Rassmussen Plantation part 8

Just so you know, this was all typed in class while I pretended to pay attention. Because this class is ridiculous and boring. Today. Usually it is very interesting.

Chapter Eight

As soon as sunlight filtered in through Cinnamon’s window she was putting on her overalls and cap. She tied the silver-handled brushed in a rag and threw them in her knapsack. She then moved the furniture away from her door and fairly flew down the stairs and out the door, and down the long, oak-lined entrance to the main road, Tybalt close at her heels.

But what would she tell people? She couldn’t tell them the truth, certainly. Last night made her realize how vulnerable she really was, all alone in the mansion. She didn’t want to advertise that fact to a town full of strangers.

She wouldn’t tell them anything, that’s what she’d tell them. What did they need to know fro, anyhow. She’d just go pawn the silver, and buy a gun. And a dog!

Cinnamon glanced down at Tybalt, wondering how he’d take a dog. A German Shepherd. She’d always liked the breed, and they made good guardians, she’d heard. A gun and a dog. What else should she get? A dagger. Maybe a dagger was overreacting, but it would let her sleep better. Maybe she’d get two pistols. Thus armed, she’d go back to the mansion and make a bolt for every door that lead in from the outdoors, and on every door that allowed immediate access to her room. 

Daylight has a way of calming a person, steadying them. Cinnamon was calmer and steadier now; her pace slowed and her heart rate did the same. The dirt road was just a dirt road, and the walk to town was no longer a flee-or-your-life affair, it was just a long walk to town. In her haste Cinnamon had not put on any shoes, and she pondered how the town would take her dirty bare feet. She’d be a conversation piece, certainly. The barefooted girl who dressed like a boy and lived in a haunted mansion.

“It’s not really haunted, you know,” Cinnamon kicked at the dust and addressed her cat, “That’s just an old story. We just have to keep our heads together and worry about real monsters, like people who break into your house and burglarize your house, not ghosts who walk up and down the hall, rattling their chains and moaning.”

Cinnamon stopped walking for a moment, leaned down, scooped her cat into her arms and kissed his head, then started walking again.

“Why do you suppose the house has never been burglarized before?” she mused, more to herself than to her cat, “Sitting there for fifty years, and the silver is still in the drawers. Then I move in, and there’s a break in.”

Maybe they came for you.

Cinnamon stopped in her tracks with that thought. Impossible. She had nothing. What could anyone want from her? Maybe someone was jealous. Perhaps someone else felt that the plantation should be theirs. Her claim on the place was, well, unique. She started walking again, and fought the mental image of a ghostly woman jealously evicting her from the mansion.

“Whatever…WHOever it is, they’re a real person, and the plantation is mine now, Tybalt.” Cinnamon said finally, “And I’ll shoot them tomorrow if they come back. And then we’ll see, won’t we?”

“We will,” thought Tybalt.

Sometime in the late morning the dusty couple reached the town. As predicted, they attracted their share of gawkers. In a small town, visitors are a rarity and Cinnamon suspected she was something of a cross between celebrity and scandal.

Cinnamon heard some neighborhood dogs barking and scooped Tybalt back up again, and put him in her bag with his head sticking out. Tybalt tolerated this much better than most other cats would. He was used to Cinnamon and her quirks.

Cinnamon pretended not to notice the looks she was getting and focused instead on the signs above the shop doors.

Mercantile

General

Leatherwork

Blacksmith

Gunsmith (that would have to wait until she found the…)

Pawn

Pawn. Perfect. Cinnamon turned her bare feet in the direction of the shop, stepped up onto the boardwalk and then up to the shop door. She tucked her stray hairs up under her newsboy cap, took a quick peek inside, and, finding it empty except for the man behind the counter and one other person, a middle-aged woman who was snooping through the pans, she pushed the door open.

Cinnamon tugged at her cap just a bit in an attempt to be discreet, walked up to the counter, and, in her best impersonation of a boy’s voice, (she’d previously determined that boys were taken more seriously at pawn shops) said, “Hey mister. What’s the goin’ rate for silver?”

The mustached man looked her over a moment and drawled, “Wa-al… What d’ya have?”

Cinnamon swung her bag to the ground and let Tybalt out, then rifled around a moment and pulled out the silver-handled brushes.

“Whar’d  ya get these from, sonny?” the man asked.

“My mam.” Cinnamon replied, wishing the man wouldn’t make her talk so much.

“Yer mammy know her boy is selling off her brushes?”

“She’s dead and she don’t brush her hair no more.”

The man kerfuffled for a moment, “No offense meant, no offense meant,” and inspected the silver.

Cinnamon escaped with more money than she had counted on and waited until she was out of the shopkeeper’s sight  before she let her hair back down. She suspected she’d be back to that shop again.