Dearest Read online

  “Well, don’t go doing it again.”

  Those gray eyes narrowed into icy slivers. “We may share a destiny, sir, but you do not know me, my family, or the chaos that skips merrily in our wake. I will very likely do that again, or worse, and you have no control over it now, nor will you. Understand?”

  It was eerie how her words mirrored the ones he’d felt only moments before. Tristan hadn’t had a woman put him so firmly in his place since before their mother died. He supposed he deserved it—he just couldn’t seem to control his emotions lately. “Yes, milady. Please accept my apologies, and my extreme gratitude for the healing.”

  “She’s not a healer,” the twins chorused.

  Friday grinned. “They’re a quick study.”

  “She’s a seamstress,” Christian finished with a smile. And then his smile fell. “A . . . seamstress,” he repeated, and then shook his head. “Milady, you have found yourself among a bevy of idiots.”

  “Sorry?” Tristan had no idea what his brother was on about. He was too distracted by those eyes, that smile, and the happy realization that she had not yet excused herself from his arms.

  Sebastien hopped up and slapped his thigh. “YES!”

  Elisa quietly covered her mouth with her hands.

  “It makes so much sense,” said François. “How could we have overlooked that? Has it been so long?”

  “The question is,” said Philippe with great condescension, “can she weave?”

  “Of course I can weave.” The princess seemed annoyed at the very idea that she might lack such simple knowledge.

  “Of course she can weave,” Tristan repeated breathlessly, and then cradled her tightly in his arms again, hugging her close. It was destiny. She was going to save them. She was going to help break this blasted curse and save them all. And if she did that, she could have his heart and what little else that came with it.

  Her cry from his shoulder was muffled. “What is going on?”

  Christian shoved Tristan back and took her hands. “Princess Friday. How much do you know about nettles?”

  5

  Prickly and Proud

  “NETTLES?” FRIDAY ASKED. “Like stinging nettles? The weeds.”

  “The very same,” said the elder blond man.

  Friday opened her mouth to begin answering the question, and then thought better of it. She’d recovered from the shock of her miraculous empathic magic—the skin of the wound pulled beneath her breast less painfully with every move she made. It was healing quickly, enough to rival even Saturday’s miraculous ability. Saturday, her younger sister with a destiny.

  It was no secret that other great forces had a hand in the lives of the Woodcutter family, Fate most of all. Friday looked up into her young man’s bright blue eyes again and risked losing herself there.

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. Enough was enough.

  It was time to play the princess card.

  “First things first.” She shoved against her young man’s now-unscarred chest and extracted herself from his arms. When she stood, the whisper of a breeze whistled in her ears. Goosebumps raised on her arms and she remembered where she was. The sky tower. Above her was nothing but stars; below her was nothing but darkness. She backed up against the Elder Wood door, away from the ragged edge that would haunt her nightmares for the rest of her life, and summoned her strength. “We still haven’t been properly introduced.”

  After a moment of exchanged glances—Friday was all too familiar with the kind of sibling-speak that needed no words—the elder dark one cleared his throat.

  “We are the former heirs to the throne of the Green Isles, in the far east, beyond the Troll Kingdom. Our parents and lands were taken from us by a usurper who wanted to force himself upon my sister. We stood against him, and for that we were punished by his sorceress. My brothers and I are cursed to take swan form by day and human form by night, when no man can look upon us.” Friday raised her eyebrows at that. “At least, until now. My sister is cursed with the glamour of a plain orphan girl. She is not mute, as you believe, but if she speaks a word to anyone before our curse is broken, the spell will last forever.”

  Friday was at a loss for words, but still felt she needed to say something to the girl. “I’m so sorry.”

  Rampion shook her head in forgiveness. It was not to be helped.

  “We call you Rampion.” Friday turned to the dark brother. “What’s her real name?”

  “Elisa,” he said. “I am Sebastien, the eldest.”

  “Christian,” said the man who had asked her about the nettles, presumably the second-eldest.

  “Rene and Bernard,” said Rene and Bernard, twins to be sure, but Friday could not discern which was which. They bowed and patted their copper heads in unison.

  “Tristan,” said her destiny.

  “Philippe,” said the angry brother, the one whose melancholy hovered like a black cloud above his head. His features and coloring were similar enough to Tristan’s for them to be twins too, but Friday guessed otherwise.

  “And François,” said the youngest, with a nod and flourish. “Elisa is one year my senior, though she’s been cursed to look younger.”

  “You are the reader,” said Friday, and François bowed his head again.

  “Like you, my intent was to be dedicated to the gods,” he said, “and it is still. It’s a path that requires much study.”

  Friday did not feel it was too impertinent to ask, “Which gods?”

  “The Four Winds. You might have noticed my sister is something of a windweaver herself.”

  “So that’s why the winds don’t carry us off right now. And why my candle never went out. And how you danced yesterday.” Friday turned to their sister. “You’re very good, Rampion. Oh . . . should I call you that?”

  “It is best that no one speak her true name outside this tower,” said Sebastien. “In case we are still hunted.”

  The girl pointed to her eldest brother, presumably showing that she agreed with his sentiment. Rampion is a fine name. I don’t mind it.

  “That may be, but I would not insult you.”

  And then Friday realized to whom she was responding . . . and how.

  “Ah. Oh my.”

  Elisa’s words had echoed perfectly in Friday’s ears, though she had not heard them in truth. It was the same voice she’d heard earlier: Your family has power! Heal him! And then: If you let him die, yours is not the only destiny that dies with him. Those words had prompted her to reach deep within herself and somehow take Tristan’s wound from him.

  Though they seemed to have caught the attention of gods and fey alike, no one in her family had ever performed such powerful magic without training . . . except perhaps Wednesday. Wednesday, who had been transformed here, and who had woven her magic into the rock so that it would never crumble. Friday realized now that the stones of the sky tower contained far more power than any of them had imagined.

  Elisa’s eyes were like saucers. Princess Friday, did you hear me?

  There was no reason to lie, though the brothers might pose more questions she could not answer. “It seems that I did.”

  Friday braced herself as the girl jumped into her arms. She was all spindly limbs and golden hair, reminding Friday of Sunday in younger days. From her spasms it felt like the girl was sobbing, but no noise came from her. Friday patted her back. “There, there. It will be all right.”

  Elisa pulled herself away; this time her eyes were wide with fear. I haven’t upset the curse with this, have I? Please tell me I haven’t.

  Friday squeezed the girl’s arms. “You can’t take all the blame; we are both part of this conversation. But you haven’t spoken a word out loud. I think the curse remains intact.” Friday snuck a glance up at the midnight sky, still full of stars with nary a cloud in sight. Upsetting a spell of this caliber would cause a storm, no doubt, and there didn’t seem to be anything brewing on the horizon.

  Elisa hugged her again, more gently this time, and rested
her head on Friday’s shoulder. Friday could sense the brothers’ combined tension and spoke to ease their minds. “Your sister is all right. She’s worried that she mucked up the spell somehow. I assured her she hasn’t.”

  “You can . . . hear her?” asked Christian.

  “It would appear so,” Friday replied. “I’m learning all sorts of new things about myself tonight. I only hope I still like me when it’s all said and done.”

  The twins chortled at her self-deprecating humor. They were so much like Peter that Friday suddenly missed her brother fiercely.

  It has to be me, Elisa told her. I have to be the one to weave the shirts of nettles for each of my brothers. They must don them before Mordant finds me and . . . binds me to him forever.

  “She’s telling me about your curse,” Friday said to the brothers. And then to Elisa, “I will help you however I can.”

  I tried once. I did not do a very good job. I could not finish. It was too painful. Elisa released Friday and walked dangerously close to the outer edge of the room to retrieve something. Friday couldn’t bear to look. She opened her eyes again at Elisa’s delicate touch on her arm. In Elisa’s apron was a crude mat of thick stalks, woven together to form a square roughly as long as Friday’s forearm.

  In order to make this mat, Elisa would have had to manipulate the raw nettle stalks barehanded. Friday could only imagine the pain such a creation required. “You poor thing.”

  “There must be another way,” said Christian. “I’m not sure any of us has the strength to watch her go through that again.”

  “There is another way to use nettle, but it has to be broken down and the fibers removed from the inside. Like flax.” Friday had learned to weave flax from the Sisters of the Earth Goddess. Sister Carol often told the story of an old mother with hands like leather who preferred nettle cloth to all else, but no one else was brave enough to manage the stubborn, prickly weed. After growing up in the Woodcutter household, Friday figured she was brave enough to manage anything. She put her hand to the wound at her side. Even destiny.

  The young man whose eyes she had been avoiding hadn’t moved from his spot on the floor in the center of the room. The exhaustion that the tower’s magic had kept at bay for so long swept over her with a force that made her stomach churn. Her eyelids felt like anvils and she tasted bile in her throat.

  “I will help you.” She swallowed quickly so as not to disgrace herself further in front of her new friends. “If you can weave wind, you can weave this. I promise. But I must come back tomorrow. Forgive me, I—”

  Friday lost her words and her footing at the same time, falling back against the Elder Wood door for support. Tristan lunged forward to rescue her again, but Elisa stood her ground between Friday and her brother. Friday was grateful for it. Another shock from him would certainly deplete what little energy she had, and she’d need every last bit to make it back down all those stairs.

  Elisa held an arm up to her brothers, palm flat out. Once she had made eye contact with each of them, she turned and put her arm around Friday, propping her up and bearing some of her weight.

  They understand that you are under my care now, said Elisa. I will help you back to your room.

  Friday was too exhausted to express her gratitude, too exhausted to stop Tristan from approaching them further. But when he came to the door, he merely opened it for them.

  “Thank you,” he told her once more. She blinked at him, hoping he would interpret that as an acceptance. He stood there as Elisa helped her out onto the landing and only bowed his head politely when they passed.

  “Oh, and Elisa,” he added.

  Elisa paused on the top step, tilting her head back to acknowledge him.

  “Be sure to let us know if she starts laying golden eggs.”

  Friday awoke to the quiet of her bedchamber. The sunlight peeking through the cracks in the curtains was so bright, Friday was surprised it hadn’t roused her sooner. Then she remembered the events of the magic-drenched night before and decided that a certain amount of exhaustion should have been expected.

  She sat up slowly. Her head felt foggy, but her mind was clear. She lifted a hand to the wound on her chest; she could feel a raised line of skin and the bumps from her stitches, but there was no pain. There was no blood either. Rampion—nay, Elisa—had managed to drag Friday’s half-conscious body out of her soiled clothes and into a nightgown.

  Friday knew what a feat that was. She had performed the same task with Saturday and Peter, on the rare occasions that they visited the local pub after a long day’s work and overindulged. Friday smirked at the thought of wild rumors of her inebriation spread among the parents. Her, of all people. Friday Woodcutter. The girl who did no wrong. The Princess of Children. Who would believe it?

  Dear Goddess. “The children!”

  The chamber door opened at her exclamation, and Conrad and Elisa came rushing through.

  “Everything is fine,” Conrad said calmly. “The children are hard at work and play as we speak. I started the rounds this morning, gathered them up, and set them to it. John, Wendy, Michael, and Kate are running the show. I’ve been checking in. It’s all fine.”

  “Which Kate?” Friday asked.

  Conrad took a moment. “I have no idea,” he said finally. “Does it matter? How are you? Rampion said . . . well, she didn’t say, but she gave me the impression that you weren’t feeling well.”

  Elisa-Rampion cocked her head and mimed a clap to applaud Conrad’s deductive reasoning.

  “Don’t you have something to fetch?” Conrad asked her playfully. Elisa stuck out her tongue and moved to pour a cup of tea from the service laid out on the table by the fireplace. As she placed it in Friday’s hands, Elisa stared at her intensely. The girl’s eyes, once bright blue under the night sky, were now a dull brownish-gray. Eyes, skin, clothes . . . everything about her was that same brownish-gray, as if she’d just stepped from the canvas of a faded portrait.

  More importantly, Friday could no longer hear Elisa’s words in her ears. “I’m sorry,” Friday whispered to the girl as she took the tea. “Thank you.”

  Elisa nodded slowly, and then went to find Friday some new clothes.

  “I’m sorry,” Friday said again to Conrad. “I—” She stopped. It was not in her heart to lie. “It was exhaustion.”

  It was obvious that Conrad knew there was more to her story, but he was clever enough to let it wait until she was ready. “It is not yet noon,” he told her. “I was heading down to Cook to fetch lunch. The children will be happy to see you are well.”

  “I would have you do something for me first, if you don’t mind, and then I will meet you in the kitchens.” She gave Conrad her instructions, and he quickly scampered off to obey them.

  “I know you’re disappointed in me,” Friday told Elisa after Conrad had left. “I cannot hear your words, but I can feel what is in your heart. I have not lost all my fey faculties. Do not lose hope.”

  Elisa nodded again but did not meet her eyes. She helped Friday out of her nightgown and handed her a cloth with which to wash herself from the basin. Friday ran the cloth over her wound, now but a thin line of scar tissue. She wished the water were colder so that her head might feel less foggy; she sipped more tea in an effort to that end. It was a weak brew, but Friday did not care to complain. The castle’s stores must surely be dwindling.

  Friday let Elisa help her into some clothes. None of the Woodcutters had ever needed a maid before that spring, but there were certain roles to be played in the palace, and Friday was determined to cause as little additional trouble to her sister as possible.

  When Elisa had finished tying a bow in Friday’s hair, Friday took her by the hands. “I will come to the tower tonight. I promise.”

  Elisa planted a soft kiss on her cheek and left the room.

  The children met Friday and Conrad halfway across the field. Friday took time distributing the contents of the lunch baskets, carefully doling out bits of bread and
cheese. She asked each child how he or she was doing, and assured the ones who queried that she was fine, just tired, but weren’t they all? When they reached the end, Friday sent Conrad back to the kitchens for a little more food, and tasked a few of the farmers’ children with foraging in case Cook had nothing else to give.

  She mopped her brow in the heat of the midday sun. There hadn’t been enough in the baskets for a lunch of her own, but it didn’t matter. A rest in the shade by the pond would suit her just fine. From there she could check on both her flocks: the children, and her now-feathered friends.

  There was already a girl sitting in Friday’s spot on the bank beneath the willow tree. She wore a plain skirt and blouse and a headscarf that obscured her face. Her feet were bare. Friday was about to introduce herself when she realized she didn’t have to. The pair of white pigeons in the branches above them twittered a hello at her approach.

  Without a word, Queen Sunday leapt up from the ground and into Friday’s open arms.

  In that embrace, Friday understood everything that Sunday wanted to say but could not. The weight of being a queen rested heavy on her young shoulders, and though she was brave enough to bear it, it exhausted her. Crowds of people had always exhausted Sunday, and with the country in turmoil, the audiences had been never-ending. She gathered strength from having Rumbold by her side, but Rumbold, too, was wearing thin. Such decisions they had to make—decisions about the fate of so many. There was no time for deliberation. The people of Arilland loved her and hated her, but they listened, and they carried on. Day by day, issue after issue, Sunday was feeling just as lost at sea as all those assumed perished.

  Friday squeezed tightly, reminding Sunday that in this small shadow of the world, under this small tree, she was just someone’s little sister. That someone would love her unconditionally, no matter what choices she made.

  Friday kissed her sister on the cheek. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”