Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
FRANKLIN
She stayed until the midday meal, chatting to herself and sewing her doll.
I still can’t believe she demanded the guards bring me a dessert.
The guards went from scolding her for visiting me without their knowledge to tripping over themselves to fulfill her demands in a single conversation.
Strings of her long brown hair escaped her braid as she carried on, giving her the appearance of a banshee.
No wonder the guards obeyed her. She was positively terrifying.
According to Lilyfair’s rants, the cook made her favorite spice cake for tonight’s banquet, and I had to try it. My raspy chuckle hurts my throat as I recall her outlandish behavior.
My siblings didn’t band together to keep me out of this dungeon when I couldn’t defend myself, and this little sprite—a perfect stranger—got me cake.
With a new doll that looks exactly like me and a slice of cake, today was better than my thirty birthdays with the herd.
She said she gives a doll to every new villager, but I’m locked in the dungeon.
Why did she feel the need to include me?
Why did she insist I get cake, risking the wrath of the Fae guards on both of us?
Will the bravest brat I’ve ever met visit again tomorrow?
The hours she sat outside my cell flew by, and now time drags.
It wasn’t the stimulating conversation or insider knowledge of the castle she gave me; it was her peaceful presence that changed my frame of mind.
Instead of pacing like a caged animal with my thoughts oscillating between escape and revenge, I could sit down and look past the humiliation of my confinement.
Now that she’s gone, I study the doll—not just the face and hair coloring, but the stitching and the care that went into the doll’s construction.
Each loop of thread is small, tight, and evenly spaced from the others, suggesting Lilyfair has practiced her craft for years.
The little wooden hooves on the legs are clumsily glued.
I bet this is her first hubull doll…which makes her gift all the more precious.
The more I inspect the doll, the more I wish to learn everything about its maker.
“There’s no need, Elm,” says a stately voice at the other end of the hallway.
I know Elm has been my guard since I arrived—mostly because Lilyfair used his name in her tantrum.
“He can’t do anything to me from within the cage.
Besides, you act like your old sovereign can’t hold his own anymore.
There may be snow on the roof, but the frame is still sturdy. ”
Heels clack toward me. The wall sconces alight one by one as the stranger passes them.
With the surveillance laps of the guards, I’ll never be able to catch more than a few hours of sleep before the sconces flare to life with their movements.
However, this stranger is a leader…could it be King Marigold himself?
Why would a king visit a lowly prisoner—alone?
If I were king, I’d have some underling visit the dungeons, so I wouldn’t have to smell the poop buckets.
Maybe the royal Fae have a birth defect of their noses, and they can’t smell the filth.
I'd better hide the doll before someone takes it from me. Although… I’d love to see Lilyfair’s reaction if she returned to find me without it. My hundredth smile since morning pushes at my snout.
“There’s our hubull,” says the stranger. “Glad you aren’t too cross.”
As soon as the sconce alights, I drop to my knees in reverence.
It is King Marigold, with a glittering crown and fur-lined cape.
The heels on his shoes aren’t as tall as the guards.
I bet he’s a head taller than any of them.
I should be plotting to kill him, not bowing so deeply that I’m admiring his shoes.
Why am I not ready to rip him apart with my bare hands for his crime of requiring a sentient individual in exchange for tax money?
There shouldn’t be a price on another creature’s head.
He probably thinks I find the large sum flattering, the way I genuflect with a stupid smile on my face.
Lilyfair must have bewitched me.
“It took the last hubull a few months to warm up to me, so I could apologize for bringing him here and explain the mission—your mission. I’m afraid we don’t have the same time frame, so I’m glad you have processed your anger. Well, stand up, son. Tell me your name.”
Now that we are standing face to face, I realize he is as tall as I am, and I revise my earlier estimate.
He must tower over the guards in their heels.
He’s fit too, but less bulky. His face is kind, despite the lack of lines I would expect a grey-haired man to wear.
In fact, if he dyed his hair, I would guess he was younger than I am.
“Your name,” he repeats with a lop-sided smile that makes his grey eyes sparkle.
Here we go. How long until he becomes frustrated and assumes I won’t answer because I’m being argumentative?
I don’t want to fight my captors—you lure more flies with honey than vinegar—but until they understand my mute nature, the fights will be inevitable.
To communicate to him, I clutch my throat and release a raspy moo.
“You can’t speak, can you?” he asks, lifting a perfectly arched eyebrow.
I nod and shuffle my hooves. Oh, wait, that’s it?
I drop to my hands and knees to push the dust into eight piles.
I shape the first one into an F, the second into an arch that will serve as a lowercase R.
When an elder gave us the opportunity to learn to read and write, I was the only hubull to take them up on it.
Of course, Bessy and Daisy were in the class too.
Petunia lasted a day. Maribelle lasted less than two.
While they saw it as another fun skill, I saw writing as my lifeline.
Until today, I never had another person to communicate with, so I’d given up on reading and writing as a way of connecting with someone else.
“They volunteered you because you couldn’t protest,” the King says with a sigh.
He kneels on the filthy floor, allowing his lavish cloak to lie in the dust. I should hate this man, but his power, combined with his patience, makes me want to lift his cloak and dust it off.
Feelings I will analyze in the many hours I suspect I will spend alone.
He waits as I form each letter. Why is my name so long?
Should I have stopped at Frank? When we meet eyes, he isn’t irritated in the least. He’s genuinely interested in my name.
“Franklin,” he reads when I’ve finished.
“Pleasure to meet you, Franklin. Thank you for your sacrifice. I’m not a cruel man, despite keeping you in my dungeon.
You may not believe that now, but the last hubull in your position came to understand me and, with time, felt the honor of what I’m asking from you. ”
I want to roll my eyes, but instead, keep them downcast. Disrespecting this benevolent ruler might keep me from escaping this cage.
I’m warm, dry, fed, and with a comfortable bed, but the walls are closing in on me.
Claustrophobia sits on the edges of my mind, threatening to turn me into a raging beast. The vast, purple sky, fields that go on for miles, and warmth from the twin suns are as necessary for me as breathing.
Making this man understand that I will do whatever he asks if he will house me in a field is my top priority…
much more than asking to return to the hucow sanctuary.
“I understand you met Lilyfair today—” he pauses to gauge my reaction.
Surprise forces my gaze to meet his. He gives a half-hearted chuckle.
“She leaves an impression on everyone she meets, so I’m not surprised she stole your heart, too.
I give her more freedom than I should, but she’s all I have of her mother, who was just as mischievous.
I’m a father before any other role and would do anything to ensure my daughter’s happiness…
even let her run wild throughout the castle. ”
He trails off and rises to stand. I stay on my haunches to give him space to collect himself.
His sniffs echo along the stone walls. I’ve never fathered a calf, so I can’t imagine what it must be like to watch your child stand at the cusp of starting their own family.
In the herd, calves are reared by the hucows who enjoy children.
Nobody is the calves’ parents. They belong to the herd and are loved equally by all.
The fact that he mentions his affection for Lilyfair warms my heart—no wonder she learned to be loving toward strangers.
“Lilyfair is sick,” he declares when he returns to stand over me. He extends his hand through the bars to hand me a jeweled compact. “Perhaps with time, I will trust you enough to give you the details—wait, who are you going to tell?”
Exactly. Who am I going to tell? My heart races and my breath puffs through my nose at the news.
The sweet woman who snuck to the dungeon to give the prisoner a gift of comfort is sick?
! I must know what she needs, and I will do it.
Of all the rotten creatures in Magmell, why is her golden soul stuck in a sick body? How sick is she? Is she dying?
“Yes, she did leave an impression on you,” murmurs Marigold. “That’s good. That’s good.” He nods as I take the tiny glass jar from him.
It’s blue but pearlescent, with tiny flowers carved into it.
I’m no flower expert, but I bet they’re lilies.
The Fae know their flowers. When I open it, I’m blasted with the smell of flowers and—what is that stench?
This makes no sense! The king doesn’t answer my quizzical look with more explanations.
I risk getting the stench on my snout and lift the jar to my nose. My head rears back in disgust.
What is that precious Fae lady doing with a jar of bull spunk?