them with pigeon holes.

“Rotten boy! You lying, rotten piece of wicked wood!” A twig hurtled through the air at the boy and fell five feet short of hitting him. The boy, caught up in his rampage, didn’t notice the failed and feeble assault.

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My gaze drifted to the origin of the stick’s launching point and found a disheveled cricket roosting on a saw handle that dangled from the lethal garland.

“All enchantments upon you,” the cricket snarled. Glasses and hat askew, four hands filled with various-sized goblets and vials, his beady little eyes drooped with exhaustion. Wearing a weary smirk, he poured two vials into a tiny goblet, raised the goblet in a salute, “Cheers,” he said then guzzled down his drink.

“Patience?” I said.

The cricket gagged and sputtered, ale leaking from his mouth. “That’s me,” he hiccupped, thumping his chest.

I pointed at the wooden boy climbing the shelves set into the wall. “Is that Pinocchio?”

Eyes abruptly alert, Patience straightened up, cast the wooden boy a dark look, and nodded. The drink seemed to have revived the weary cricket a little.

“Watch out,” he shouted as a carving knife sailed straight toward us. In a perfect rolling motion, the knife soared across the room nicking the saw with a dull twang.

“AAAHHHHH!”

Throwing our hands over our heads, Prince and I ducked, the ominous vibration picking at our eardrums.

“Help,” Patience wailed.

With caution, I peered behind me. Impaled by the knife, writhing in pain, Patience hung from the wall.

With a single leap, I reached the wall, pulled the knife out, and caught the wretched cricket in my hand. Blood poured from his wound and stained my palm blue. I tried to stem the blood flow, but he was so tiny I couldn’t get a proper handle on his abdomen without crushing him. Within seconds, he was dead.

Prince peered down at the ill-fated cricket. “I thought crickets had eight legs.”

I stared at Patience’s remaining six legs. “They do.”

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“Who are you?” Pinocchio asked nudging my backside with his abnormally long nose.

Aghast, I wheeled around to face him. “Where’s Gepetto?”

Pinocchio shrugged, and his nose grew longer.

I shouldered my way around the vile child. “Gepetto! Are you home?”

“Who’s there,” a man replied emerging from the back room with a large bowl and a spoon. “My word, Shirley, is that you?”

“Yes, it is old friend.”

“And who’s your companion?”

“Prince,” Prince replied. “All enchantments upon you.”

I frowned at Prince. This was hardly the time to be exchanging pleasantries.

“And upon you also,” Gepetto said, shaking our hands. He was untroubled with the mess in his workshop, stepping over debris as if it were customary to have broken pottery all over the floor. “Welcome to my home.” He appeared as exhausted as Prudence before his unfortunate murder. Smiling fondly at Pinocchio, Gepetto introduced the boy. “This is my son.”

“Yes,” I said, unable to hide my distaste. “We’ve met.”

Pinocchio leered at his father. “Hey, Pudding, did you make me more custard?”

Gepetto held out the bowl. “Yes, I did.”

“Good.” Pinocchio grabbed the bowl and gobbled it down with his fingers.

“Did he just call you pudding?” I asked.

Gepetto slapped his flabby belly and chuckled affectionately. “It’s his nickname for me. Isn’t he adorable?”

“Absolutely angelic,” I replied brusquely.

My sarcasm was lost on Gepetto who only had eyes for his custard slurping son.

Pinocchio shoved the empty bowl at his father. “I want more.”

Gepetto’s grin faltered. “We’re running low on ingredients.”

“So, you can get more tomorrow.”

Gepetto looked uncertain but took the bowl and trudged toward the room he’d just left. Prince and I followed him as he hustled back to the kitchen.

“Gepetto,” I said as kindly as I could. “What’s happened to you?”

The old man chuckled. “What do you mean, Shirley? I’m a father to a spirited boy who loves pudding more than I do.”