The Sweetest Spell (13 page)

Missus Oak grabbed her husband’s hand, as if to steady herself for whatever news was coming her way. “What has happened? Did someone see her hair? Do they know we’ve been housing a dirt-scratcher girl?”

“No one saw her hair,” Owen said. He grabbed the bucket of dirty butter and set it on the table. “This is why I brought you home. This is what I wanted you to see.” He turned the bucket upside down, thumped his hands against its sides until the contents slid onto the table. Then he set the bucket aside. We all stared at the circle of hardened brown butter.

“What is that?” Mister Oak asked.

“Emmeline made it,” Owen said. He pulled his knife from his pocket and plunged it again and again, breaking the circle into smaller pieces. Then he picked up one of the pieces and held it out to his father. “Taste it.”

“Emmeline made it?” Missus Oak asked. “Nan let Emmeline cook?”

“Never,” Nan insisted. “That mess has nothing to do with me. It looks like something a cow left behind.”

I almost laughed. It was a pretty good description.

“Father,” Owen insisted. “Try it. Let it melt on your tongue. I promise you won’t regret it.”

Mister Oak took the piece, sniffed it, then popped it into his mouth. We all leaned closer, waiting for his reaction. At first it was hard to tell if he was disgusted or if he liked it because he closed his eyes and just stood there. It was melting, that I knew. It was filling his mouth with the most amazing flavor ever. He swallowed, then opened his eyes. “Delightful!” he exclaimed. “I shall have another.” And he did.

“Mother?” Owen said, offering her a piece.

Missus Oak carefully pinched the piece between her fingertips. Like her husband, she sniffed it. Then she delicately nibbled the corner. “Oh my,” she said, her other hand pressing to her chest. “Oh my, oh my.” She popped the rest of the piece into her mouth. Nan inched forward, watching Missus Oak chew. Satisfied sounds of “oh” and “ooh” escaped her lips. Her eyes rolled back. “That is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.” She grabbed another piece. “What is this, Emmeline? However did you make it?”

“I really don’t know,” I said with a shrug.

“From our cream,” Owen said. “She churned our cream and it turned into this.”

“But what did she add to the cream?” Mister Oak asked, his lips glistening as he chewed. “We must have the recipe.”

“I didn’t add anything,” I said. “It just … happened.”

“I watched it happen,” Owen said. “I watched her churn. When the cream thickened, it changed color. It was like some kind of magic.”

“Dirt-scratcher magic,” Nan whispered, her eyes widening fearfully. “Black magic. Don’t eat it. It’ll cast a spell over you.”

“Now, Nan, calm down,” Mister Oak said. “There’s no such thing as magic.”

“I’d usually agree with you,” Owen said. “But now I’m not so sure.” He turned to me. “Shall we show them?”

A new churning bucket was brought into the kitchen. And so, as the afternoon passed, I churned cream until my arms went numb. And each time, without fail, the cream thickened and turned dark brown. They tasted it when it was still soft. Then they tasted it after it hardened. “I could eat this every day,” Mister Oak said.

“Me too,” Missus Oak said.

Nan finally tried a piece and, like the rest of us, ate until her stomach ached. I stopped churning. My arms felt like deadwood.

“Now do you finally believe me?” Owen asked, leaning back in his chair and opening his book. He read, “
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
.” He closed the book. “It’s chocolate. It has to be.”

“Emmeline,” Missus Oak said, wrapping an arm around my waist and giving me a gentle squeeze. “You’ve been blessed.”

“And we’ve been blessed too,” Mister Oak said. “Our customers will love it. We could sell enough to make up for all the coin we’re losing to the king’s new butter tax.”

“But, Father,” Owen said. “The chocolate is not ours to sell.”

“Not ours to sell?” Mister Oak scratched his beard. “It’s made from our cream.”

“But it’s Emmeline’s magic.”

All eyes turned to me. My cheeks began to burn. My magic?
How was it possible that I possessed this magic? “You can have the chocolate,” I said. “I will happily give it to you for all you have done for me.”

Mister and Missus Oak shared a long look. Then Mister Oak cleared his throat. “That is very generous, but my son is correct. We Oaks did not make the chocolate so it is not ours to sell.” He stood at the kitchen window, his arms folded behind his back. A pair of cows stood outside, their noses pressed to the glass. “Emmeline, do you realize what this means? No one has seen or tasted chocolate for many generations. But you alone can make it.”

“You’ll be rich,” Owen said.

“But she’s a dirt-scratcher,” Nan said.

“No one’s going to care where Emmeline comes from once they’ve tasted the chocolate,” Owen said. “They’ll line up for days just to get a piece. She’ll be very rich. Maybe the richest woman in the kingdom.”

A shiver ran down my spine. Then it felt as if someone was squeezing the breath out of me. “Rich?” The word sputtered from my mouth. “Me?”

Owen smiled.

My head filled with a million thoughts. No Flatlander had ever been rich. “Do you think I could make enough coin to buy my father’s freedom from the king’s army?”

“It’s possible,” Mister Oak said.

“Do you think I could make enough coin to build my father a new cottage?”

“I bet you could build a hundred cottages,” Owen said, smacking his palm on the table.

Do you think I could buy a husband? Someone like you
? But this I didn’t ask.

How could I ever leave this wonderful place? “I would like to stay here and be one of your milkmaids,” I said. “I’ll make the chocolate, and if you’ll sell it in your shop, then we can split the coin.” It was a bold suggestion. I tried to keep my voice from wavering. I might have asked too much. I waited, as did everyone else, for Mister Oak’s reaction.

“So be it,” he said, eagerly shaking my hand. “So be it.”

Poor Emmeline. She fell fast asleep at the kitchen table. Father swept her into his arms and carried her to my room, where he tucked her into bed. When he returned, an amused smile crinkled his face.

“Who would have thought,” he said, shaking his head. “Who would have thought a tiny little creature could hold such a big secret.”

While Father finished the chores, Mother, Nan, and I spent the late afternoon working with the chocolate. In its soft form it was easy to cut into perfect squares. Nan pressed our seal into the top of each square, leaving an oak leaf imprint. The squares hardened quickly, a glossy sheen forming at the surface. Mother discovered she could roll the soft chocolate into little balls. Then she dipped each ball in lavender sugar. They were delicious.

As evening fell, Father returned to the kitchen. I expected him to start hollering about the fact that Nan hadn’t made supper, but instead he grabbed a bowl. “Give me some of that chocolate.”

“What for?” Mother asked.

“Might as well start spreading the news.” With his forearm, he swept some of the chocolate squares into the bowl, then hurried outside. “Girls,” he hollered. The milkmaids were heading toward the road, their day’s work done. Fee glared at me, as did a few of the others. I’d clearly been the subject of conversation that afternoon. “Girls,” Father called again. “Wait until you see what I have for you.”

I watched from the doorway as he dumped a handful of chocolate squares into each girl’s basket. “Take these home and share them with your friends and family. Tell everyone that the Oaks will be selling these tomorrow at Oak and Son’s.”

“What are they?” Fee asked.

“Chocolate,” Father said. “Tell everyone you meet that the Oak Dairy will be selling chocolate.”

The girls laughed with disbelief, but quickly ate every piece so that Father had to get more from the kitchen. Fee’s anger vanished. She pushed to the front of the pack to get more. “Save some for your families,” Father said. “If you spread the news, I’ll give you more tomorrow.” Their baskets refilled, the girls hurried off.

Emmeline slept past supper. We didn’t wake her. I’m sure she was overwhelmed by everything that had happened. After a long conversation with Father about how much we should charge for the chocolate and how we might advertise, I walked to the bunkhouse as I had every night since Emmeline’s arrival. The bunkhouse had been built for calving season, when the calves came so quickly it was necessary to bring in hired hands. But the season had come and gone so I was out there alone.

Maybe it was a stomach full of chocolate that caused my unsettled feeling. I stretched my arms behind my head and stared up through the darkness at the pine beams of the bunkhouse ceiling. The day had been filled with wonder, so why did an anxious sensation bite at me like an insect?

When I’d found Emmeline at the river, she seemed frail enough to break. With each passing day she’d grown stronger. At first she’d seemed to despise me, the way she glared up at me from my bed. But lately she’d begun to smile, sometimes when I spoke to her, sometimes simply because I’d walked into the room. She enjoyed it when I read to her, asking all sorts of questions and wanting me to read more. And that day, in the butter room, she’d blushed when our hands touched. Could she feel something for me?

Time spent thinking about her flowed without measure. When I wasn’t with her, I wanted to be with her. Even when I was thinking about other things, she lingered between those thoughts. When I woke, I wondered what she was doing. When I went to bed, I imagined her beside me. An ache filled my body.

On the other side of the bunkhouse wall, the cows stirred, then broke into a chorus of agitated mooing. A fox or rat had probably dug its way inside the barn. Cows are easily disturbed so I wasn’t too worried. Still, I rolled off the bunk and grabbed a lantern, lighting it with a box of matches we’d bought from Peddler.

Moonlight filtered through the cracks in the barn, illuminating the cows’ shaggy backs like a landscape of rolling brown hills. Suddenly the cows began to stomp and shift, worked up about something. I held the lantern high, watching for scurrying movement
along the floor. Then I heard it—a muffled cry from outside. I raced into the yard.

All was still. I cocked my head, listening for any unusual sounds. But even the crickets had quieted. Then the muffled cry came again. I ran around the barn. A tented wagon stood in the roadway, just outside our dairy. Even in the dim moonlight I recognized the wagon that carried Peddler’s trinkets.

Peddler’s silhouette was unmistakable, his skinny leg propping up his long, pocketed coat. He was shoving something into the back of the wagon.

Not something—
someone.

“Emmeline!” I cried, running as fast as I could.

Peddler closed the tent’s flaps and turned on his heels. My heart pounded at my temples. Peddler was taking Emmeline! I didn’t stop to ask why. And there was no time to call for help. Fists clenched, I ran straight at him. An odd smile spread across his face. If I’d been in the fighting circle, I might have taken a moment to evaluate that smile. I might have approached my opponent with caution.

But Emmeline was my only thought.

Just as I swung my arm, the blade appeared, glinting in the moonlight. I gasped at its sting. I couldn’t breathe. Another muffled cry came from the wagon. The curtains ruffled. “Emmeline,” I said, the word lost in a blur of pain. Falling backward, my head hit the ground.

Horse hooves and rolling wheels were the last sounds I heard before darkness sucked me into its depths.

It happened so quickly. One minute I was fast asleep, safe and warm beneath Owen’s blanket. The next I was awakened by something moving on the bed. I turned and saw a man kneeling next to me, outlined in faint moonlight. At first I thought it was Owen, but he didn’t smell like Owen. The man had the sour smell of unwashed clothes.

Was this the Thief of Sleep? When I was very little, my mother had told me the story about the old man who comes into the house and steals sleep from children who have been disobedient during the day. If too much sleep is stolen, the disobedient child dies, for no one can live without sleep.

I opened my mouth to ask who he was, and that’s when he rolled me onto my stomach and pressed his knees into my back. Confusion turned to sheer terror. As I started to scream, he tied something around my mouth, muffling any sound I made. I tried to roll away, tried to kick him, hit him—
anything
to get him off me—but he was
too strong. He tied my hands together and then my ankles before lifting me off the bed and flinging me over his shoulder.

He’d come through the window, I realized, as he carried me past the open shutters. He carried me down the hallway, past the room where I’d taken my first warm bath, past the room that had once belonged to Owen’s sister, past Mister and Missus Oak’s room, and out the front door, tiptoeing with long, jerky steps.

Where was he taking me? I kicked my bound feet. I pounded his back with my hands, but his grip was strong. As we crossed the yard I screamed desperately but the rough fabric held my tongue. The worst had happened. Wander’s tax-collector must have heard that a Flatlander girl was living at the Oaks. He must have ordered my arrest. I’d be hanged for breaking the king’s law.

Just before the man dumped me into a tented wagon, someone called my name. My face hit the wagon floor but I paid no mind to the pain. The voice had been Owen’s. He was out there. “Help,” I gurgled. Struggling to my knees, I shoved my head through the tent’s flaps.

The man’s back was to me. Moonlight shone upon his head, weaving between strands of thinning, greasy white hair. Then he lunged forward and as he did, Owen’s face came into view. I rocked back and forth, desperately trying to catch Owen’s attention. But he stood, oddly frozen, staring into nothingness. Then his hand darted to his chest and he fell backward, hitting the ground like a sack of grain. He didn’t move. I called to him, the edges of the handkerchief pinching the sides of my mouth. Why wasn’t he moving? That’s when I noticed the knife in the man’s hand. The
man reached down and fiddled with Owen’s clothing, pulling free Owen’s snakeskin belt. “This will fetch a pretty price,” he said.