The Luck Uglies Read Free

now?”
    â€œIt’s Mrs. , thank you very much.”
    â€œHow patient of you. Well, then, there was quite a disturbance at the Angry Poet today.”
    â€œWas he reading those off-color limericks again?”
    â€œNo, Mrs. O’Chanter. There was a robbery. Children, no less.”
    â€œMy goodness,” Mrs. O’Chanter said, without alarm.
    â€œIndeed,” Constable Boil said. “They took a bag of gold grommets and two flasks of rare wine.”
    Rye’s ears burned. She knew that was a lie. She picked her fingernails as she listened.
    â€œGold grommets?” Mrs. O’Chanter said. “Who would have known the poet was doing so well? I can’t say I’ve actually ever seen anyone go in that store.”
    Mrs. O’Chanter placed a hand on Rye’s shoulder. Rye stopped picking her nails.
    â€œYes, well, nevertheless,” the Constable said, eyeing Rye, “Earl Longchance takes the upbringing of the village’s youth very seriously. Wayward children must be molded early. Tamed. The Earl’s sweat farm has been known to do wonders for the strong-willed child.”
    Mrs. O’Chanter just stared at the Constable without blinking.
    â€œThis child,” the Constable continued. “Where has it been today?”
    Rye began picking her fingernails again behind her back.
    â€œ She has been with me since first light this morning. Working here in the store.”
    Rye held her breath.
    â€œAll day, you say?”
    â€œIndeed.”
    â€œI see,” Constable Boil said, tapping his bony chin. “Well, do keep your eyes open, Mrs. O’Chanter. Roving bands of child thugs are a pox on us all. I shall certainly keep my eyes out for you.”
    â€œThank you, but that won’t be necessary.”
    â€œNo bother. It will be my pleasure,” he added with a leer.
    The Constable turned to leave. Rye started to sigh in relief, but she caught her breath when the Constable stopped and pivoted on his heel.
    â€œOh, yes,” he added, “since I’m here—it occurs to me that although Assessment does not officially commence until next week, I might as well have a look around now—to save a trip. You don’t object, Mrs. O’Chanter.”
    It couldn’t possibly have been mistaken for a question.
    â€œNo, of course not,” Mrs. O’Chanter said.
    â€œSplendid.”
    The Constable strolled around, hands behind his back as if shopping. He paused in the doorway and faced the street.
    â€œAs you know, it’s illegal to feed pigs on Market Street. That’s a fine of ten bronze bits.”
    â€œThat’s a bird feeder,” Rye whispered to Mrs. O’Chanter.
    Mrs. O’Chanter nudged her to stay quiet.
    Constable Boil leaned outside and cast his watery eyes up over the door. Of all the weathered, gray shops that lined Market Street, each adorned with drab and unremarkable signs, the Willow’s Wares was the only one that flew a colorful flag. Colors had once been used as signals by certain unscrupulous characters, and the Earl now frowned on their overuse by anyone other than his tailors. That day, the Willow’s Wares’ flag was a rich forest green, adorned with the white silhouette of a dragonfly.
    â€œThat flag is too bright,” the Constable said, pointing to the green flag over the Willow’s Wares’ door. “Fifty bits.”
    Fifty bits! Rye’s ears burned again.
    Constable Boil shambled back inside. He approached Mrs. O’Chanter and studied her closely, squinting under his dust-ball eyebrows.
    â€œNo woman may wear any article of blue without the express permission of the Honorable Earl Longchance.”
    Rye looked at the ribbon in Mrs. O’Chanter’s hair.
    â€œTwo shims,” the Constable said, his tone severe. Then he smiled, revealing a mouth of nubby yellow teeth. “And you shall remove it.”
    â€œHe’s making that up,” Rye