The Sweetest Spell (12 page)

“The cows really seem to like you,” I said.

“It’s always been that way.”

At Emmeline’s request, I showed her the rest of the farm. I didn’t mind that the going was slow. If it took twice as long to get from one end of the farm to the other end of the farm, that meant I had twice as long to look at her. Did all dirt-scratcher girls look
like this? If so, the king should open the Flatlands and let them run free.

We ended the tour in the butter room. “These are full of fresh cream,” I said, pointing to two large barrels. “The milkmaids will churn the cream into butter this afternoon.”

“Butter?” Emmeline peered into one of the barrels. It had not escaped my attention that she loved the stuff. She smothered it on everything. But all that eating had done her good. The hollows beneath her eyes and at the base of her neck had filled in. And her wrists no longer looked like they might snap as easily as dried twigs.

“We never had butter at home. How do you make it? Will you show me?”

“I guess we could make a small batch,” I said, motioning her to sit on one of the stools. Then I poured cream into a churning bucket. “This is the paddle,” I told her, pressing it into the top of the bucket. I pulled another stool close, set the bucket at my feet, and began to turn the handle. “This moves the paddle from side to side and stirs the cream. You do this until it thickens.”

“Doesn’t your rib hurt when you do that?” she asked, pointing to my side.

I stopped churning. “Uh, it’s getting better.” As my hand slipped from the handle, it bumped into her hand. “Sorry,” I said, pulling away. Then I pushed the bucket closer to her. “Why don’t you give it a try?”

She turned the handle until she found a steady rhythm. She relaxed her shoulders, easing into the motion as if she’d been
churning her whole life. “I’ll stay here and work long enough to repay your mother and father for the food and lodging. But I can never repay you.”

“Repay me?”

“You saved my life.”

“You’d have to churn that butter into gold if you want to repay me.” She stopped churning, her eyebrows arched with surprise. “I’m teasing,” I said with a gentle laugh. “Just teasing. You owe me nothing. I did what any man would have done if he’d found you on the riverbank.”

“That’s not true.” She looked away. “I know what most men would have done. They would have left me there to die. A Flatlander girl is less than an animal.”

I said nothing. I wanted to tell her it wasn’t true. But it was true.

She began turning the handle again. “I will repay you one day. I will.”

“Where will you go?” I asked. “When you leave here?”

“I want to find my father so I can bring him home. If there is no war then the king should let him go. How far away are the mineral fields?”

“Very far,” I said. “They lie on the northeastern corner of the kingdom.” Resting my forearms on my knees, I stared at the floor as I delivered the bad news. “Look, Emmeline, there are only three ways to get out of the king’s army. If a soldier is wounded, he’s sent home. If he comes from a rich family, he can buy his way out.”

“What is the third way?”

“Death.”

We sat in silence. The room seemed to darken with the mood. I tried to change the subject.

“We have this peddler who comes and visits. He said that you buy yourselves husbands in the Flatlands.”

“Aye. At the husband market,” Emmeline said. She must have noticed my pained grin because her cheeks flushed. “Don’t you have a husband market?” I shook my head. “Then how do you get a wife in the Wanderlands?”

“I don’t know,” I said with a shrug. “You meet someone and fall in love. Or your parents find someone for you. Are you going to buy a husband at this market when you go home?”

“No one would marry me,” she said quietly.

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “You must be one of the most popular girls in your village. Even with your …” I didn’t say it, but both our gazes darted to her right boot. “You’re beautiful,” I said softly. It had slipped out without my even thinking about it.

She stopped churning and looked at me, her eyes as round as the moon itself, as if I’d just told her a secret or had found something she’d lost. I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to pull the bonnet from her head and run my hand through her hair. I leaned forward. She held her breath, unblinking as I inched closer. Then someone cleared her throat.

Emmeline tightened her bonnet, hiding the edges of her hair. A girl stood in the doorway to the butter room. I jumped to my
feet and stepped in front of Emmeline. This was not going to be good. “Hello, Fee,” I said.

Fee, a milkmaid who’d been at the Oak Dairy for three years, stood with her feet planted wide, her arms folded. She narrowed her eyes. Everyone knew she wanted to be the next Missus Oak. She’d told this to my family, to her family, and even to me. I’d never asked Fee to get married. I’d never even told her I loved her. She had no reason to glare at me like that.

But it was possible that all those hours spent kissing behind the toolshed had given her the wrong idea.

“Who’s that?” Fee asked, pushing her bonnet to the back of her neck, her corkscrew curls bouncing free.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. “You’re supposed to be at midday meal.”

“I came back early to see you.” She took a side step, trying to peer around me. I mirrored her side step, blocking her view of Emmeline. “How come no one told me we had a new milkmaid?”

“We don’t,” I said. Then I took Fee’s arm and led her away from the butter room and deep into the barn.

“Who is she?”

“She’s … she’s nobody. Why’d you come back to see me? What do you want?”

Fee slid from my grip, then wrapped her arms around my waist, pulling me close. “You want to go out to the shed?” A devilish smile spread across her round face.

Kissing Fee had been fun at first. She was warm and eager. I enjoyed and encouraged it, I won’t lie. But after a while it lost its charm and started to feel like all we were doing was pressing our
lips together. I could have been kissing a fence post for all the passion I’d felt. This happened before Emmeline’s arrival, so it wasn’t on account of my head swimming with thoughts of another girl. I just didn’t feel anything for Fee. And I’d been avoiding her, unsure of what to say. But now I had to tell her. “I don’t think we should meet anymore,” I said quietly.

Fee pulled away. “Why?” Her gaze darted toward the butter room. “Because of her? Is she your new girl?”

“I don’t have a girl,” I said. “New or old. I don’t have one.”

“I thought I was your girl,” Fee snapped. Then her eyes misted and she sniffled.

“Fee, it’s never been like that.” I shrugged. “I’ve told you over and over, we’re not getting married.” She blinked watery eyes, sniffling again. What an idiot I’d been. She was a sweet girl who hadn’t paid any attention to my words, only to my actions. “I’m sorry. It’s over.” What else could be said?

A sudden burst of anger flashed in her eyes. “I despise you,” she hissed. Then she kicked me hard in the shin. Clutching the sides of her skirt, she ran from the barn. I called after her but she screamed at me to drop dead.

There’d be no keeping this secret. Fee would tell the other milkmaids that I’d hurt her. She’d probably tell Mother. That was not a scene I was looking forward to.
Owen Oak, I told you to stay away from the milkmaids!

I would. I would stay away from them from now on. It always ended badly, anyway. I rubbed my shin, then walked back to the butter room.

Emmeline stood over the churning bucket, wringing her hands,
her face clenched in a worried sort of way. Had she overheard me and Fee? “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’ve ruined it. I’ve ruined the butter.”

“What do you mean?” I pulled the paddle from the bucket. Peaks of soft butter clung to the paddle’s sides but instead of the usual creamy yellow hue, the butter had turned dark brown.

Emmeline whimpered. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I’ve ruined it.”

Had she ruined it? I’d watched her and she’d done everything properly. “There must have been dirt in the bucket,” I said. “I didn’t check to make sure it was clean.” I carried the bucket to the back of the room and left it on the counter. It was a waste of cream, but there was plenty more. Then I grabbed a new churning bucket, cleaned it with a burlap rag, poured in cream, and set the paddle into place. “Let’s try again.”

“But—”

“You love butter, right? So let’s make some and we can give it to Nan.”

She nodded.

We both sat, side by side, our knees almost touching. I tried not to think about Fee running home in tears. Her father would surely pay my father a visit. At least I’d been smart enough not to go beyond kissing.

Emmeline churned and right before my eyes the yellowish cream began to take on a light brown hue. “It’s happening again,” she said.

I leaned over the bucket. “Huh? But I cleaned it.”

“Maybe it will go away,” she said, desperately turning the handle.

But it didn’t go away. The light brown cream changed into dark brown cream. Emmeline hesitated. “Keep going,” I whispered, amazed by the transformation—like watching the sky slowly darken at night. The cream thickened as she churned until it was the consistency of butter. I stuck in my finger and scooped some out.

“What are you doing?” Emmeline asked, grabbing my arm as I tasted the discolored butter. “You’ll get sick.”

Smooth, creamy, just like the usual Oak Dairy butter, but what was that flavor? I tasted again. “My God, it’s delicious. I’ve never tasted anything like it. Try it.”

Hesitantly, Emmeline stuck her fingertip into the muddy concoction. Then she took a small taste. A smile broke across her face. “It’s amazing. But it doesn’t taste like butter.”

I scooped more into my mouth. “It’s not butter.” Nothing made sense. “The bucket was clean, the cream was fresh. And yet somehow the butter changed into whatever this is. It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten. It’s sweet and …” I froze, a realization gripping me hard, almost squeezing my breath out. “No, it can’t be.”

“What can’t be?” Emmeline asked.

I hurried to the other churning bucket. The first batch of dirty butter had hardened. I turned the bucket upside down and knocked a few times until the hardened, dirty butter cracked and fell out in pieces. Then I bit into one of the pieces. It melted on my tongue, creamy and sweet. I wanted to eat more. I wanted to eat all of it. It filled me with … desire.

The most delicious food ever known, chocolate was a sweet delicacy that melted on the tongue and filled its host with desire. Though its dark, muddy brown color was unappealing, the taste was pure ecstasy.

“Emmeline?” I said, wiping my mouth on my sleeve. “Do you think …?” I could barely contain myself. It was the same powerful feeling I got when I stepped into the fight circle. “Do you think …?”

Wide-eyed, Emmeline took the piece from my hand. She stood so close I caught the scent of rose soap that clung to her hair. A few dots of perspiration sat on the bridge of her nose.

“Remember the legend I read?”

Emmeline slid the piece between her lips and took a small bite. She closed her eyes as she chewed. Upon swallowing, her eyes flew open and a smile burst across her face.

“Owen,” she said. “Did I make chocolate?”

I liked the Oaks’ kitchen, which was so much bigger than the kitchen we had in our cottage in Root, before the flood took it away. It was always warm in there because Nan never seemed to stop cooking. And it was full of food. No empty shelves, no empty baskets. The Oaks had plenty. Was this the way Owen’s life had always been? Had he never known hunger?

I sat at the table watching Nan pace. She stopped to peer into the bucket of brown butter, then paced some more. Maybe it was chocolate. I didn’t really know. I’d never heard the word until Owen read from that book. But he seemed to think I’d made chocolate. And he’d rushed off to town to get his parents from the shop. So there I sat, waiting for them to come back.

Waiting for Owen.

He was being nice to me because he felt sorry for me. I knew that. It was nothing more than the same kind of pity he’d feel for a half-drowned dog. But in his bedroom at night, I liked to imagine
pity had nothing to do with it. I was a different girl, a girl from Wander. My red hair was brown just like theirs. I was a whole girl with two perfect feet. And I was his.

Nan glared at me. “I don’t know what you’re smiling about,” she said. She’d refused to taste the brown butter. Refused to touch it. “Don’t know what that is,” she said, pointing to the churning bucket. “Don’t know what young Owen is thinking. Dirty butter is nothing to get excited about.”

“He says it’s chocolate,” I reminded her.

“I know what he said, dirt-scratcher girl.” She put her hands on her hips. “You don’t have to tell me what he said. I heard it with my own two ears.”

We’d been waiting a long time. I didn’t like being alone with Nan. It wasn’t because of the wary looks she gave me; that was nothing new in my life. It was because she always called me “dirt-scratcher” in a way that made the word sound like it was made from cow dung, or worse.

At the sound of horse hooves and wheels, Nan rushed to the kitchen window. Soon after, Mister and Missus Oak, led by Owen, hurried into the kitchen. I scrambled to my feet, reassured by Owen’s beaming smile. Missus Oak’s bonnet was askew and she wrung her hands. “You know I don’t like to leave Polly alone in the shop. She’ll eat her weight in cheese.”

“I’m losing patience,” Mister Oak sternly told his son. “Tell us what has happened.”

Owen’s smile disappeared and he cleared his throat. “Sit down,” he said as if about to tell them that someone had died. Mister Oak grumbled, then plunked into a chair.

“Oh dear,” Missus Oak said as she sat next to her husband. “Owen? What have you done?”

Owen folded his arms. “What did
I
do?”

“Yes, what did
you
do?” Missus Oak asked.

“This time I am innocent, Mother. It’s Emmeline you should be asking.” He raised his eyebrows at me.