A Brief Respite (An Ambrose Short)

Morning mist clung to the crooked rooftops outside Ambrose’s nameless shop, muffling the usual hum of the town. Inside, the hearth crackled softly, casting dancing light across the shelves. Tiberius regarded it all from his high perch, tail flicking with studied indifference, while Moss dozed by the warm hearth.

Ambrose stood behind his old wooden counter, a ledger open before him. He wasn’t writing much, merely tapping his quill and eyeing the empty lines. Business was slow this morning, and he couldn’t decide whether to relish the quiet or find it downright suspicious. A subdued jingle from the bell announced Father Quinn’s arrival. Tall and composed under his worn cloak, he shut the door gently, shaking off a few stray droplets from the persistent drizzle outside. Ambrose glanced over, one eyebrow arching in mild curiosity.

“Well, if it isn’t the town’s moral compass,” Ambrose said, tapping his quill against the ledger. “You’re either here to exorcise me or to poke through my inventory, Father Quinn. Which is it today?”

Quinn’s gentle smile betrayed their long friendship. “Peace be with you too, Ambrose. Neither exorcism nor inventory - though I’ll admit you’re not far off. Might I warm myself by your fire? The church’s hearth is a fickle thing, and it’s been a damp morning.”

Ambrose gestured at the hearth. “Help yourself. Not that I’m running a public inn, mind you, but I do prefer my friends not to catch pneumonia.”

The priest moved around a leaning tower of dusty tomes and paused near a shelf lined with jars of faintly glowing sand. “Slow day for you?”

“Slow enough,” Ambrose said, shutting the ledger with a snap. “I was debating whether to invent a cure for warts, just so folks would wander in.”

Quinn chuckled softly. “Mathilda was just praising your herbal blends at the parish. The ones you have her a fortnight ago. Word gets around - you might not need any rumour at all.”

Ambrose snorted as he stepped out from behind the counter. “Well, her mouth is a fine marketing tool, I suppose.”

Moss, sensing a friendly presence, trotted over, wagging his tail. Quinn reached down to scratch him behind the ears. “Hello there, old friend. You’re keeping your master company, I see. A shame it’s so quiet today.” Ambrose nudged a small crate of mismatched cups with his boot. “Still, I’ll brew some tea if you like - though I recall you owe me a story or two in exchange.”

Quinn’s eyes glimmered with subdued amusement. “I never come empty-handed, Ambrose. Especially when I know you prefer… intangible currencies.”

“I do.” Ambrose returned to the counter to rummage for a pouch of dried herbs. “Any particular reason you’re restless?”

The priest shrugged, warming his hands at the fire. “It’s been a trying week. We’ve had funerals back-to-back, and now there’s the Cheswicks - both gone so suddenly, it’s rattled everyone. Their passing has stirred talk among the townspeople, you know.” Ambrose glanced over. “A married pair who died on the same day, right? I heard snippets. Suppose it’s tragic enough to spark rumours.” Quinn gave a small, thoughtful nod. “They were deeply devoted, so no one’s truly surprised they departed close together. Still… it’s rattled the community, especially those prone to superstition. I fear some outlandish tales might take root.”

Ambrose measured out the herbs, letting them settle in a chipped teapot. “If they do, I’ll happily trade them a memory or two to set things straight. Gossip can be a profitable currency.”

“Yes, well,” Quinn said dryly, “I’d rather quell needless worry if I can. In any case—” He reached into a hidden pocket of his cloak, hand resting on something within. Then he paused, turning back to the hearth. “Mind if I let my cloak dry for a moment before we get into deeper topics? My shoulders are half-soaked.” Ambrose made a show of rolling his eyes but gestured for Quinn to hang the damp cloak on a peg.

“You’re awfully considerate of my hardwood floors today. You usually drip all over them.”

“Perhaps I’ve gained some manners in your presence,” Quinn replied, his tone equally wry. He unfastened the cloak and draped it carefully. “That tea smells inviting.”

Ambrose retrieved a battered pewter kettle and set it on a small brazier. “Give it a minute to heat. Just enough time for you to state your real business. You’ve mentioned funerals and restless nights, but I suspect there’s more.” A flicker of hesitation crossed Quinn’s face, then he slowly withdrew a thin leather-bound notebook from his robes. Its edges were worn, the cover bearing faint lettering and an outline of a quill.

“I wasn’t sure if I should bring this up, but… Mr. Cheswick left this in my care - part of his final bequest to the church.” He ran a thumb across the cracked leather. “It’s a journal, and frankly, some entries are peculiar. Folk tales, references to local ‘miracles’ - reminded me of the oddities you store here.” Ambrose’s curiosity visibly piqued.

“You waited this long to mention it? Should I be insulted?”

Quinn smiled, though his brow pinched with concern. “You know I’m no stranger to unusual stories, but something about this feels… different. Many townspeople think the Cheswicks held onto a prized relic or keepsake, possibly linked to their simultaneous passing.”

The kettle started to whistle. Ambrose removed it from the heat and poured steaming water into a teapot filled with herbs. “Simultaneous passing... A prised relic. You’re either feeding me gossip or stumbling upon a genuine mystery, father. Which is it?”

“I’d prefer neither, if I’m honest. But some of the notes in here mention artefacts and talismans rumoured to guard against ‘the lonely end.’ There’s also mention of vows taken in secret.” Quinn shrugged, setting the notebook on the counter. “I haven’t read it all. I’d hoped you could look for clues.”

Ambrose regarded the notebook, then poured tea into two mismatched cups. “Hm. And in exchange?”

“You’re too sharp, Ambrose.” Quinn’s tone lightened, though a hint of unease lingered in his eyes. “I still need those herbs for my own sleepless nights - Mathilda insists they work wonders.”

Ambrose slid one cup across the counter. “You know I don’t deal in coin. But I’ve grown fond of you, so let’s say the notebook’s enough of a retainer - assuming there’s something worthwhile in it.”

Quinn picked up the cup, sipping carefully. “If there’s nothing but idle scribbles, you can still keep it. I suspect it’ll amuse you more than it did me.”

Just then, the bell gave another jangling ring, and Barnabas staggered in, shovel in hand, his boots caked with mud. Water dripped from the brim of his hat, and he let out a frustrated huff.

“By my shovel, this weather’s relentless!” He spotted Quinn by the fire and offered a curt nod. “Morning, Father. Ambrose. Your hearth seemed the nearest salvation from drowning.”

Ambrose gave a theatrical sigh. “If I knew I’d be running a soup kitchen for soggy townsfolk, I’d have installed a door charge.”

Moss trotted over, sniffing the mud on Barnabas’s boots, then wagged his tail. Barnabas propped the shovel against a shelf that hummed quietly.

“Don’t suppose you’ve heard any more talk about those old Cheswicks, have you? Seems everyone’s got a theory. My lot’s sayin’ they found some trinket that let ’em pass together, nice and tidy. Spooky, if you ask me.”

Quinn glanced at Ambrose, then gently tapped the notebook. “We were just discussing that, actually. Mr. Cheswick left some notes with the church. Possibly nonsense, but still—enough to feed the rumour mill.”

Barnabas grimaced. “I’m burying them tomorrow. I’d rather not do it with half the town whispering about dark pacts and restless spirits.”

Ambrose poured a third cup of tea. “Here, warm your hands. Father Quinn’s got a fancy new bedtime read, apparently full of stories about artefacts that keep loved ones from facing a lonely death.”

Barnabas blinked, accepting the tea gratefully. “By my shovel… that’s unsettling. If something like that existed, wouldn’t more couples go out hand-in-hand?”

“Precisely,” Quinn agreed. “I’m skeptical. But folks around here love a dramatic tale. The question is whether there’s a kernel of truth in the journal.”

Ambrose produced an almost bored expression, but curiosity gleamed in his eyes as he pushed the notebook aside for the moment. “I’ll give it a look. Maybe it’s garbage, maybe not. Either way, you two can stand around dripping on my floors and speculating, or you can enjoy your tea and let me read it in peace.”

Barnabas took a sip, relaxing into the warmth. “Mind if I loiter a bit, then? The graveyard’s half-flooded, and I’d rather not go wading unless I have to.”

Quinn’s gaze lingered on the tattered journal, brows still creased. “Take your time, Ambrose. I’d like to know if Mr. Cheswick wrote anything that might bring comfort to the family.”

Ambrose set down his cup and crossed his arms. “I’ll do a quick skim, see if I spot anything that screams ‘relic of eternal devotion.’ But don’t expect miracles.”

Barnabas and Quinn both nodded, settling near the fire. Moss lay at Barnabas’s feet, content with the new company, while Tiberius hopped down to the counter as if to oversee Ambrose’s reading. The patter of rain against the windows turned the shop interior into a cozy refuge from the gloom outside. For a moment, the three lapsed into a companionable silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the ticking of a crooked clock on the far wall. Ambrose opened the notebook, flipping through the first few pages. Occasionally, he let out a small “hmm” or a quiet snort, his expression shifting from annoyance to intrigue. Barnabas cleared his throat, glancing at Quinn.

“Any chance these stories mention mud-repelling spells? Because that’d be a boon at the cemetery right now.”

Quinn chuckled softly. “I’m afraid even the good Lord can’t keep you from muddy boots, Barnabas.”

Ambrose waved a hand dismissively. “Mud is the least of our worries, if half of what’s in this book is real. Something about ‘binding of hearts’—very dramatic wording.”

Barnabas exhaled. “By my shovel, that sounds like the talk swirling around town. Could the Cheswicks have done something… unusual?”

Quinn gazed into the fire. “They were private people, but they loved each other deeply. Perhaps it was just fate - or misfortune.”

Ambrose eyed a particular passage, brow furrowing. “Hard to say yet. Some references here to old folklore, talismans that ensure one doesn’t have to face the end alone. Could be pure myth.”

Quinn’s posture tensed. “All I want is to quiet the rumors if I can. If the journal hints at a… a relic, or a vow they made that explains their near-simultaneous passing, it might put uneasy minds to rest.”

Barnabas nodded slowly. “And if it’s all hogwash, we can chalk it up to a bittersweet coincidence.”

Ambrose snapped the notebook shut, a gleam in his eye. “So far, it’s interesting enough that I’ll read it more thoroughly once you two aren’t here pestering me.”

The priest let out a low chuckle. “We’ll leave you to it, then. Just let me top off my tea.”

Barnabas stood, retrieving his shovel with a dramatic sigh. “I’d better head back to the cemetery before it turns into a lake. Let me know if you find anything that’ll calm the locals—or at least keep them from spouting nonsense.” Ambrose gave a noncommittal nod.

“You’ll know if and when there’s anything worth sharing.”

Father Quinn sipped the last of his tea, then took back the cloak from the peg. “Thank you, Ambrose. For the hospitality—and the curiosity. If there’s anything meaningful in Mr. Cheswick’s words, I trust you to find it.”

They departed to the soft jingle of the bell, voices fading into the drizzle. Alone again, Ambrose placed the notebook under a candle for better light. The cat hopped closer, peering down at the closed cover, tail swishing languidly. Ambrose murmured, “All right, Tiberius, let’s see what these old folks were hiding, if anything.” He flipped open the journal again, scanning for clues. Outside, the rain persisted, and somewhere in the town, rumours continued to stir about a couple bound by love - or by something more.

For now, Ambrose was content to dig into the mystery. After all, peculiar secrets were practically the shop’s currency, and he had a feeling this might be more than just idle folklore.