Amanderella and the Haunted Mill Chapter 4

Chapter 4.

Games at the Inn.

Amanderella’s declaration hung in the air for a moment, steady and reassuring. The men nodded, some vigorously, some with the slow wobble of people who had been holding their breath for too long.

Lady Honoria Pimm-Ducket gave a single, regal sniff. “Very well. We shall allow you to retire. The Society will reconvene in the morning. Half past eight.” She fixed the men with a glare sharp enough to slice cheese. “And no one is to disturb Lady Gottsnobbler unless the mill has actually exploded.”

Captain Bluster-Gore saluted. “Aye, m’lady. No explosions.”

“Good,” Lady Honoria said. “I detest unnecessary drama.”

With that, she swept out, Majesty trotting behind her like a small, dog-shaped thundercloud. The room exhaled.

Amanderella inclined her head politely to the remaining members. “Good evening, gentlemen. I shall see you in the morning.”

Mr Paltry escorted her to the foot of the stairs, bowing so often he resembled a metronome in need of repair. “If you need anything, madam, hot water, extra blankets, a goose for protection, please do not hesitate to ask.”

“I shall be quite comfortable,” Amanderella assured him.

She climbed the stairs. Once again they reacted to her passing. At the top, she found a steaming jug of water waiting by her door, along with a neatly folded towel and a bar of soap labelled Lavender & Local Superstition.

The Oak Room was warm and tidy. Amanderella set her bag on the washstand, unpinned her hat, and removed her boots with the care of someone who respected good leather. Outside, the village square lay quiet under the rising moon, lanterns flickering like nervous fireflies.

She poured the hot water into the basin and washed away the dust of the road. The lavender soap smelled faintly of herbs and something else, possibly fear, but it lathered well enough. Afterwards, she descended to the taproom for supper.

The landlord brought her a bowl of stew so thick it could have been used as mortar. “Best eaten hot,” he advised. “It sets if you leave it.”

Amanderella tasted it. “Very comforting,” she said, and meant it.

Around her, the villagers whispered in low, anxious tones. “...heard the wheel groaning again...” “...saw a light, green as gooseberries...” “...told you it’s Old Whistling Ned...” “...Ned never existed, you ninny...”

Matilda the goose watched Amanderella steadily, as though assessing her suitability for leadership. Satisfied, apparently, she tucked her head beneath her wing.

By the time Amanderella had finished her stew and returned from a brief wash in the Oak Room, the taproom had changed hands entirely. The Preservation Society had dispersed to their respective homes, leaving behind only a faint smell of damp paperwork and unresolved subcommittees. In their place, a new crowd had gathered, the working villagers, those who had spent the day in fields, workshops, and kitchens, and now sought warmth, ale, and the comfort of familiar faces.

The atmosphere was livelier, less anxious, and considerably louder. Amanderella slipped into a corner seat, content to observe. A group of women in aprons were clustered near the hearth, knitting with the speed and precision of a small textile mill. Their needles clicked like a chorus of irritated beetles. At the bar, three farmhands argued amiably about whose horse had the most sense. (“Mine,” said the first. “Mine,” said the second. “None of yours,” said the third.)

Near the window, a pair of elderly brothers played dominoes with the grim determination of men who had been competing since birth. The landlord approached Amanderella with a fresh pot of tea. “Evenin’s entertainment starts shortly, madam. Nothing fancy. Just a bit o’ fun.”

Amanderella nodded. “That sounds pleasant.”

He lowered his voice. “Lady Honoria disapproves, but she’s not here tonight, so we’re safe.”

Amanderella suspected that Lady Honoria disapproved of most things that involved enjoyment. A bell rang, a small one, slightly dented, held aloft by a cheerful woman with rosy cheeks and a shawl patterned with improbable vegetables.

“Right then!” she called. “Welcome to our Evening of General Amusements and Improving Diversions. Tonight’s theme: Guess That Object.”

A murmur of excitement rippled through the room. Amanderella raised an eyebrow. “Guess that object?”

The landlord nodded. “We put things in a sack. Folk take turns feeling what’s inside. No peeking. No biting. Last week someone put in a hedgehog. We’ve banned hedgehogs now.”

“A sensible rule,” Amanderella considered.

The woman with the vegetable shawl held up a large burlap sack that wriggled suspiciously. “No animals this time!” she announced. “Probably!”

The villagers cheered. Amanderella watched with quiet amusement as the sack was passed around. The first contestant, a burly man with hands like shovels, plunged his arm in and immediately yelped.

“It’s cold!” “That’s because it’s a jug,” someone shouted. “It’s not a jug,” he insisted. “It’s… it’s… oh, bother, it’s slippy!”

Amanderella sipped her tea. The sack moved on to the knitting women, who poked it with the tips of their needles before one of them bravely reached inside.

“Feels like… a turnip,” she declared. “It’s always a turnip with you,” her neighbour muttered.

When the sack reached Amanderella, the room fell into a hush of anticipation. She placed her hand inside calmly. Cool. Smooth. Slightly ridged. A faint scent of beeswax.

“A candlestick,” she said.

The room erupted in applause.

“Correct!” cried the shawled woman. “And not just any candlestick, the Vicar’s spare!”

Amanderella inclined her head modestly. The game continued, growing louder and more ridiculous as the evening wore on. Someone guessed “a small badger” (it was a teapot). Someone else guessed “a teapot” (it was a potato). The domino-playing brothers argued over whether a boot counted as an object or a hazard.

By the time the final round ended, the villagers were rosy-cheeked and content, the earlier tension of the mill forgotten for a little while. Amanderella rose, thanked the landlord, and climbed the stairs to her room. The second stair groaned in protest; the third sighed; the fourth muttered something about “late hours”.

She extinguished her lantern, lay down, and let the quiet of the Crooked Lantern settle around her. Outside, the valley wind whispered faintly. Not eerie. Not ghostly. Just… persistent.

Tomorrow, she would find its source. Tonight, she slept.