Enchanted (6 page)

Clearly she had mistaken him for someone else, but he opened the gate and walked up to aid her.

“Are you going to...” She looked at him then, finally, her storm-mirrored eyes taking him in from head to toe. In all his pain, it had not occurred to him to be ashamed of his nakedness, and he thanked the gods that it did not occur to her to scream. There was a measure of surprise in her countenance; pity, perhaps; a dash of confusion; and then a stern control washed them all away.

“Gave the gods a stomachache and they spat you back out, did they?” She ripped more fresh clothes off the line and pushed them at him. “Put these on. My son’s about your age. Not quite so tall and scrawny as you, but they’ll do.”

He stared at the bundle she’d shoved into his arms: rough, homespun material either brown faded with too many washings or white darkened by too many wearings. “Thank you,” he meant to say, but his reattached tongue refused to get around the words, and he spouted only a single, wretched gasp.

“You look like a man, but you sound like a crow, what with all you’ve come begging on my doorstep. Go on, dress yourself, if you can manage it. I’ll fetch some water.”

The manner in which she barked her orders brooked no opposition. Awkwardly he tugged the shirt over his head and then pulled on the too-large trousers. The woman returned with a cup and a length of twine. She thrust the cup at him, and he lamented the few precious drops of liquid escaping down the sides. “Drink,” she ordered. The cool water stung his lips and froze his throat, but he welcomed it. She knotted the twine around his waist while he drained the cup, and then she fetched more water. “Now sit while I finish up.”

He shuffled to the bench she indicated while gently sipping the water. He watched as she worked, plucking the wild laundry out of the wind. Her gruff manners were curiously at odds with her kindness. There were animals in the Wood that acted this way when they were trying to protect themselves. Or their young. He wondered where her children were.

Something rustled on the bench. He looked down to see a familiar friend waving at him, its proud pages fluttering about. He picked it up, reveling at how small it now seemed, this little book that once had lain like a giant beside him. He wanted to hold it to his heart smell it and see if her scent lingered there. He wanted to keep it, but that would have made her sad, and he could not bear to cause her pain. The wind turned the pages to the last words penned there. He allowed himself to remember her joy as she’d read the brief passage to him. When the words echoed in his mind, they did so in her voice:

Sunday was nothing until she met Grumble—a beautiful man, with the soul of a poet. He was her best friend in the whole wide world, and she loved him with all her heart.

She loved him.
Reading those words refreshed him more than a million glasses of water ever could. She loved him, and the declaration of that love had saved him. She loved him, and it gave him the strength to do what he needed to do. She loved him. He only hoped she loved him enough to trust him, to still love him when all was said and done. He hoped she still loved him when she knew him for what he was.

The woman stood before him now, her laundry rescued from the wind. He held the book out to her, and she tossed it in the basket. “Absent-minded fool of a daughter. Come inside,” she offered.

It took an inordinate amount of strength to shake his head. He took the woman’s free hand and raised it to his ruined lips.

“You’re a charming one,” she said, her words soft and true and powerful. “You could have your pick of any girl in the land.” And then that face of control returned. “When you’re cleaned up, of course. You’re not fit to be a troll’s poppet in that state.”

He smiled and pressed her fingers around the empty cup. “Thaaank y-you,” he said carefully. This time it sounded more like what he meant to say.

“You’re welcome.”

He made a small bow and walked back through the gate in the stone wall. When he reached the bottom of the hill, he turned to look back at the towerhouse. His true love’s mother stood at the gate, basket in hand and skirts swirling around her as she watched over him.

He had not yet reached the edge of the city before it started to rain. Big fat droplets kicked up the dust on the road and churned it into mud between his toes. Step by step, his pain returned and magnified. Mercifully, the gods sent a yelloweyed man in a mildewing haycart to offer him a ride into town.

The castle was a dark beast on the horizon; its tallest tower plunged deep into the heart of the storm. It was dizzying to watch so many people bustle about the rain-drenched streets. He thanked the man once the cart came to a stop, urging him in as few words as possible to make himself known to the king. He had practiced his words on the soggy journey so that he would not stumble over them.

Walking was excruciating. The pads of his feet were blisters. His muscles shook from strain. The hope that had energized him at the towerhouse waned under crippling exhaustion.
Not far now,
he repeated to himself.
Not far now.

At the guards’ entrance, he was stopped with a spear. “Now, where d’ ya think you’re going?”

“Aaawik.”

“Come again?”

Concentrate.
“Erik.”

The guard turned his head and bellowed into the entranceway behind him. “Erik! Beggar out here to see you.”

“A beggar? Good gods, I can’t be bothered with...” A stout man with a mop of red-gold hair appeared in the stone archway. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, as if he’d been summoned mid-meal. “Here, what’s this all about?”

Erik had been a royal guard since Jack was in service. Of all the king’s men, Erik should have known him, the “him” he used to be. The prince could only imagine his appearance now: grim, gaunt, ghastly. Godspat. Not quite the glamorous return of the prodigal son. His glimmer of hope waned further. He straightened as much as he could and rested a hand on the guard’s shoulder.

“Erik. P-pleeease. Help me.”

Erik’s eyes moved through anger and confusion before finally arriving at recognition. “Rum—?”

He slammed his eyes shut, as if that might stop him from hearing That Name. It had been ages since anyone had said it; he needed to wait a while longer. The once-and-now-again prince put a trembling finger to his lips. “Please.”

Erik threw a jolly arm around his shoulders and pulled him inside the castle. “It’s been years, man,” he said loudly. “You look like hell! Come in out of this tempest and tell me how your mother, my aunt, is doing? Still as beautiful a nag as ever?” Erik continued the charade through the Guards’ Hall and kept up the monologue until they were well inside the castle walls. “Get Rollins out of his cups,” he told an errant serving boy. “Tell him he’s needed in his master’s chambers.”

Erik all but carried him up the back stairs and propped him up on the edge of his bed, where he shivered uncontrollably. “Cold in here,” said Erik. “I’ll make a fire.”

He nodded, but the guard had already turned away. Every muscle in his body shook; his mind balanced on the edge of delirium. He hoped Rollins would not be long. His wish was granted.

“What is this blasphemy?” The short, well-dressed man hollered from the doorway; had Rollins’s voice always been so loud and slurring? The prince summoned the last of his strength and began the speech he had practiced on the road. “There is a ... man. Haycart in”—damn teeth needed to stop chattering—“rain. Will address the king. Com ... compensate him.”

Rollins snapped to attention. “Yes,Your Highness.”

“Announce. Ball. Every young woman ... in the land. Th-three...” He wasn’t sure if his voice or his breath left him first.

“Three balls or three days hence, sire?”

His forehead broke out in a sweat from the effort of staying upright and keeping his words coherent. “Both. Also, send ... missive. M-moneylenders.” Rollins came forward, and the prince mumbled the details in as few syllables as could be managed. Rollins nodded, bowed, and backed toward the door. “As you wish, sire. Right away, sire.”

“Rollins.” His manservant stopped. The prince took a deep breath, concentrating on the importance of stringing the last of his scattered thoughts together. “Please tell Father ... I’ve returned.”

Rollins bowed once more, smiling. “It’s good to have you back, sire.”

Rumbold let the sentiment sink through his mind. Back. He was back. Spent, he collapsed onto the silk sheets, wavering in and out of consciousness. He heard Erik’s deep baritone issue from where he crouched over the fireplace, coaxing a blaze out of the old logs.

“Well, well, well. This ought to be interesting.”

S
UNDAY AWOKE
to a poke in the side and opened her eyes to see her mother looming over her. The raging storm had sent them all to bed early. To Mama, that meant her family should wake all the sooner. Seven Woodcutter had never been the soft, warm, cookie-baking type of mother. She had always been more of a “spoil the rod” sort. At least she wasn’t using the rod on her children. Much. Anymore.

Sunday felt the familiar rustle of pages under her cheek; she had fallen asleep writing again. Her gaze flew to the candlestick on the bedside table and the small stub of candle there. Dear, good Friday must have snuffed it out. Sunday always received a severe tongue-lashing—sometimes more—whenever Mama discovered a candle burned down to the quick, for it was irrefutable proof that at least some of it had been wasted.

Beside the candlestick were the fairy stones and Grumble’s shiny golden ball. When Sunday had presented it to her family, Mama’s only comment was that Sunday had best not get too attached to the bauble. It would have to be spent immediately to cover the loss of the cow.

Despite Mama’s penny-pinching, Sunday suspected that all the gold in the world would not make her happy. She wondered what might. She wondered if her mother had ever been happy. If so, she wished she had been alive to see it.

Another poke.

“There’s been a Proclamation,” Mama said by way of explanation.

Sunday groaned. Royal Proclamations usually meant more work, less food, and the loss of something they had previously taken for granted.

“Prince Rumbold is hosting three balls.”

The prince whose evil fairy godmother had ruined her family forever. The suddenly reclusive prince who had been reported ill, missing, dead, or all three over the past several months, and who had evidently been restored to health, rescued, and/or resurrected. Whatever the true story, the spirit had apparently moved His Annoying Highness to throw a ball or three, so he was pretentious enough to announce them to the countryside like anyone cared a fig.

“Good for Prince Rumbold.” Sunday rolled over. Her soft pillow smelled deliciously of sleep.

Poke. “All the eligible ladies in the land are invited. If you are very good and do all your chores, I will let you go.”

Sunday couldn’t think of anything she wanted to do less than attend some boring political event. She’d rather spend her time visiting Grumble at the well. “Have fun without me.”

She felt the pages of her book slip from beneath her cheek. Sunday reached out to grab it, but Mama was too quick.

“You will go to market today and sell that golden bauble,” Mama ordered. Sundays eyes never left the book her mother held hostage. “Take Trix with you; he needs to make his amends as well. In addition to what we already require, purchase whatever Friday needs to fashion dresses for you girls. She’s in the kitchen right now, making a list. Thank the gods for Thursday’s foresight.”

Or thank Fairy Godmother Joy for Thursday’s magic spyglass. Or thank Grumble, whose golden bauble had saved them all. Or thank Sunday, who had made such a worthwhile and generous friend—but she was too distracted to argue.

“When you return, you will do your chores and Friday’s for the next three days. At the end of those three days, you will attend the balls.”

“All three?” Sunday whined.

“All three.”

“What does Papa say?” With the horrid royal family involved, Sunday couldn’t imagine her father letting the issue go without a fight.

“Your father has no say in this. Every girl in the country has been asked to attend; every eligible man of means will find an invitation. I don’t care if it is that awful prince’s doing. This may be my girls’ only chance to snare a decent husband, and I will see at least one of you happily engaged before the week is out. Do I make myself clear?”

Sunday couldn’t imagine anything “happy” coming out of this, but she nodded as Mama slipped the book into her pocket.

“Sunday.” Mama’s voice had changed. Startled, Sunday’s eyes left the pocket that held her book prisoner. “You don’t want to live here all your life, do you?” Mama’s words had a singsong lilt to them.

“No.”

“Please. Just do what I ask, and I will let you have your diary back before you go to bed every night. But I will take it away again every morning. Understand?”

“Yes, Mama.” Sunday felt her mother’s weight leave the bed. She could still smell the flour on her apron, or she might not have believed Mama had been there at all. For the first time in almost sixteen years, her mother had actually spoken
to
her, and not just
at
her.

Sunday dressed in a daze and picked up the golden ball from the table. She held the cold metal to her breast and thought fondly of her friend. Then she slipped the ball into her pocket and went down to collect her brother and sister.

The storm had not spared the Wood. Huge lengths of path were covered with branches, leaves, and mulchy detritus. Papa said that thunderstorms were caused by fairies upsetting the balance. Balance was imperative in magic; an imbalance could tear the very fabric of the world apart. So fairies never took a child without leaving a changeling in its place. They would reward one person and then punish someone else. When only one powerful fairy spell was cast or broken, it upset the balance. The storms were a way to get the gods’ attention.

Wednesday had commented at dinner that it hadn’t stormed this badly since Monday went away. Of course she used more flowery words than that; she didn’t say it so much as imply it, and it
rhymed
...but Mama understood her perfectly. She had told Wednesday to leave the table and go up to her room, in exactly those words. Mama was not flowery.