Dearest Read online

  “I’m sorry, Highness, he did not,” said Conrad. “But his donkey’s name is Bobo.”

  “Then we will use the beast to find the man. Thank you, friend. Please stay; my wife will see you are taken care of. Velius, quickly!” The king leapt to his feet and ran out the door.

  Conrad stood quietly before the pretty young queen, unsure of what to say next. Her thin golden crown nestled deep in the golden hair that fell around the face of the girl in her lap. After a moment she held a hand out to Conrad. Since there was no one else in the room, he took it. Her eyes were as blue as the cloudless summer sky.

  “Thank you,” she said to him. “Thank you for saving my sister.”

  2

  Safely Delivered

  “RIGHT SIDES TOGETHER,” her teacher said. “Keep the stitches small.”

  “Yes, mistress.” Friday Woodcutter smiled graciously and did as she was bade, even though these tasks were things she had been doing from the time she’d been old enough to use the enchanted needle Fairy Godmother Joy had given her on her nameday. Friday was so ecstatic that she’d been apprenticed to the esteemed seamstress Yarlitza Mitella that she received every instruction, no matter how menial, with great joy.

  She had always enjoyed her time at church with the orphans as well, but Sister Carol seemed increasingly reluctant to instruct her further in the ways of the Earth Goddess. Friday did everything the Sister asked and made no secret of her desire to one day become a dedicated acolyte, but after several seasons of resistance, Friday had stopped pushing. The children loved Friday, and Sister Carol—whom she respected mightily—had never asked her to leave, so Friday continued returning . . . and continued ignoring the feeling that she didn’t fit in. She had her suspicions as to why she might not be the picture of a perfect acolyte, but she took a page from her mother’s book and kept those thoughts to herself, lest the Sisters toss her out for good.

  But here, lost in the slide of material in her hands and the magic needle pressed against her fingertip, the world felt right. Whatever path she was meant to follow, it would always involve this perfect expression of mending and creation: sewing. Every stitch she made was an offering of thanks to the gods.

  “Right sides together!” Yarlitza Mitella ordered. Friday loved the mellifluous cadence of her teacher’s voice. Mistress Mitella hailed from high in the mountains above Faerie, where the people had smooth magenta skin and silky black hair and everyone wore smart leather boots that seemed to last forever without ever appearing unfashionable.

  “Yes, mistress.” Friday checked for the ninth time that her material hadn’t magically turned itself inside out, and then cheerfully continued with her row of tiny, almost imperceptible stitches. The push of the needle and pull of the thread was meditative; Friday could have happily gone on like this forever.

  Mistress Mitella sighed loudly and threw her hands up in the air. Her teacher was the second-most animated person Friday had ever met (the first was her younger sister Saturday). “Do you know how this is supposed to work?”

  Friday paused her stitching and gave Mistress Mitella her undivided attention. “I admit I do not, mistress. I am blessed to be in your tutelage, and I promise to do everything in my power to be a diligent student.”

  “This!” Mistress Mitella swept her arms toward Friday. “This is what I mean. It is my job to give the instruction and it is your job to complain. We must argue. Your anger then challenges you to surpass even my own skills.”

  Mistress Mitella wanted her to be mad? Even if such a thing were in Friday’s nature, she was desperately afraid of losing her apprenticeship. “Between the orphans and my siblings, there is enough animosity in the world without my adding to it.”

  Her teacher plopped down on the cushioned seat next to Friday. The ruffles in her layered skirt echoed the fluttering of her hands. “I agree with you! And you are an excellent student!”

  “But you are still unhappy.”

  The mistress’s hands flew up in the air again. “How do I challenge you? Obstinacy, conceit—these I can instruct. I do not know how to teach to kindness and grace.” She said the words as if they were the worst traits a person could have, but Friday did not take offense. She had spent enough time around Mama to know otherwise.

  She could sense keenly the mistress’s frustration, but took care to guard herself and not let the emotions overwhelm her or the situation, as Aunt Joy had taught her. “I am afraid,” Friday admitted reluctantly.

  Mistress Mitella brightened. “Yes. I can work with fear. Of what are you afraid?”

  Heights, mostly, though Friday didn’t see how that was pertinent to their conversation. “I am afraid of disappointing you.”

  Mistress Mitella squeezed Friday’s pale fingers with her deep-red ones. “You won’t,” she said, but the words Friday heard instead were, “Make it fly.” Dark storm clouds gathered in the window behind her teacher. Lightning flashed in her teacher’s eyes.

  Storms like this meant magic, and lots of it.

  Friday bent her head over the material in her hands and challenged herself: right sides together, stitches small. “Fly,” she whispered into the thread. She did not know why she had been instructed to do this; she only knew that she must. “Fly.”

  Pain erupted behind her eyes and in the base of her neck, as if the lightning was now flashing inside her skull. Stitch by stitch. Impossibly tiny. Impossibly quick. “Fly.”

  The stitches turned red as liquid fire, dark as blood spilled from a pricked finger. The fabric slipped from her hands and spread itself out before her like the pages of an open book. Friday stepped onto the floating sheet. She soared through the ceiling of their sitting room in the palace, over the carriage that waited at the gate for them, and out above the white-capped waves of the crashing sea.

  This was her true fear come to life, though it diminished some with the sturdiness of the material beneath her and the breathtaking sight before her.

  A wedge of swans surrounded her, leading her south for the winter. There were seven, their white wings each spreading out to almost the length of a man, their unfeathered black masks cocked jauntily like fellow bandits.

  She felt the gentle brush of a wing at her side and shivered.

  “Stop that,” said one of the swans.

  “He said not to touch her,” said a second swan, with the voice of a young female.

  “He didn’t say that,” said the one who had touched her.

  “Yes, he did,” said the first swan. “I was right there. He said if you didn’t obey him, he was going to lock you in the stocks and let our sister beat you.”

  As the swans spoke, Friday’s floating material began to descend, and her with it. The birds didn’t seem to notice. Her fear of falling returned tenfold, gripping her heart in her chest with icy fingers.

  “That wasn’t a real threat. Besides, she hits like a girl.”

  “You think so?” said the first swan.

  “Keep it up and you’ll find out,” said the girl swan.

  The rest of their conversation was lost in a rush of wind as Friday plummeted to the ground. She opened her mouth to scream but there was no sound, no breath. Flailing, her limbs tangled in the yards and yards of material that enveloped her all the way down to . . .

  . . . her bed.

  A calmness settled within her breast, though her heart still ached from the phantom fear.

  Not completely sure of where she was, she remained still, eyes shut, and felt the room. The sheets above and beneath her were silk and satin. The air was crisp and cool and smelled faintly of wood smoke. She could hear birds, both outside the window and within. The wild ones beyond told her it was daytime, and that the weather was fine. Her feathered friends chirped of sunshine and not rain, not storm winds and floodwaters. Inside the room, the swans from her dream still argued among themselves in the comfortable pattern of sibling rivalry.

  She was not in the carriage. No longer in the company of her esteemed tutor. The bed that held h
er rescued body felt familiar, somewhere safe. The dream-fear in her chest melted as she woke. Happiness. There was happiness in this room, laced with concern. For her.

  “You are a Grand High Bugaboo, Mikey.”

  “Yeah, well you’re a gold-dipped bum-licker.”

  “Stop being ridiculous, Mikey.”

  “He started it!”

  “Pretty sure I didn’t invent being ridiculous. I would have remembered that.”

  Friday calmed herself and forced her mind to be silent. She would not worry the children with difficult questions that she knew would be answered in time. Orphans had enough complications in their lives without her adding to their burden. Friday sent a silent prayer to the Earth Goddess, whether or not she was listening, and called upon her strength. It was up to Friday to maintain what smiles she could in such a confusing moment.

  “Listen to my darlings,” Friday said with a voice far stronger than she felt. “Calling me back home with their sweet songs.”

  A trio of voices cried, “Friday!” and suddenly her bed was filled with children energetically clamoring for hugs. Somewhere at the foot of the bed, a dog barked. She could see the nose and front paws of a puppy still too small to surmount this obstacle. Judging by the size of his paws, it wouldn’t be an obstacle for much longer. He had a ways to grow. Just like her children.

  John and Wendy and Michael weren’t technically hers, but as orphans they weren’t technically anyone’s. Or, rather, they were everyone’s. They belonged to Arilland and were therefore the responsibility of its citizens. It was a burden Friday didn’t mind bearing.

  “Found a friend, did you?” she said, catching them all in a bear hug and nodding to the puppy.

  “He’s an orphan too,” said Michael.

  “He got lost, same as us,” said Wendy.

  “It was scary,” said John.

  Friday rubbed the boy’s back reassuringly. Not yet old enough to take on an apprenticeship, John played the role of protector to many lost children. He did not admit weakness lightly.

  She hoped her darlings had not experienced anything like the memories that flashed through her mind, all of them drenched in water the color of terror. Rain upon rain, puddles and rising seas as they desperately raced north. The screams of the horses. The tilt of the carriage. Mistress Mitella’s order for Friday to swim clear of the door . . . It was the last thing she remembered her teacher saying before the hungry waves consumed them.

  Friday’s heart sped up and her breath caught in her throat. She wasn’t sure if it was John’s concern she felt or her own, but it was there all the same. In an attempt to distract the children she said, “I’m so glad you are all here. I was just dreaming about you.”

  “You were?” asked Wendy.

  “Was I a pirate?” asked Michael. “Did I have a sword and kill trolls? Did I chop off their heads?”

  Friday laughed and tousled the boy’s hair. “Dearest Michael. Where do you come up with these things?”

  “I have dreams too,” said Michael.

  “Then one day you must tell me all about them. But today I will tell you about mine. Is that all right?” The three children nodded quietly. She wished Sister Carol were here to see them like this, all clean and obedient. According to the Sisters, Friday’s Darlings were usually anything but. This was not the church, though—Friday had surmised as much from her surroundings. She appeared to be back in the palace again, where her youngest sister reigned as queen.

  “All three of you were there. But there were no trolls, and no swords. You were all birds. We were flying.” She poked Michael in the nose. “And you were arguing.”

  “It would be a wonderful thing to fly,” sighed Wendy. “Imagine the places we could go.”

  “What kind of birds?” asked John. Ever the practical one.

  “Swans,” said Friday.

  “Swans?” said Michael, clearly disappointed. “But swans are—”

  The crash of a tray and breaking of glass against stone echoed through the room.

  Friday chided herself for not realizing that there was someone else in the chamber with them. A scrap of a girl with mousy hair and a scullery maid’s uniform stared at Friday instead of the mess at her feet. Her large, muddy gray eyes almost swallowed up her gamine face. The wave of sadness that washed over Friday nearly drowned her again.

  Friday slid out of bed without a second thought. “Let me help you,” she said to the maid, and then yelled, “FREEZE!” back to her obedient cygnets. “Do any of you have shoes?”

  In any palace but this, things like shoes would be required. John and Wendy shook their heads. Michael scowled.

  “Best stay on the bed, then. Michael, hold . . . what’s the dog’s name?”

  “Ben the Brave,” said Wendy.

  “Ben the Pest,” said John.

  “Ben the Troll Killer,” Michael corrected.

  The dog barked his own opinion.

  “Ben,” Friday compromised. “Keep him with you until we’ve managed to clean this up, all right?” Friday was mindful of her own bare feet as they touched the cool stone floor. Broken crockery was another thing with which she was intimately familiar, be it shattered by idle hands or angry ones. A family as large as the Woodcutters was not without its messes. She shook out the cloth napkin and began scooping up what she assumed was meant to be her breakfast, or lunch.

  The girl knelt beside Friday, thin fingers still covering her mouth, more in shock than shame. “Don’t worry.” Friday put the same tone in her voice that she used with new and particularly skittish orphans. “Everything will be fine.” The girl didn’t seem convinced. “Are you hurt?”

  “She won’t say nothing,” Michael called from the bed by way of explanation.

  “She’s mute,” clarified John.

  “Cook calls her Rampion,” Wendy filled in. “She’s the herb girl. She’s been taking care of you all this time.”

  “Taking care of us,” said John.

  Friday risked one of those difficult questions she’d been waiting to ask. “How long have I been here?”

  “Three days,” said a melodic voice from the doorway. “You’ve been blissfully asleep for three days. Wish I could say the same.”

  Friday looked up to see Velius, Duke of Cauchemar, standing beyond the threshold. King Rumbold’s cousin, advisor, and closest friend was—among his many other great powers—a skilled healer. Friday was honored that this man would oversee her care . . . though her sister would have not settled for less. His beautiful fey body was the picture of health from head to toe, though Friday could feel his exhaustion from across the room. The shadow of his lithe, dark silhouette hid another boy, scruffy and slightly older than John.

  Friday smiled and did her best to curtsey from her knees in the billowing nightdress. “Your Grace,” she said with an affected air. The children on the bed giggled.

  Velius bowed low to her and the scullery maid. “Princess Friday, how lovely to see you are doing so well that you’ve decided to throw your lunch across the room.”

  “I could not contain my joy upon waking.”

  “Indeed.” Velius motioned to the upturned tray, and the shadow behind him ran into the room. “Conrad will help your friend clear the mess you’ve made.”

  “Rampion,” Friday interjected. “Her name is Rampion.” It was important to Friday that every young person have a name besides “you there” and “child.”

  Velius bowed again. “Forgive me, Lady Rampion.” The mute girl blushed and bobbed her head politely, clasping her still-trembling fingers together tightly. Velius helped Friday back to bed while Conrad and Rampion quickly worked to clear away the spill. Even in the most elaborate finery Friday felt short, chubby, and ungraceful next to Velius; her current pitiful state did nothing to help her self-image. But she knew from the pressure of his hand that he cared for her as the sister of one of his dearest friends, and he wished her nothing but good will.

  “If the lords and ladies of the bed would e
xcuse us, I would like to see to my patient.” There was much moaning and groaning on behalf of Friday’s Darlings—and much whining on behalf of Ben the Conqueror—but the trio saw themselves out. Conrad closed the door gently behind them.

  Friday climbed back into bed, noticing as she did so the myriad scratches that ran the length of her legs. “Is Conrad your new squire?”

  “He’s yours, actually.” Velius released her hand and pulled a chair up to her bedside. “It was Conrad who found you washed ashore and saw you safely to the castle.”

  It was odd to think that she’d been washed ashore, since she’d never seen a seaside in her life. Now the mere mention of the ocean set her heart racing. Why? What had happened to her? More importantly: What had happened to the world she knew? Friday held her hand out to Velius again and he took it. Her friend. The voices in her head quieted.

  “How am I?” She wasn’t sure if Velius would know what she meant; she wasn’t sure she knew what she meant.

  “Remarkably well.” His voice was as smooth and rich as the silken sheets. “You may not heal at the rate that Saturday does, but it seems your body has the ability to set itself to rights quickly enough in its own time.”

  “That time being three whole days?”

  Velius patted the hand he held. “I was never worried. Nor was your family. Or the children.”

  “Thank you.” Wise Velius knew exactly what words would most console her. Doubtless he had consoled many a distraught woman in his time . . . a length of time few could quantify. The fey blood ran strong in Velius, as evidenced by his dark hair and fair skin, giving him the innate ability to outlive many a mortal man while always maintaining the appearance of a hale and hearty youth. His father, born mortal yet addicted to magic, reputedly resided in Faerie to this very day. In his sire’s absence, all called Velius “Duke,” though Velius would be the first to remind them that he could not truly hold the title while his father survived.

  “Forgive me, Friday, but I must ask. Do you remember what happened?”