Enchanted Page 6

  “Sometimes I imagine they’re all mine,” the woman’s voice whispered softly in her ear. “As though I’m a princess.” Sunday was so caught up in the designs, she hadn’t noticed the woman stand and move across to her. Her wide-set violet eyes twinkled, and a lock of ebony hair escaped her kerchief to curl dramatically against her fair skin. She must have been a pretty young girl; since she was now burdened with child, being a princess would ever remain a dream. Sunday pitied the woman and wanted to buy something. Would that really be so terrible? Grumble had known she would have to sell the golden ball to save her family, but surely he would have wanted her to purchase something for herself, a token by which to remember his kind gesture.

  Sunday’s hand hovered over an exquisite comb. She did not recognize the small stones set in the bridge, a blue so pale it almost seemed white. The etching around the edges was particularly fine ... Sunday bent closer. The tiny runes called to her. She could almost make out her name written among them. The woman picked up the piece, and Sunday wished she were holding the comb in her own hand. “Would you like to try it on?”

  Sunday couldn’t think of anything she wanted more. She had to touch the comb. She needed it. It was hers. It had been made for her. Could other people in the crowd not hear it singing her name? She stretched out her unworthy fingers to take the magnificent object.

  “Oooh, what have you found?” Friday’s chipper voice snapped Sunday out of her trance; the bump of her hip made Sunday miss the comb as she grabbed for it. “What a beautiful brooch. Sunday, did you see this?”

  Sunday scowled.

  “Any of my wares would be honored to decorate such lovely ladies.”

  “Thank you; you’re very kind,” said Friday, “but I’m afraid we have a long list of things to do today. Perhaps another time. Good day to you.”

  Sunday jabbed her sister lightly in the side as Friday escorted her away from the stall. “Friday, that was terribly rude.”

  “I’m sorry, but we don’t have time for dawdling. There are too many things to consider! Undergarments, for example. Have you even thought about what you’re going to wear beneath your fancy silver dress?”

  Sunday hadn’t. She was forced to concede and thank her lucky stars that she had a sister who thought of every detail. Then she was dragged to the next stall and the next, until she hated shopping so much, she never wanted to visit another fair for as long as she lived.

  “Friday,” Sunday said finally, “I beg you. I have to eat something or I’m going to faint dead away right here in the dirt.” Her head was pounding from the heat of the bright afternoon, the whirlwind of stalls, and the effort of quelling murderous thoughts about her sister. Her nose caught the scent of roasted meat and baking sweets in the air and her stomach churned noisily. “Please.”

  “Fine,” sighed her tireless sister. “Give me a few chits, and I’ll get some of the other things we need for the house. Find me when you’re finished. And no dawdling!” Sunday handed over the tokens and watched Friday’s patchwork skirts disappear determinedly around a corner. Oh yes. Friday definitely took after their mother.

  Sunday’s stomach growled again; she was overwhelmed by all the market had to offer. It was much easier when you were so poor you didn’t have a choice as to how you filled your belly. Now she could have anything her heart desired! She wanted everything, and deciding between it all was making her ill.

  She turned down another row, and the brilliant colors of a fruit seller’s wares captured her attention. There were baskets of juicy oranges, ripe bananas, and various other strange shapes she didn’t recognize, but they looked delicious all the same. The crown jewel, however, was the basket of perfect red apples. Sunday wondered at the bounty; it wasn’t yet the season for fruit of any kind. The seller must trade with ships from the south, she decided, or with Faerie. Growing up so close to the Wood, Sunday was fairly used to seeing such unusual things.

  She stood over the basket of apples, mouth watering. She could almost taste the crisp sweet flesh between her starved lips. ‘Excuse me,” she called to the back of the stall.

  A mass of tattered rags resolved into a haggard, hunchbacked, mostly toothless crone. “Coming, dearie,” she cackled. “Old bones, you see.”

  Sunday waited impatiently as the old woman leaned on her crooked walking stick and slowly limped her way forward. The woman cocked her head and gazed up at Sunday with lavender eyes almost completely clouded over with age. “What can I get you, my pretty?” she asked, her gnarled hand already reaching for the topmost apple. She held it out to Sunday, its deep red surface so shiny that Sunday could see her face reflected in it. Hunger tied her stomach in knots so tightly, she could hardly speak. She pulled out a chit to pay for the apple.

  There was a crash, and a cry of “I’ll have your ears, boy!” filled the air.

  Sunday exhaled.

  Trix.

  “For your trouble, grandmother.” Sunday pushed the chit into the old woman’s hand and hurried off to rescue her stupid, rambunctious brother. She found him half buried in an upended piecart.

  She grabbed Trix by an ear—the only part of his body not covered in juice and meat and pastry—and hauled him out of the wreckage. The pieman’s face was so red, he could have baked a few more pies right there on his forehead. His jaw clenched and little veins popped out at his temples.

  Any other day, Sunday would have been scared of this man and what he might do to her and her family. Today, she had a velvet purse at her waist and a boatload of confidence. “Please take this chit to Johan Schmidt the moneylender, sir. He can vouch for us and will reimburse you for your lost inventory.”

  The man stared at the small coin in his oversized hand. Sunday waited for him to open his mouth and cut her down to size. She clasped her hands together to hide their shaking ... and watched as the pieman’s color faded back to its normal ruddiness. He pulled the hat off his very bald head and clasped it to his aproned chest. “Thank ye, milady. Very kind of ye. I’ll visit him straightaway.”

  Oddities she could handle aplenty, but this went beyond anything she knew. Were the very rich always treated with such courtesy? She and her brother deserved to be yelled at by this man, no matter how much money they had in their purse. Be that as it may, she was thrilled to have avoided confrontation. She silently thanked the gods, and then pulled Trix along to find Friday. She paused to scan the crowd for her sister’s telltale skirts.

  “It was an accident.” The mischievous glint in Trix’s eyes betrayed him, as did the syrup encrusted in his hair.

  Sunday shook her head. “You look a mess.”

  He ran a finger along his cheek and sucked it. “A delicious mess.” From a pocket, he offered her a slightly mashed pie. “For you, milady.”

  In the excitement, Sunday had forgotten the hunger that had threatened to tear her apart. She took the pie gratefully. “Find a way to clean up,” she implored him. “Explaining you to Mama has only gotten me in trouble lately.” He agreed, and begrudgingly she left him on his own again.

  She found Friday gaping at an enormous array of ribbons. They hung from the stall in a million rainbows and swayed mesmerizingly in the wind, flashing and twinkling in the sunlight like fairydust. For the first time that day, Sunday was eager to help her sister.

  The young, black-haired shopgirl happily folded their selections carefully into bags. Friday and Sunday bought more ribbons than they could possibly need. When Sunday made to pay for everything, the shopgirl beckoned her forward with smiling, deep violet eyes. Sunday had never noticed before how many people at the market had similar eyes; no doubt they were somehow all related.

  “My family appreciates your custom, milady,” the girl said as she accepted the chit. “More than you know.” She pulled a bright blue ribbon down from the stall roof. “Please accept this as a gift with our thanks.”

  Sunday lifted her hair so that the girl could tie the ribbon around her neck. She was glad that she finally had something by which to reme
mber this day, something she didn’t have to feel guilty about buying, though she secretly hoped the girl included its price when she reported back to the moneylender. Sunday touched the silken strand at her throat reverently. “I will treasure it always.”

  “It matches your eyes.” The shopgirl bowed her head. Sunday politely returned the nod, and then ran to catch up with her siblings.

  Panser was at the moneylender’s stall; upon seeing them, the apprentice went to fetch his master. Schmidt appeared at once, smiling and rubbing his belly like a cat just finishing his cream. Sunday held her breath, anticipating the bargaining they’d put off that morning. “I trust you’ve had enough time to confer with your colleagues,” she said bravely.

  “Indeed I have.” Schmidt chuckled. “Indeed I have. You still have the purse?”

  Sunday placed the velvet bag of chits on the counter. She and her brother and sister had hardly put a dent in their quantity, but Sunday now wondered how preciously the man would value each. She watched carefully as Schmidt counted out the number of chits, placing them in uneven stacks. He had not counted them out before giving her the bag, and she scolded herself for not having done so the minute she got them.

  Schmidt snatched another bag from Panser, who was too busy exchanging smiles with Friday to pay attention. From it, Schmidt counted out one gold piece for every chit left on the table.

  Sunday was confused. The gold on the counter could be melted down to make a ball easily three times the size of Sunday’s bauble. Ah ... he would finish and then subtract what they had spent, thought Sunday, but Schmidt did not. He slid the stacks of gold coins into the velvet bag and pulled the closing string taut.

  “There you are, my dear. Panser has arranged a cart for you and your purchases.”

  She tried to say nothing, but this was too much. “Sir, I think—”

  Schmidt peered sternly at her over his thick glasses. “You’re not second-guessing me, are you, young woman?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then take the bag and hie you home. Give my best to your fine parents.”

  “Yes, sir,” she whispered. The bag was almost too heavy to lift. “Thank you, sir.”

  Panser led them to the cart where the spoils of their day’s labor waited. He helped Friday up onto the seat near the driver. Sunday and Trix climbed into the back with the bags and barrels.

  The gold weighed so heavily in Sunday’s pocket that it pulled on the front of her dress. She adjusted her pinafore so that the bag would sit more comfortably in her lap. Had they really been so frugal in their shopping? Sunday might have dissuaded her sister from her brutal bargaining, but Friday had loved every moment of it, and Sunday never would have stood in the way of her sister’s enjoyment.

  Stranger still was the ride back through the Wood, on the same road they had walked to get to the market. The path was clear now, as if there had never been a storm at all. Only one sizeable branch blocked their way home. The driver stopped the cart to remove it, dragging it into the brush past a pillarstone and a crooked tree.

  Oh, Grumble. It would be such an easy thing to hop off the cart. There was still a good bit of daylight left. No one would miss her, or the coins in her pocket, as they were hardly expected. But Trix would want to go with her, for sure, and then Friday would be offended if she was not invited to follow.

  Sunday turned to look up at her sister perched prettily on the high seat. Dear, good, sweet Friday, with a heart of purer gold than any bauble that man or fairy could produce. Lovely Friday, with her mahogany hair and her eyes like gray smoke and the patchwork skirts that surrounded her like a halo of love. Sunday had seen how Panser fawned over Friday. They all fawned over her. For all Sunday knew, she herself was the only girl Grumble remembered. And for all that he might love her, Sunday did not know him well enough to trust that he would still love her after meeting her beautiful sister.

  Sunday fingered the silk ribbon around her neck, the only tangible memory she would have of this day, and she felt a familiar vileness course through her. She knew what she was. Ungrateful. Selfish. Jealous. Wicked. Evil. There was no hope for it.

  Trix followed her gaze to the pillar and then back to meet Sunday’s eyes. He raised an eyebrow in question, and she shook her head. She did not want to share Grumble, even if it meant sacrificing another day in his company.

  The driver finished with the limb and continued on the journey home. When he reined in at the front of the house, he offered to stay and unload the purchases. Friday batted her eyelashes. Sunday thanked him. Trix raced to the door, no doubt eager to tell their parents the fantastic story of an upset piecart and their newfound fortune.

  “Mama! Papa! Wait until you...” Trix’s words drifted into nothing.

  They stared at the stranger by Mama’s side. The woman was roughly a head taller than their mother but looked several years younger. Her very dark hair was pulled up into a loose bun, and the fire’s reflection flickered in her equally dark eyes. She wore a tidy wool skirt and a crisp linen shirt with lace and a small brooch at the collar.

  Had she been a few years younger still, she would have been the spitting image of Wednesday.

  Sunday had no desire to speak. She let her sour expression introduce her.

  “Well, well,” said the woman. “It seems I have arrived just in time.” She walked up to Sunday, pulled the silk ribbon from around her throat in one clean snap, and tossed it into the fireplace.

  Sunday watched her beautiful gift smolder in the flames. As it burned, the fire around it turned green. Bilious smoke rose from it to hover above the logs. The smoke folded itself into the image of a snake that hissed and spat at them before evaporating up the chimney. What was left of the ribbon fell into ash.

  Sunday turned on the woman. “Who are you?”

  “Of course you don’t recognize me, child. You were too young.” She took Sunday by the arms and kissed her reluctant cheeks. “I’m your Aunt Joy.”

  6. Grim Harmony

  IT TOOK RUMBOLD a while to realize that the fire had gone out. After months of greeting the dawn amidst the constant hum and bustle of Wood life, he felt a bit hollow and alone. Odd. He’d never imagined that he would miss anything from that enchanted otherlife. Here in the castle there was no buzz of insects, no hoot of owls about their nightly business, no rustling in the underbrush. No pale glow of moonlight fell from the heavens to light false paths in the darkness. The wind didn’t whisper across the surface of the water as it lapped against the sides of the well.

  But there was whispering.

  A fear from his childhood seized his heart with renewed vigor. The whispers had always lingered in and around his boyhood bedchamber in the witching hours, pestering him, filling his head with susurant syllables. If he stopped up his ears so he couldn’t hear their disembodied chatter, they would hunt him down at the dining table or in the receiving chamber. They had faded with time, or perhaps his memories of them had simply faded with age.

  While a frog, he had learned to survive within the constant conversation of the Wood. There it had guided him, reassured him. Here, the whispers shook him to his core.

  Instinct screamed at him to hide, to pull the sheets over his head and plug his ears. He pretended the strange sounds were simply servants murmuring down the hallway. They were not in the room with him, not mouthless cries from beyond the veil, not long-ago memories soaked in stone and built into the cold, confining walls around him. He told himself stories, imagining the words being spoken in Sunday’s sweet voice as the sun reflected off her golden hair and illuminated his soul. He concentrated on her sun-kissed skin, her lips like rose petals, her eyes like sapphires—

  Alwaysss.

  The drawn-out “s” caught his ear. Had he really heard the word? There had never been words in the whispers before, just an unintelligible mishmash of discordant sounds. Rumbold focused on extracting that one word from the noises in the ether. He was a man now, not a child. Instead of running from the whispers, he tried t
o listen for them. To them.

  He honed in on a bass line: a low, syncopated thrumming like the beat of a heart. It could have been saying his name: Rumbold. Rumbold.

  A note above that was the sibilant whisper, the words finally coming together for him in a hushed phrase: I will always be with you.

  There was a sadness in the message, of lovers torn apart or family separated by time and grief. The lonely ache of it echoed inside him. As he embraced its discovery, he accidentally stumbled upon the next: Kill me.

  Rumbold’s shivers began again, and he regressed steadily into the fears of his youth. The whispers would no longer fade back into noise for him now. Each of the words was distinct in his mind, and together they haunted him with their grim harmony.

  Rumbold. Rumbold. Rumbold.

  I will always be with you.

  Kill me.

  Free me.

  Over and over and over again ... For all that he had initially strained to hear it, the dissonance was now deafening. He leapt out of bed—stumbling on foreign legs—and felt his way to the fireplace. If the whispers were tied to the darkness, perhaps chasing the darkness away would quiet them.

  He scrabbled about on the floor; clean-swept stone finally yielded to ash and soot. He blindly searched for logs, kindling, flint, and steel. Of course, once he had them he had no idea what to do with them. He had managed to stay alive in the Wood as a frog for months, but seeing to the needs of a human body was a very different thing.

  Kill me.

  Free me.

  Try as he might, his meager sparks could not convince the wood to burn, so Rumbold pulled off one of his woolen bed-socks. On the third strike, the fibers caught and smoked. He laid the sock across the haphazard pile of logs, and finally they took up the blaze. The whispered words faded slightly, if only hidden under the crackling of the new fire. He peered back at his half-curtained mattress still shrouded in shadow.