The Sweetest Spell (11 page)

“The mineral fields?” Emmeline interrupted. “My ancestors used to work in the mineral fields?”

“Yes,” Father said. “The very same place where your father has been taken.”

“Shall I keep reading?” I asked her.

“Aye,” she said.

It was Queen Margaret’s kind heart that blinded Her to the true nature of the Kell chieftain. He was not satisfied with the work given to his people in the mineral fields. A greedy spirit hid beneath his fur pelts. “Why should my people live as slaves?” he demanded. “The Kell are proud. The Kell are strong. Give us land and we will take care of ourselves.”

“Why should We give you land?” Queen Margaret asked. “We have granted you sanctuary and work. That is enough.”

But the chieftain wanted more. He wanted to rule Anglund. He wanted to share the Queen’s bed. He wanted to share Her wealth. When She refused, he led an uprising of his strongest men, and they invaded the palace kitchens, where they murdered most of the royal chefs. Only two chefs survived and these the chieftain held as hostages. “Give me the magic of chocolate or I will slit their throats,” he threatened the Queen.

Soldiers of the royal army stormed the kitchen and valiantly fought the devil-haired barbarians. The scent of chocolate
mixed with the scent of fresh blood, rivers of which ran along the corridors. The chieftain was eventually captured, but only after he’d murdered the last two chefs.

When the chieftain stood on the execution platform, he made the following declaration: “I am the chieftain of the Kell. She who takes my life will be forever cursed. I take from Her what She most cherishes, and I give it to one of my own.”

At the stroke of the blade, when the chieftain’s head rolled from his neck, his curse flew through the air and pierced Queen Margaret’s heart. Her magic disappeared. Never again could She make chocolate. Sadness fell over the entire kingdom. The merchant ships left our ports, never to return.

Despite the brutality to Her Person and Her people, Queen Margaret’s heart remained pure and kind. The remaining Kell, mostly women and children, were sent to the uninhabited region known as the Flatlands and left there to take care of themselves. But never again would they be allowed to wander the kingdom. Never again would they be trusted to be full citizens of the realm.

As I, the Royal Secretary, record this history, our beloved, beautiful Queen has locked Herself inside Her chamber, seeking slumber, hoping for the divine dream to return. Hoping, once again, to possess the magic of chocolate.

I closed the book, wondering what Emmeline’s reaction would be. But she said nothing, lost in thought. Mother broke the silence. “Have a honey cake,” she said, holding the platter out. “They are delicious. I’m sure they are even better than chocolate.”

Emmeline took one of the cakes but set it on her plate without taking a bite. Her hair had fallen over her shoulders, gently framing her oval face. “Is it true?” she asked.

“Of course it’s true,” Nan mumbled.

“It is legend,” Father said, moving his pipe to the other side of his mouth. “Legend is part truth and part story.”

“Husband, we still have the matter at hand.” Mother wiped the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “How are we breaking the law if there is no way for Emmeline to return to the Flatlands? The road is closed. No boat can go up that part of the river. What is she supposed to do? Fly?”

“Well …” Father strummed his fingers on the tabletop. “I wanted to keep Emmeline a secret until she could return home. But seeing as sending her home isn’t possible, I suppose there’s no harm in discussing the situation with our tax-collector. If we can get his approval, then we’ll have no worries about the law. If he agrees, then Emmeline can work as a milkmaid. Temporarily, of course.”

“A milkmaid?” Nan asked. “A dirt-scratcher as a milkmaid?”

“It’s the only job we have around here,” Father said.

Nan stomped out of the room. Emmeline and Mother shared a happy smile while Father refilled his pipe with the brown leaf that he bought from the spice merchant. And I sat back in my chair, once again staring at the girl who’d washed up on our riverbank. As I breathed deeply, my lungs pressing against the surgeon’s wrap that held my rib in place, I realized I was glad to have Emmeline stay a bit longer.

More than glad.

Over the next few days my broken rib stopped aching, but I didn’t tell my parents. A healed rib meant I’d have to go back to work at our shop. An unhealed rib meant I was expected to stay home.

With Emmeline.

I felt a twinge of guilt, but only a twinge. Polly, our eldest milkmaid, was happy to take my place in the shop. She liked dealing with the customers because they always brought a hearty helping of town gossip. Mother didn’t seem to mind my absence. “The longer you stay away from the temptations of town, the better,” she’d said.

But the temptations of town came looking for me in the form of Bartholomew Raisin. It was early morning. Father and I were walking toward the barn when Bartholomew rode up on his horse. “Good day, Mister Oak,” he said. His stirrups were cinched high so his short legs could reach them. “Hello, Owen.”

I grunted a response. Father narrowed his eyes. “What do you want, Mister Raisin?”

Bartholomew slid off the horse, landing on wobbly legs. “Just passing by,” he said. “Out for a bit of fresh air and exercise.” He rubbed his fat hands together and peered up at me. “How’s that rib of yours? Is it almost healed? Never knew a rib could take so long to mend.”

“You’re wasting your time,” Father said. “Owen’s not going to fight in your circle. He’s promised his mother.”

“But Mister Oak,” Bartholomew said, his swollen fingers twitching. “Barefist fighting is what your son does. He’s the best I’ve ever seen. It’s in his blood.”

We headed toward the barn, Bartholomew scuttling alongside. “I know it’s in his blood,” Father said. “But you’ll have to find yourself another fighter. My boy’s done with it.”

I said nothing. I simply shrugged—a gesture of surrender that sent Bartholomew twitching at greater speed. I’d made the promise, but how long I could keep it was another matter. The fighting circle beckoned me the way trickling water beckons a thirsty animal.

“But the king has issued a new tax on barefist fighting. He’s going to take a 20 percent cut of my profits. I need Owen to—”

“Good day, Mister Raisin,” Father said, shutting the barn door in Bartholomew’s round face. Then he placed a hand on my shoulder, his expression serious. “Don’t tell your mother I said this, but you need to get yourself a wife. That will take your mind
off fighting.” He walked down the steep steps that led into the underground cheese cellar.

Get myself a wife?
I hesitated on the top step. I hated the cheese cellar. My chest always tightened down there, deep beneath the barn, with thoughts of the ceiling caving in. “I don’t want a wife,” I hollered down.

“You don’t know what you want,” Father hollered back. “Take my word for it. A good wife will tame that fighting urge. A wife’s what you need. But not Emmeline. She’s not the one for you.”

“Emmeline?” With a deep breath I forced myself down the stairs, my heart pounding with each step. The cellar’s cool air mixed with the sour scent of aging cheese. Slowly my eyes adjusted to the dim light. “Why would you bring up Emmeline?”

“I’ve seen the way you look at her. I know that look.”

“What look?”

He heaved a wheel of cheese from the shelf. “She’s a nice girl, but she’s not your kind. Chasing her would bring you both a world of unhappiness.” With a grunt he set the wheel on a table.

“I’m not
chasing
her,” I said.

“We don’t have permission from the tax-collector yet, so don’t go getting your hopes set on Emmeline staying. As soon as he gets back from his visit to Londwin City, I’ll be discussing the situation with him. But I’m thinking, maybe it’s not such a good idea to have her stay. Not with you following her around.”

I held up my palms, defending myself from this crazy notion. “I’m not following her around. I don’t know where you got that idea.”

Father snickered. “I’ve got two eyes. That’s where I got that idea. So don’t you go getting her with child.”

“What?” I forgot all about the ceiling caving in. “That’s crazy.”

As Father wiped dust from the wheel of cheese, I leaned against the cellar wall. Eleven days had passed since that supper when Emmeline had joined us at the table, transformed. And for eleven days I’d conjured excuse after excuse to be near her. At first she’d kept to the house, her fiery hair always tucked into a bonnet. When she swept the floors, I moved furniture out of her way. While she dusted the shelves, I read to her. When she went outside for the first time to hang the laundry on the line, I lowered the cord so she could reach it without having to stand on a bucket.

“Owen Oak, you leave that girl alone,” Nan had scolded, shooing me away. “That rib of yours is never going to heal if you keep following her around.”

Even Nan had noticed. What was the matter with me? A knot formed in my stomach as I pushed the embarrassment away. I took a deep breath of the cellar’s cold air. “It’s not what you think,” I told my father. “She’s pretty. That’s all it is. I just like looking at her. Nothing more.”

“Well,
that
I do understand. A pretty girl is hard to ignore.” Father glanced over at me. “Look, son, your mother’s taken a liking to the girl. Ever since your sister’s passing, there’s been a terrible ache inside her. She’s giving all that unused love to Emmeline. But Emmeline will have to go back to her own people one day. Dirt-scratchers belong in the Flatlands.” He stabbed the wheel with a knife, then cut it in half. “It’s going to be difficult enough
for your mother to let her go. I don’t need you getting attached too.”

“I’m not getting
attached
. I don’t even know what you mean by that.” I trudged up the stairs and out of the cellar.

So what if I helped Emmeline with the chores? Who else did she have to talk to? Why not me? I’m the one who found her. Well, the cow found her, but I carried her to safety. It was good manners to help her. That was all.

And there she was, standing inside the front door, a feather duster in her hand. She’d taken to wearing a blue milkmaid’s dress and white apron, on Mother’s orders. Better to wear a work dress while doing household chores than one of my sister’s fancy getups. “Hello, Owen,” she said as I walked into the house. “There’s something I wanted to ask you.”

“I don’t have time,” I grumbled, moving quickly past her, holding my breath so I wouldn’t smell the rose soap on her skin. Too much time spent with one girl was not good. If Father had gotten the wrong idea, then maybe Emmeline had gotten the wrong idea as well. And if Emmeline thought I had feelings for her, then I needed to put an end to that. I wasn’t going to follow in Barley’s footsteps—fall in love, get married, have babies, the whole nightmare. I’d admit that my rib was better and get back to work at the shop.

“Owen?” Emmeline called softly. I stopped but, rather than looking at her, looked down at my boots. “Would you take me to see the cow?”

“Huh? What cow?”

“The one who found me by the river. I want to thank her.”

I scratched the back of my neck. “Well …” I couldn’t help it. My gaze traveled up her skirt, up her bodice, and up her neck until it locked on to those green eyes that seemed to be made of dew-speckled moss. “Sure, I guess.”

Who was I kidding? I was lying to myself, just as I’d lied to Mother when I’d promised I’d never fight again. At night, alone in the bunkhouse, I could still feel Emmeline’s head against my shoulder. When I closed my eyes, I could still feel my arm around her tiny waist, holding her as the horse galloped across the pasture.

I was
attached
.

Emmeline wasn’t supposed to leave the house, so I waited until Father, Mother, and Polly drove into town to open the shop. And because no one outside my family, except the surgeon, knew about Emmeline, I waited until the milkmaids finished the morning milking and walked back to their homes for midday meal, their blue dresses disappearing around the fence. Only then, with the coast clear, did I lead Emmeline from the house, keeping the pace slow as we crossed the yard. I’d gotten used to the way she dipped to one side when she walked. Many times I’d wanted to ask about her foot, but I remembered the embarrassment in her eyes when I’d told her that I’d been the one who’d removed her river-soaked boots.

With the morning milking done, the cows were grazing in the nearby pasture. They raised their horned heads as we approached. Maybe they thought she was one of their regular milkmaids, seeing as she was dressed in a milkmaid’s dress. I had no idea which
cow had found Emmeline. They all looked exactly alike. But Emmeline seemed to have her heart set on thanking the creature. “We don’t have cows like this in the Flatlands,” she told me as we stood at the pasture’s edge.

“How many cows did you have on your farm?”

“We never had cows. Only Milkman Boar had cows.” She frowned and I sensed she was thinking about her village. I’d tried to imagine what it would feel like to lose everything. I’d tried to picture Wander washing away in a flood. What would it be like to walk through empty streets? To look for buildings that no longer stood? To look for people who had simply vanished?

We stood in silence for a few moments. Then she closed her eyes briefly and shook her head, probably pushing the images away. “Where is she?” she asked. Midday sunlight spread across her cheeks as she looked into the field. “The cow who found me. Where is she?”

I was about to choose a random cow when one of the creatures began a slow mosey toward us. Emmeline smiled and held out her hand. The cow sniffed, then stuck out a grass-stained tongue and licked her hand. Emmeline pressed her forehead against its cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered. It mooed, as if answering.