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at them with surprise.
    "Good God, it's the witch herself," Dean said under his breath.
    Rob nudged him with a reproving elbow, and stepped forward, his feet sticking to the floor. "Good day, mother. My companion and I would like something to eat, if it's not too much trouble."
    The crone frowned up at them, squinting through her good eye, then gave an almighty shriek, like rusty scissors cutting a sheet of tin. "WICKED!"
    It should have been comical, the way Rob's mouth dropped open, but the flash of guilt on his face made Dean disinclined to laughter. He felt an unexpected glimmer of sympathy for the man. Did he imagine this crazed hag had somehow divined his shame? "Come on," he said shortly. "Let's go somewhere else."
    "WICKED!" she screamed again, and footsteps were heard hurrying from the depths of the inn, where a kitchen might reasonably be located.
    A middle-aged man appeared, bald but for a few scraps of fair hair, a dingy towel tied around his waist for an apron. "Hush, Mrs. Smart, I heard you, I heard you. No need to shout and scare the other patrons away. Good day, good day, gentlemen!" He smiled at them anxiously. "I'm your host, Mr. Wickett, and I'm very pleased to meet you. Very pleased indeed." The old woman, her purpose fulfilled, tottered back to her table, where a tall glass of gin formed the basis of her luncheon.
    "Wickett?" Rob's face relaxed into a grin. "I thought she was casting judgment upon us."
    "Oh no, oh no." Their host looked horrified at the thought. "No, indeed! Travelers, are you?"
    "I'm Mr. Smith," Dean admitted, not desiring to claim his title in such a setting,
    "and this is Mr...uh, Black. We could do with a drink and bite to eat."
    "Please," added Rob with a smile.
    "Too busy over at the Swan, I suppose." Wickett shook his head. "Oh my! They do get busy. I have some stew in the back, or an eel pie, a nice eel pie."

    "I seem to remember the local cheese is excellent," Dean said. "A hunk of that would do us, with a little bread and pickle. And take the same to my coachman, if you would."
    The bald head bobbed. "That we can do, that we can do. Bit of oats for the horses, too. Some ale, gentlemen? We're rightly famous for it, rightly famous. Recipe goes back to the reign of Elizabeth."
    "Yes, ale will be fine." Dean looked around the dim room.
    There were perhaps a dozen tables, only one of them occupied, and that by Mrs.
    Smart. He waved at the closest. "Shall we take this table?"
    "Aye, that would be—no, wait. Rather wobbly, that one. Perhaps...not there. No, not that one, either." Their host's eyes crinkled with distress.
    "A bit of a wobble won't bother us, Mr. Wickett," Rob said with a gentle smile. He put his hands flat on another tabletop and leaned his weight upon it. "See? This one isn't so bad."
    Relief flooded the publican's face. "I'll just fetch your ale then, sirs, fetch your ale right away, and then have your bits of cheese out in two shakes of a lamb's tail. Two shakes!" He hurried to the bar to fill their drink order.
    "Two shakes of a rat's tail is more like it," Dean murmured, fascinated at the sight of one of those creatures strolling boldly across the floor, stopping to examine promising bits of refuse at leisure. "Look, we don't actually have to eat here. We can have a drink, hear the story, then go across the street for something more appetizing."
    Rob's mouth twisted. "That would be a shabby thing to do, after such a warm welcome."
    "After such a desperate welcome, you mean. I'd say this place has gone downhill, but from what I remember, it hasn't. But it was a nice, quiet place for a couple of lads to get drunk, and Peter was utterly smitten with the serving girl." Dean held his tongue at the return of Mr. Wickett, who placed two foaming mugs in front of them. Only a little sloshing occurred as the table adjusted to the weight of the vessels, good solid pewter but blackened with age.
    "I'd rather stay," Rob said, as the man hurried eagerly to the kitchen to