The Universal Passenger. Book 2. The Straw City - страница 20

"We can still turn back," the kid whispered, adjusting the saucepan he'd strapped to his head as a makeshift helmet before we left—a choice that had amused me the entire walk here.

"Oz, go home," I sighed. "I'll come back once I get what I need."

"I won't be able to sit still until you do. We go together."

"And if you're right about this farmer being unhinged?" I asked skeptically. "What if you get hurt?"

"If you get hurt, I’ll catch hell for it too. Grandpa didn’t give a return date, and I’m bored out of my mind alone."

Oscar adjusted his saucepan and hopped over the sturdy log fence.

"Why are we sneaking in like thieves?" I muttered, following him. "This is exactly how we get shot faster."

"Our goal is to reach the porch as quietly as possible," Oscar explained, veering off the well-worn tire tracks leading to the house. "With luck, he won’t be home, and his wife will let us in."

"Christ, this place is wrapped in horror stories," I muttered, shaking my head. "Does no one visit?"

"Did you read the sign?" the kid grumbled. "What 'guests'?"

"Got it. So, what about the grounds? Think there are landmines buried here?" I tried to lighten the mood, but Oscar didn't appreciate the joke and started carefully examining every bump in the ground.

"Can I help you gentlemen with something?"

We both startled and turned to see a woman holding a woven vegetable basket, her amber-brown eyes drilling into us. Oscar instinctively raised his saucepan like a weapon.

"I doubt you came here for salt," the woman remarked, nodding at the kitchenware. "You don't strike me as culinary types."

"Apologies for our manners, ma'am," I recovered first. "We're looking for the wife of a man named Vance."

"Well, you've found her," she said, shifting the basket.

She was tall with refined features and a slender frame. She appeared about forty-five, but the wisdom in her slightly wrinkled eyes suggested she might be older. Her well-manicured hands held the basket with an elegance that seemed out of place on a farm – not a speck of dirt under her nails, while even we'd gotten filthy crossing half the property.

Her golden hair was neatly bobbed and styled. She wore an elegant green sundress with black rubber boots similar to Oscar's – though decidedly more fashionable.

She followed my gaze and smiled again: "You could use some boots too, young man, if you value those shoes. It's easy to get stuck in this mud."

"Already learning that the hard way," I sighed, shaking another clump of dirt from my sole.

"Come inside. We'll talk in more civilized surroundings."

The woman marched toward the house, and we wordlessly trailed after her. Oscar continued looking in all directions, as if waiting to be "taken out" by a sniper.

The interior of the farmhouse was exceptionally cozy. Floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows made the already spacious living room appear even more expansive, flooding it with light. We could clearly see the path we'd taken just minutes earlier.

"We were never going to approach unnoticed," I thought.

"These are portes-fenêtres. From French, it means 'door-windows'," the woman said as she set the table with appetizing homemade cheeses and pickles, pouring us cherry compote that disappeared into our stomachs instantly. She discreetly refilled our glasses from a crystal pitcher.

"I love the feeling of freedom and the option to leave, even through a window," she remarked, carefully returning the pitcher to the table. "So, you were looking for me. To what purpose?"