The Doll's House Chapter 6.

Chapter Six .

 

Siddly.

 

Siddly was quiet. The houses were close together, their roofs sloping low as if trying not to be noticed. The streets were narrow, the gardens overgrown. Even the wind seemed to whisper here.

Sophrayni arrived mid‑morning. Shade’s hooves clopped softly on the cobbles, and a few curtains twitched as she passed. She stopped at the inn, where the landlord gave her a cautious nod without asking her name.

“The town seems very quiet,” Sophrayni said.

The landlord nodded but said nothing. He wiped the bar slowly, methodically, with his back half‑turned, humming under his breath or watching the door, making it clear his attention lay elsewhere.

Sophrayni waited. And waited. Then said softly, “I’m not here to cause trouble. Just to ask a question. One you might know the answer to.”

The landlord didn’t stop wiping, but he did turn to face her.

She watched him work, slow and steady, not really looking at what he was doing. The cloth moved in circles. The silence stretched.

Sophrayni didn’t repeat her question. She simply reached into her pouch and placed a small silver coin on the bar.

The cloth stopped.

“I’ve come a long way,” she said. “And I need information.”

The landlord didn’t speak. But his eyes flicked to the coin. Then to her face. Then back to the bar.

Sophrayni waited. And waited. The landlord began wiping again, taking care not to disturb the coin. Slow and steady. Never looking up.

She didn’t sigh. She didn’t raise her voice.

“I need to speak to the Kingsman.”

Still no answer.

She turned and walked toward the door, her cloak brushing the floorboards. At the threshold, she paused.

“If you won’t help me,” she said softly, “someone else will.”

She stepped outside. The wind stirred the leaves. A child watched her from across the square.

Sophrayni nodded to the child.

“Where can I find the Kingsman?”

The child pointed to a house with a blue door and ivy climbing the walls.

Sophrayni smiled. “Thank you.”

She walked on, leaving the silence behind. The house with the blue door was older than it looked. Sophrayni knocked once. The door opened slowly. A young maid peeped out.

“Yes?” she said.

“The Witch of the Dark Forest is getting very fed up with the way she is being treated in this town. So, you had better take me to the Kingsman now, or something very unpleasant is going to happen to you!” Sophrayni snapped.

The maid squealed and opened the door wider.

“Please come in,” she said hurriedly. “I’m sorry, it’s just that…” Her voice trailed off. “The master, Lord Ryder, is in here.” She opened the door and announced, “The Witch of the Dark Forest.” Then she fled.

The Kingsman was tall and thin, with grey hair and a coat that had once been fine. He looked at her for a long moment before stepping aside.

“Please forgive the lass. She is very young.”

He led her into a study lined with books and maps. A fire burned low in the grate. Two armchairs stood by the hearth. He gestured for Sophrayni to sit. When she was settled, he sat as well.

 

 

“Now,” he said, “what brings the Witch of the Dark Forest to this best‑forgotten part of the world? Is it the ghost?”

“Ghost?” Sophrayni asked, puzzled.

“Ah!” said Lord Ryder. “If you don’t know about the ghost, then you’re probably here for some other reason.”

“Indeed,” Sophrayni said. “But first of all, why is the landlord of the inn so unwelcoming? He behaved as if every visitor was just another problem arriving on horseback. Every other innkeeper I’ve met is eager to be welcoming. Inns need guests.”

“Sorry,” said Lord Ryder. “He’s a miserable old curmudgeon at the best of times. Been that way since I was a boy. But lately he’s worse.”

Sophrayni raised an eyebrow. “Worse how?”

Lord Ryder glanced toward the window, where the square lay still.

“Ever since the ghost stories started up again. People come poking around, asking questions, waving charms and salt and nonsense. He’s had enough.”

“I didn’t mention ghosts,” Sophrayni said.

“No,” said Lord Ryder. “But you asked a question. And in Siddly, that’s close enough. He probably thought you were here about the legend.”

“What legend?” Sophrayni asked.

Lord Ryder steepled his fingers and looked at her over them. The firelight caught the edge of his signet ring.

 “The legend of the Ragged Man,” he said. “The one who claimed Siddly as his own. Not just a house or a field, but the whole village. Said it was gifted to him by the old magic. Said every roof tile, every root, every breath of wind belonged to him.”

Sophrayni said nothing.

Lord Ryder continued, his voice worn from telling this story too many times.

“About a century ago, the witch Magalan came to the village with an army of outlaws and wraiths. They rounded up all the people and ordered them to leave, to go to the royal palace. When the Kingsman of the time tried to protest, they killed him and dropped his body down the well. She then put a spell on the village so no one could get in. She wanted to stop the people returning when her armies left.”

He paused, sighed, then went on.

“Somehow, no one knows how, the spell was lifted, and the only villager left could get in. That was the Ragged Man. He wasn’t very bright. The legend says he could only say, ‘I ain’t done nuffink!’ But he must have said other things, because he claimed the witch had given him the whole village.”

Sophrayni listened, still and silent.

“Of course, that didn’t go down well when the villagers returned. He used to sit by the well and throw stones at anyone who passed. In the end, they armed themselves with sticks, beat him, chased him out, and left him for dead by the road.”

Lord Ryder’s voice dropped.

“No one saw him again. But within days, odd things began to happen. Stones thrown from nowhere. Goods tossed out of houses. Dogs howling at nothing. People said they saw a ragged man roaming the streets, moaning, ‘I ain’t done nuffink.’”

He rubbed his temples.

“And yes, before you ask, the landlord’s sick of it. Every few months someone turns up with salt or sage or a book of charms, thinking they’ll banish him. They don’t. They just annoy the locals.”

Sophrayni folded her hands.

“I’m not here to fix anything. I’m here for my own reasons.”

Lord Ryder gave a dry chuckle.

“Well, good luck. Siddly’s not fond of being questioned. It prefers silence. And repetition.”

He stood and looked out the window.

“You’ll find the stories tangled. Some say the Ragged Man was mad. Others say clever. Some think cursed. Most want it forgotten.”

Sophrayni rose.

“I don’t chase ghosts. I follow truth. Even when it’s buried.”

Lord Ryder turned back. “Then you’ll fit right in. Siddly’s full of things buried.”

“If the Ragged Man still haunts this place, perhaps the people deserve it,” Sophrayni said. “But, as I said I came about a different matter.”

“And?” Lord Ryder asked.

“Is this the original Kingsman’s house?”

He nodded. “There’s never been enough money here to build a new one. And I like this one. We’re old and worn out together.”

“When these houses were first built, each Kingsman was given a model of the house,” Sophrayni said.

“So I believe,” said Lord Ryder. “Long gone. Burned, maybe. Buried. I don’t know. Why?”

She explained about the entry in Magalan’s diary.

“Someone might know about it,” Lord Ryder said. “You could ask.” He smiled wryly. “You might even get an answer.”

But no one remembered the model. No one remembered any family disappearing.

That night, Sophrayni sat by the fire in the inn and wrote in her diary:

“Siddly is haunted, not by ghosts, but by memory. There may have been a doll’s house here.
But not with a spell on it.”

Tomorrow, she would ride to Cruxton.