Enchanted Page 5

  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.”

  5. Wicked

  SUNDAY 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.

  Sunday followed Trix over a large boulder to avoid a splintered tree. She was too young to remember Monday’s storm, but she would remember this one. Godseen or not, it had certainly caused a ruckus.

  Friday twittered all the way to market, as if Sunday and Trix cared anything about threads or buttons or ribbons. Trix did cartwheels while Friday went on about hems and ruffles. Sunday imagined shapes in the clouds during Friday’s lament over the lack of time for proper embroidery. Sunday watched Trix, making sure he didn’t wander off. Friday wondered if they would have enough money left over for lace. “A luxury, to be sure, but just a bit of trim, you understand...”

  Sunday halted when the pillarstone and the crooked tree came into view. They were her markers for the path to the Fairy Well, to Grumble. The temptation to leave her siblings was overwhelming, but Friday was far too sweet to take the upper hand with Trix. Who knew what mess they would make alone? It would be hard enough handing the precious bauble to a moneylender.

  “Sunday?”

  Friday was calling her name. Sunday realized that she had frozen there, staring off into the Wood. Trix slipped his hand into hers and squeezed it. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m fine. Let’s carry on.” Carefully, they continued together along the broken path.

  The Woodcutter family had dealt with Johan Schmidt many times over the years; he loved hearing good stories as much as Sunday’s father loved telling them. His hair had grown thin as his glasses had grown thicker, and he’d developed a stoop from poring over parchments and stacks of coins. He was scowling over a parchment even as they approached.

  “Ridiculous,” he muttered. “Simply preposterous. Why, it’s just ... Miss Woodcutter! So good to see you today.”

  “Good morning, Mister Schmidt,” said Sunday. “How are you faring?”

  “Fine, fine. How are your good parents?”

  “They are both in excellent health, thank you.” Sunday held the ball tightly in her pocket, hers for a few last precious moments. “I hope you can help us with something ... of a slightly peculiar nature.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “‘Peculiar’ for a Woodcutter is peculiar indeed. I’ll certainly do my best to be of assistance.”

  “I wonder how much you might exchange for this.” The ball met the tabletop with a graceless thud. Her hand felt too light and empty, sorrow where there had once been substance.

  Schmidt stared at the bauble. He looked at the parchment in his hand, at Sunday, and then back at the bauble again. He lifted the ball in his fingers. “Well, I never.” The moneylender cleared his throat. “Panser!”

  A thin young man in a too-large suit stepped forward. Friday bowed her head without hiding her grin at the fellow’s shaggy dark hair and ruddy cheeks. Panser grinned back shyly at Friday and nodded politely to Sunday. “Yes, Master Schmidt?”

  Schmidt’s eyes were still glued to the golden ball. “Fetch that purse on my desk. The purple velvet one. And be quick about it.” Schmidt adjusted his thick glasses and peered over them at Sunday. She braced herself. He would now offer many times less than the little ball was worth, and she would argue about whatever he brought to the table. She had watched her father enough to know how the game was played. She could do this.

  Schmidt cleared his throat again. “Miss Woodcutter, I need to confer with some colleagues as to the right amount to offer for such a rare and peculiar item.”

  “We can wait,” said Sunday.

  “I’ll be quite some time—we old men enjoy quibbling over peculiarities.” Panser returned with the velvet bag, and Schmidt offered it to Sunday without opening it. “I would not wish to keep you from your shopping. Use this bag of chits to make your purchases. They have my seal on them, and I will vouch for you at any stall.”

  After Trix’s misfortune, Sunday was wary about trading her worldly goods for a handful of anything. She untied the bag the old moneylender had tossed to her. Inside was a quantity of metal tokens with a dragon stamped upon them, a derivation of the royal seal. If each chit was worth even a half-silver, it was more than she ever wanted to spend in one day. “But, sir—”

  Schmidt held up a hand. “Trust me, young woman, you will not buy enough here today to waste this bauble’s worth. Tell the stallke
epers to have your purchases sent here.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She bobbed a small curtsey and let Friday drag her away before he changed his mind.

  At Trix’s insistence, Sunday pulled a few chits out of the velvet bag. She handed them to him with a stern warning. “Absolutely no buying more cows, or trading for more beans, or riding centaurs...”

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be careful.” With that, he disappeared into the crowd.

  From stall to stall, Sunday watched her sister haggle over scraps and trimming. For all her good nature, Friday drove a hard bargain—perhaps Mama’s traits hadn’t completely passed her by after all. It didn’t take long for the fascination to wear off, however, and Sunday let wares in other stalls catch her eye. Such distraction was in itself a luxury; the very poor couldn’t afford to let browsing get the better of them.

  Friday refused to carry the purse—a fact she used as a bargaining tool—so Sunday did her best not to wander far. She lingered by a goldsmith, missing both her golden bauble and her friend, while Friday cheerfully argued the finer points of lace. A woman heavy with child sat behind the stall, fanning herself despite the cool morning. “You’re very pretty,” she told Sunday.

  “Thank you.” Sunday wasn’t used to compliments.

  “Can I help you find something?” The woman placed a hand on her lower back and began lifting herself out of the chair.

  “No, please.” Sunday held up a hand. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’m afraid your wares are a bit too extravagant for the likes of me.”

  The woman smiled in relief and settled back down. “I know what you mean,” she said. “We can scarce afford to make them. But they are nice to look at, aren’t they?”

  “Yes,” Sunday admitted. She was having a hard time looking away. The necklaces and bracelets were simple and elegant. The rings were intricately detailed and set with small precious stones. Judging by the woman’s ragged gown and paper fan, she and her husband were forced to concentrate more on quality than quantity. It was a wise decision—the smaller pieces demanded a closer look and so stood apart from other stalls’ bland accoutrements.