Ash & Bramble (19 page)

A
S SOON AS THEY COME OUT OF THE FINE MANSION,
S
HOE
opens his mouth to tell Natters what happened in the hallway with Pin.

“Not here,” Natters interrupts, with a glance around the busy street, wary of listening ears. “Not until we're back at the shop.”

Shoe walks with him in frozen silence along the wide, well-patrolled, well-lit streets and graceful bridges of the upper city, past the market square, and into the winding, darkening streets of the lower city, where the river smells like dead fish and open drains.

All the way, he's cursing himself. Pin is in trouble and it's his fault, and now he's made her trouble even worse, very likely, and she thinks he's a thief and—and he kissed her and
she probably hadn't liked that at all—and she will never trust him to help her get away, not after this.

At the shop, Natters hustles Shoe inside, and then locks the door behind them.

“She's—” Shoe starts.

“Wait,” Natters interrupts. “The Missus'll want to hear it, too.”

They go up to the kitchen. It is fragrant with the smell of bean soup on the stove and of freshly baked bread, and it's warmly lit by candles and a coal fire in the hearth.

Natters points to the table and Shoe sits and drops his head into his hands.

After a moment, the Missus sets a cup of hot tea before him and she and Natters take their places at the table.

“Well?” the Missus prompts.

“I can't believe how stupid I am,” Shoe mutters.

“What is it, lad?” Natters says with surprising gentleness. “She was Pin, wasn't she?”

Shoe looks despairingly across the table at them. “She doesn't remember me. She doesn't remember any of it,” he says, his voice rough. “The Godmother must've used her magic to take all of her memories away. The fortress, the wall and the thorns, the forest, all of it.”

Natter and the Missus nod, as if this isn't unexpected. “So she's not your Pin,” the Missus says.

“She was never
my
Pin,” Shoe says. “Now she's Lady Penelope, she says.” He curses himself again, and presses the
heels of his hands over his eyes. In the darkness there he sees her again, her pale face bruised, her eyes sharp and suspicious, and smudged with weariness, too. And she wore shoes that looked like they didn't fit her very well; it'd been the first thing he'd noticed. He takes a shuddering breath and then opens his eyes. “She doesn't remember me at all. She—” He takes the thimble out of his pocket and sets it on the table. It glows warmly in the candlelight. “She remembers this.”

“A thimble,” says the Missus, with a meaningful look at Natters.

“No matter,” Natters says to her. “The girl's forgotten him. Shoe is well out of it now.”

No. He's not. Shoe stares at the thimble. He takes another deep breath and wraps his hands around his mug of tea.

Oh, you are stubborn, aren't you
, she had said to him.

True enough, he is. He takes a sip of the hot tea and it burns a trail down to his stomach. Even if she doesn't remember it, she's still herself; she's still Pin. Nothing has changed. He has to get her out.

A
FTER BEAN SOUP
and bread for dinner, Shoe drags himself down to the shop. All night he and Natters work on their long list of orders for shoes made by elves, dancing slippers, mostly, for the prince's ball at the castle. Shoe tries to think of how he's going to get Pin—Lady Penelope—out of the fine house she's imprisoned in, but he's gone too many nights without sleep, and his thoughts are fuzzy.

After Natters has nudged him awake for the third time because he's fallen sound asleep sitting up, he goes to his cubby, where he collapses into bed.

In the morning his head is clearer and he knows exactly what he's going to do. At breakfast, he tells Natters and his Missus that he has a plan.

Natters shakes his head, gloomy. “I'm telling you, Shoe,” he says. “You're better staying out of it.”

“I'm already in it,” Shoe says. “Whatever it is.” He bends his head and rubs his eyes, still tired. “Natters, I have to know. What am I fighting against?”

Natters shakes his head. “Fighting, he calls it,” he mutters grimly. “You can't fight it, lad.”

“Is it some kind of magic?” Shoe asks, stubborn.

Natters shakes his head. There is a long moment of silence. Faintly, in the distance, Shoe hears the castle clock striking eight. Past time to open the shop.

“Story, we call it,” the Missus says unexpectedly.

“No, Missus,” Natters protests.

She reaches across the scuffed wooden table and pats Natters's hand. “We can't keep quiet any longer. It is time to act.”

The Missus is small and stout and she wears a flowered kerchief over her graying hair, but to Shoe she suddenly looks wise and strong, and in her eyes he can see her sorrow for their lost apprentices. She folds her arms and nods at him. “Story.”

“It's the Godmother's magic?” Shoe asks.

“It's much more powerful than that,” the Missus says.

“What is it, then?” he asks. “How does it work?”

Natters and his Missus exchange one of their looks. She nods at him to speak. Natters sighs. “You know stories, right? Ordinary ones. They have a kind of shape to them.”

Shoe nods. “Beginnings, middles, and ends, you mean?”

“Yes.” Natters raises his empty cup and the Missus pushes herself from her chair and goes to fetch him more tea. “It's well enough when an ordinary story is told. Happy endings and the like. But what if . . .” He trails off.

The Missus sets the teapot on the table. “Help yourself, Natters,” she says, nudging the sugar bowl closer to him. Settling herself in her chair, she nods at Shoe. “What if the stories aren't told? What if they're lived? What if you were forced to live your life in the shape of a story that is not your own, with no choice about who you are and where you're going?”

Shoe thinks about this. His life doesn't really have any story to it at all. He can't remember its beginning, before his enslavement in the Godmother's fortress. Maybe this is its middle. And he doesn't want to think much about an ending.

The Missus pours herself more tea. “What we think happened is that—at the beginning”—she gives Shoe a meaningful look—“at the beginning of it all the Godmother used the stories to give herself more power. There was a kind of dark witch who thwarted her, so the stories couldn't take over. But then something changed.”

“A plot twist,” Shoe puts in.

“That's the idea,” the Missus approves. “The stories have a kind of power in themselves, and as they were told and retold they grew too powerful. They became Story; they became real. The witch tried to fight Story and was killed. Story uses the Godmother, now, to achieve its endings. Story warps the world around it, forcing people into the shape of it.”

Shoe frowns. “Pin's stuck in a living Story, is that what you're saying?”

The Missus gives a grim nod.

“And there's no way to get her out?”

“The wheels turn, Shoe,” Natters says. “Story is a meat grinder. Those who are caught up in it are ground down and put to use. One way or another, it uses all of us; we all serve it whether we like it or not, whether we know it or not. Not even the Godmother can truly control it.” He shakes his head. “There's no escaping it.”

“In the Godmother's fortress we were outside Story,” Shoe corrects.

Natters shrugs his narrow shoulders. “Maybe you were. Or maybe you helped it turn, making the shoes, and all the rest of it.”

“Maybe,” Shoe agrees, thinking of all the slaves in the Godmother's fortress, spinning away like tiny gears in a giant machine.

“At any rate, you're a shoemaker, Shoe,” Natters adds. “There's no other place in Story for the likes of you. If you try
to change it, it'll grind you up and spit you out, and there's nothing you can do about it.”

“I have to try to get Pin out,” Shoe insists.

Natters shakes his head sadly.

“What are you thinking, sneak into her house and spirit her away?” the Missus asks.

Shoe nods. “The prince's ball is tomorrow night. I'm guessing her stepmother will be invited to it. It's the only chance I'll have to get in there.” And this time he'll give her the thimble, to convince her to come. He leans forward, elbows on the table. “And then we'll have to get out of the city somehow.” He's seen the bramble-covered city walls and the guarded gates. “It'll be tricky.”

“You'll go down the river, of course,” the Missus says.

“But there's the waterfall,” Shoe says, remembering the view of the city he had with the Huntsman.

“There's a way down,” the Missus says. “A path. It's a bit slippery, but it's not so bad if you've got good sturdy shoes. We can have a boat ready at the bottom.”

Shoe blinks. “We? You and Natters?” It's too much to ask of them.

The Missus shakes her head. “There aren't many of us, but my Natters and I are not the only ones in the city who notice that the wheels are turning.”

“What wheels?” Shoe interrupts.

“The story is told and retold, didn't I say?” the Missus answers. “It ends, and then it begins again. Every time the
Godmother finds new people for it to grind up and reshape. The main characters change, but the rest of us stay here, playing our parts.” She nods wisely. “Now, Shoe, Natters has given you the dark truth of what you're caught up in, and there is little hope, but it's clear this girl is important to Story. We will do whatever we can to disrupt it.”

“Who is the
we
exactly?” he asks.

The Missus nods again, and he sees not just wisdom, but hidden power, too. “We who know what we have lost to Story. There aren't many of us. Your friend the ratcatcher is one. Another is a street sweeper who watches the castle for us, a few maids and footmen in some fine houses, one or two of the lords and ladies living in those fine houses. We secret few know that the Godmother used her magic to rip us out of our lives. She takes the very best craftspeople for her fortress, and the rest of us, along with the lords and ladies and the important ones, she brings here, to her city.”

“You remember, then?” Shoe interrupts. “Your life Before?”

Natters shakes his head, and the Missus answers for him. “No, we don't remember. Her magic is too strong for that. But we know about the Before; we know how much we've lost. We can sense the turnings of Story's wheel. We haven't resisted before, but now, perhaps, it is time.”

“You said it's impossible,” Shoe says. Natters had made it very clear about the crushing and grinding and the hopelessness of it all.

“Maybe it is,” the Missus says, with a shrug of her broad shoulders. “But this time we will fight it.”

“Sand in the gears,” Natters puts in.

The Missus holds out her knobbed, age-spotted hand to her husband—and he takes it in his. “That is why we will help you, too.”

“Thank you,” Shoe says. Story sounds huge and unstoppable, but maybe they will find a way to escape it. Once they're outside the city he might be able to find the Huntsman and his band of rebels. “I have a lot of gold coins that you can have,” he remembers. “Can you get us supplies?”

“Leave that to me,” the Missus says.

They discuss the other arrangements to be made, the path and the boat, and the rest of it.

“And you think she'll come with you?” Natters asks, his voice doubtful.

“I hope so.” He takes the thimble out of his pocket. “This will help, I think.”

Then Shoe goes down to the workroom to spend the day sweeping the front step and helping Natters match the elven-made shoes with the people who come into the shop to pay for them. He goes out to the tavern and leaves a message for Spanner with the flirtatious tavern boy, and, blushing, comes back home. The Missus reports that a boat has been found and is to be packed with supplies. By tomorrow night, all will be ready.

That night after dinner he goes down to the shop again
and lights a candle. He remembers Pin's measurements exactly. He chooses the finest, most supple leather and softest sable for a lining; he cuts carefully and stitches soundly. He makes her a good, sturdy, warm pair of boots. They are boots for climbing down a slippery waterfall path, for walking long distances, boots for running while being chased by trackers.

Boots for her escape from Story.

M
Y STEPSISTERS AND STEPMOTHER HAVE BEEN INVITED
to the prince's ball at the castle. They spend the entire day getting ready. I am run ragged lugging bathwater and washing silk stockings and hanging them up to dry, and ironing acres of petticoats with lace trim, and fetching restorative cups of tea that had better not be lukewarm, or I'll get my ears boxed for it.

Wearing silk robes—peignoirs, maybe—over their petticoats and corsets, they have a light supper that I bring to them on a tray. They eat most of it, so I am left only a few leftover crusts, which I gulp down as I carry the tray to the kitchen. Then I hurry back upstairs to watch them finish getting ready.

The dresses were made by the finest dressmaker in the
city and must have cost their weight in gold, or maybe more.

Dulcie puts on hers first—it is a confection of sky-blue silk cut very low to reveal her corset-plumped breasts. It has an overskirt of lace and a bodice stitched with seed pearls, and there are shoes of silver leather fetched from the shoemaker's shop by a footman earlier in the day. Precious fusses around her, adding an ostrich feather to her piled-high blonde hair, changing her pearl necklace for a sapphire one.

“Pen, fetch my new gloves,” Dulcet orders.

I go to the closet to get them, handing her the box. She wrinkles her nose at me and makes a shooing motion with her hands. “Go stand over there, out of the way.”

I consider giving an elaborate curtsy, but I suspect the irony of it would be lost on her.

After Dulcet has pulled on the elbow-length white kidskin gloves and fastened their mother-of-pearl buttons, it is Precious's turn. Her dress is more modestly cut at the neckline—she doesn't have as much cleavage to show off as her sister does—but the skirt and bodice are an elaborate swathe of midnight-blue velvet. The overskirt is sheer net covered with gleaming crystals that must have taken the poor seamstress who stitched them days to finish. The effect of the crystals over the dark velvet is of a midnight sky studded with stars. Precious's gloves are the same midnight blue—a daring choice—and she wears no jewelry around her neck, but diamond pins glint in her sleekly braided brown hair.

They link arms and stand admiring themselves in the
gilded mirror. They are both stunning. “Prince Cornelius will surely choose one of us, Dulcie, don't you think?” Precious asks.

Dulcet gives a self-satisfied nod. “I do think so, Precious.”

Oh, so I see now what they're up to. They both want a husband, and they've got their eye on the prince. I know that a prince lives in the castle, of course, but I can't remember ever seeing him before, and I've never thought about him as a real person who might end up marrying one of my stepsisters. Wouldn't
that
please Stepmama, if Dulcie or Precious ensnares a prince!

Still, I can't help admiring their reflections in the mirror.

I catch a glimpse of myself there, too. Compared to them, I am a drab, ragged blot. My hair is tangled and dirty, I am too thin from being sent to the attic without any supper, the bruise on my cheek has turned a lovely greenish-purple color, and one of my eyes is still swollen from my stepmama's latest fit of fury.

“Stop staring, you stupid girl,” Dulcet says to me.

I blink. “You both look beautiful,” I say truthfully. They preen for a moment, and then I add, “It's too bad you don't have tempers to match.”

Unfortunately my stepmama, coming into the room, hears the end of this comment. She scolds for a moment, but she is too pleased with her daughters' turnouts to pay any more attention to dirty, ragged me.

“Oh, girls,” she says, and clasps her hands on her wide
bosom. They both pose and turn so she can appreciate the entirety of their splendor. Stepmama is handsome in rich blue silk with a dangerously wide skirt. All the blue, I realize, is a tribute to Lady Faye. Perhaps they are so excited about the ball because she has promised one of them the prince.

It is almost time; they can't risk being late. In a flurry, they put on their wraps and mince out to the street, where a carriage is waiting for them. Stepmama's dress has a train, so I have to lurch behind her with the extra fabric bundled in my arms so it won't drag on the steps or the cobbled street, and then kneel on the carriage floor arranging the train while she settles herself in her seat. I am scolded again and sent for hot bricks to warm their feet, and then I am sent running to Stepmama's dressing room to fetch another shawl, and at last the carriage door is latched and the coachman shakes the reins and they are off to the prince's ball.

I stand in the darkened street watching them go. The streets of the upper city, usually quiet at night, are teeming with people; in the distance I hear shouting and laughter, and then the unexpected sound of glass breaking. On a nearby street, a line of carriages trundles toward the castle; the horses' hooves clop loudly on the cobblestones. Beyond the house, only a few streets away, stands the castle. Its tall white towers are aglow as brilliant blue lights beam from their tops. The clock in the central tower is lit from within, and shines over the city like a stern, always-watching face. The clock weighs heavily on me, looming more than it should,
really. For just a moment, I feel like a tiny clockwork girl, enmeshed in gears so huge I can't even see them, I only know that they are there, grinding on toward some unknown end.

As I watch, a heavy fog creeps up the street. It flows around the houses, turning the lanterns into muffled glows. The fog swathes the castle; it wraps smoky tendrils around the slender towers. It flows around my ankles and washes like an incoming tide up to the doorstep. The fog should smell dank, like the river, but it reminds me of pine trees and ferns, a fresh, green smell. Perhaps it has come from the forest outside the city.

Despite the fog, the sky above the castle stays clear and spangled with stars.

With ringing booms, the clock strikes the hour. At the sound, the mist swirls as if disturbed. The last strike fades away. Eight o'clock. Time for the prince's ball to begin.

The fog thickens again. My stepmama and stepsisters won't be home until after midnight. This might be the only time for me to escape, if I still dare it.

As if summoned by the thought, heavy footsteps echo on the cobblestoned street as the fog parts and two sturdy men dressed in light-blue livery—Lady Faye's footmen—emerge. They both stare insolently as they pass into the fog . . . and their footsteps stop. They are there, waiting. Guards.

Like the little clockwork girl that I am, I turn and, wading through the fog, climb the front steps and go into the house. It is dark and empty. All the servants have been given the
night off. I stand in the front hallway for a moment, feeling strangely bereft.

Would I go to the ball if I could? Almost everyone from the upper city was invited; my tea shop man is probably there, too. Maybe he will dance with Dulcet or Precious. And Lord Meister and his horribly smiling wife; surely they will attend. I am a lady, the daughter of a duke, and I should have been invited, too. Perhaps I was. . . . Perhaps I never saw the invitation.

The shoemaker's servant, Shoe, won't be there, I am certain. I don't think servant-thieves get invitations from princes.

I don't even know why I'm thinking of him. With a weary sigh, I make my way through the silent house to the kitchen. It is dark except for a few embers in the hearth. It smells like the ghost of gingerbread. Now I really do feel unhappy.

“Don't you dare cry, Pen,” I tell myself in a quavery voice.

I sit down on the hearthstones. My feet are tired and sore in their pinched shoes. Slowly I unlace them and take them off. I remember that I don't have the shoe in my pocket anymore, the one perfectly fitting shoe from the outfit I was given to meet my horrible suitor in.

I lie down on the hearth, getting as close to the warm embers as I can. “What did you do with your shoe, Pen?” I ask myself wearily.

Before I can answer, I am asleep.