Private Home Away From Home

[Momoshiro]

Momo considered the proposal with an appropriately thoughtful expression, his ears tilting mindfully as the orderly rows of apple trees came into view beyond the last of the alders. The idea of a treasure hunt seemed, at first, entirely unnecessary. They could simply take a few apples, leave behind their payment, and be on their way. But the more he considered the alternative, the more appealing it became. There was something delightfully ridiculous about transforming a simple act of scrumping into an elaborate little adventure, especially if Godwin was going to be given the opportunity to play along after the fact.

Still, some part of his attention remained behind them.

That shadow had been there.

Momo couldn't quite shake the image of it: the dark shape between the trees, canine in silhouette, gone almost as quickly as he'd noticed it. He had seen no disturbance in the Shroud. Felt nothing from the spirits. There had been no sound, no scent of anything immediately threatening. Every sensible part of him insisted there was nothing to worry about.

His instincts disagreed.

It was an unpleasant little knot beneath his ribs, the sort of feeling that had no name and needed none. He'd learned long ago that danger did not always announce itself. Sometimes it was simply the sudden certainty that something was wrong, even when every piece of evidence said otherwise.

He didn't want to alarm Osytha over a shadow he couldn't even prove he'd seen. More importantly, he didn't want her looking back toward the woods. So Momo kept smiling, kept his tone light, and gently increased their pace.

“A treasure hunt…” he repeated, drawing the words out as though weighing them with great importance. Their joined hands swung between them, and his thumb idly brushed across the back of hers. “I rather like that.”

His eyes remained fixed ahead as the orchard drew nearer. “We could leave a few clues throughout the place. Nothing too difficult, mind you. Just enough to make him wonder what on earth we've been up to.” A mischievous glint entered his eyes, though there was a faint urgency beneath it that he hoped she wouldn't notice. “And the final clue could lead him to wherever we decide to leave the payment. That way, technically speaking, we're not even keeping anything from him. We're simply giving him the opportunity to discover what we've left behind.”

He glanced briefly toward Osytha, then ahead again.

“Which means we're not thieves.”

A beat.

“We're organizers of a very poorly funded treasure hunt.”

A quiet laugh escaped him, and his tail swayed behind him. He resisted the urge to look over his shoulder again. Instead, he concentrated on the orchard ahead, on the neat rows of trees and the farmhouse beyond them, on anything that gave his mind somewhere else to settle.

“We could make the clues tell a story, too. Something unnecessarily grand. A mysterious stranger arrives beneath the cover of darkness. A priceless bounty is discovered. Ancient forces conspire to conceal it beneath the branches of the orchard…” His expression became increasingly solemn as the story grew more ridiculous. “And only the bravest farmer can recover his stolen treasure.”

Momo's ears twitched.

“Which, admittedly, is a rather generous description of a few apples and whatever else we manage to carry.”

His fingers tightened around Osytha's for just a moment before relaxing again. It was an unconscious gesture, less affectionate than reassuring himself that she was still beside him. The strange feeling in his stomach remained, stubbornly refusing to be dismissed.

“As for the payment, I think it should be part of the final prize. Something he'll actually enjoy finding.” His gaze settled on the farmhouse. “Then, once he's followed our little trail to the end, he gets his treasure back.”

His grin returned, more naturally this time.

“And perhaps a note informing him that he's been robbed by two highly respectable travelers who definitely paid for everything.”

He laughed softly, shaking his head.

“Though perhaps that lacks a certain elegance.”

Momo's pace carried them a little farther down the slope before he finally allowed himself one quick glance back toward the alders.

Nothing.

Only trees.

His ears lowered for the briefest moment before he turned forward again.

“Well,” he said lightly, giving Osytha's hand another gentle squeeze, “we should probably get on with our very respectable criminal enterprise before I start taking this entirely too seriously.”

The words were playful. His smile was convincing.

But somewhere beneath it, that knot in his stomach remained.

And Momo had no intention of letting it get any closer to her.

 

[Osytha]

“Ee, many’s the darin’ outlaw whose legend lives on in the vast treasures they left be’ind,” Osytha agrees, whole-heartedly. “Piles o’ hidden gold just waitin’ to be found, somewhere deep in the woods. Or in us case, say… thruppence? Give or take.”

… and so the legend of Anna Pell the Red, perfidious pearmain poacher and pippin pincher, arose. A scourge of orchaders everywhere, whose black farmer’s market empire of purloined pomes meant she had a finger in every pie. They say there was a Malus in-cider from a young age; Anna’s father was also rotten to the core, having been hanged for scrumping from the royal gardens, and you know the apple never falls far from the tree. Thus, the wicked business which she cultivated bore such fruit to yield a king’s ransom… until one day she forgot to keep her eyes peeled, and the jig was up. Before she could be plucked by the hands of justice, though, Anna hid her incredible fortune somewhere in the very same orchard where she met her fate. Her empire, the lone apple of her eye, is long since crumbled, a fact which would make her turnover in her grave. But they say that treasure is still there — just waiting to be discovered…

“… though mebbe we can abridge et some,” Osytha quietly remarks from where she lies prone, masked behind a drift of autumn leaves as she surveils Godwin’s orchard from the edge of the woods. The lutinċil is safely packed away, its case stowed at the back of her belt. “No need to go ringbarking some poor tree for the sake of a silly story — eyah, picquets sighted at two o’clock. Fifteen rods an’ movin’ widdershins.”

She observes the distant, ambling figure of Godwin carefully inspect today’s fresh windfalls. Those which apparently make the cut are loaded into his big rattling wheelbarrow, and then the fellow is off again to poke around the next tree in line. ‘Alby’, the man’s waist-high brindle mastiff, trots happily along by his master’s side, sniffing and snuffling as a hound is wont to do. Osytha feels Guffers’ tail thwack against the leaf drift in response; boyo sees a Friend out there, and wants to say hello. But he won’t, not without Osytha giving him the go-ahead.

“Owd Godwin’s easy enow to give the slip, but Allbone there is goin’ to mek things tricky.” She glances over toward Momo, then gestures to their left. “I reckon we circle west a bit. There’s some Ribstons ower there which’ll be abaht ready — they’re good eatin’. An’ if we’re lucky, might yet be a few Syke-Houses late to the party.”

 

[Momoshiro]

Momo stared at Osytha for a moment, his expression caught somewhere between admiration and disbelief. He had expected a few embellishments to the story. He had not expected an entire criminal dynasty, a pearmain poacher, and quite so many apple-related crimes against language.

“Abridge it?” he murmured, lowering himself into the leaves beside her. “I think you've already done irreparable damage to the Common Tongue. I'm not sure abridging it will save us now.”

The corner of his mouth twitched as he peered through the leaves toward the orchard. Godwin was easy enough to spot, ambling between the trees with his wheelbarrow, while the mastiff padded along beside him. Momo's ears followed the distant clatter of the wheelbarrow for a moment before his gaze shifted toward the dog.

“Ah. There's our real adversary.”

He watched Alby for a moment, studying the dog's movements rather than Godwin's. The mastiff was considerably more alert than its master, and Guffy's eager tail thwacking against the leaves certainly wasn't helping matters.

Momo reached back and gave the dog's flank a gentle pat, silently encouraging him to remain where he was. Then he turned his attention toward the western side of the orchard Osytha had indicated.

“Ribstons, then. Syke-Houses if fortune favors us.” His voice dropped conspiratorially. “We shall have to be selective. No point risking our lives for inferior apples.”

A faint smile returned, but his eyes lingered on the trees ahead.

For all the ridiculousness of their little expedition, that uncomfortable feeling from the woods had never quite left him. It remained buried somewhere beneath his ribs, quiet but persistent. He still couldn't explain it, and perhaps that was what bothered him most. There was nothing tangible to point to, nothing in the Shroud to confirm what his instincts had noticed. Just a shadow that shouldn't have mattered.

Yet it did.

Momo glanced briefly back toward the alders.

Nothing.

He turned away again almost immediately, careful not to let the movement become obvious. If there was something there, he didn't want to draw Osytha's attention to it. And if there wasn't... well, there was little point in frightening her over his own imagination.

“West it is,” he whispered, shifting slightly closer to Osytha as he settled into their little leafy hideout. His tail curled loosely against the ground behind him. “Lead the way, Syr. I'll keep watch for the mastiff.”

His eyes narrowed playfully.

“And should we be discovered, I shall bravely sacrifice you to the hound while I make off with the apples.”

A beat.

“It's important to establish trust before a mission begins, after all.”

Then came that damned smirk, a fang peeking through just enough to make it insufferable.

 

[Osytha]

“I think you’ve already done irreparable damage to the Common Tongue. I’m not sure abridging it will save us now.”​

“Aye, well,” awkward mumbling and a fresh flush of self-awareness at this crushing critique; on reflection, perhaps Osytha should leave the word-smithing to others. “Tha hast ’eard the way folk round ’ere speak. Manglin’ the trade tongue’s sort of us speciality.”

There’s a subtle shift of pressure at her back, accompanied by the soft whisper of a tiny form sliding over the stout cloth of her gambeson, and then a short, perky chirp in her ear.

“Thank you, Syr Dragon,” Osytha murmurs back, lifting a finger to give it a tiny rub beneath its chin. “I’m glad that somebody appreciates my fine wit.”

“Lead the way, Syr. I’ll keep watch for the mastiff. And should we be discovered, I shall bravely sacrifice you to the hound while I make off with the apples.”​

“Thy dedication to the mission does thee credit,” she mutters darkly. Though, such tone lies at odds with her expression.

That insufferable, toothy grin of Momo’s seems to get a little more sufferable with each appearance. And she’s enjoying this still, rather immensely. But it’ll be nice when they go back to doing something where they can hold hands again, too.

Osytha shuffles back a bit further out of sight before rising to a near couch, hidden from those below by the coppice trunks and lip of a low hump of earth. Careful with her footing — of the noisome risk of brittle twigs hidden by drifts of leaves — she stalks on through this little woodland’s citrine palette, keeping in a near squat, but covering ground quickly.

Fact is, she’s keen to leave. Momo still seems kind of distracted, maybe even unsettled, since seeing whatever it is that had startled him back there. If he’d been able to shrug it off, then Osytha probably could too. But it’s getting to the point where…

“… Sure everythin’s alreight, Momo?” Her alert blue eyes flicker back his way, and further, into the darkness. “We can yet go back an’ have a proper gander, if tha wold’st feel better for et — just in case.”