Chapter 5
Chapter Five
ATLAS
Atlas scowled and crossed his arms at the trembling man standing guard at the castle gate. “I need to speak to the king.”
“I–I’m afraid that’s im–impossible,” the guard stammered, his shaking hands hovering over the hilt of his sword. “Th–the king is…” He swallowed. “The king is dead.”
Atlas blinked in surprise. Huh. That bit of news didn’t make it up the Beanstalk. “Then I need to speak to the queen.”
“Sh–she’s also unavailable.”
“The princes, then? Surely one of them is available. We have seven.”
One of whom stole Phoebe.
A quick polling of the townsfolk at the base of the mountain had revealed the young man matching the description of the goosenapper had been none other than Jacques, the youngest prince and a known troublemaker.
The guard shook his head. “I’m sorry, s–sir. The princes aren’t here.”
“What are you saying? There must be some representative of the royal family that I can speak to.” Atlas forced his words through clenched teeth. “I need to lodge a complaint.”
“I’m sorry,” the guard repeated. “You’ll have to come back later.”
Atlas closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, forcing himself to remain calm. “Fine.” He opened his eyes. “Last question: You wouldn’t have happened to see a goose somewhere around the castle, would you?”
He didn’t think it possible, but the guard paled further. “A–a goose?”
“Yes. You know what those look like, right?”
“Well, see, the thing is…there have been an awful lot of geese a–and ducks and swans on the grounds. It was a harmless prank, I’m told.”
“And…?”
“Well, some of them are still here, but I saw several flying away towards the lake earlier today.”
That must be Phoebe. She’s probably trying to find her way home.
With a muttered, half-hearted word of thanks, he turned on his heel and stalked back down the road in the direction of Lake Lossos.
His long legs ate up the distance easily, and the dark expression on his face ensured that he remained unbothered and that anyone he passed on the road stayed far away on the other side.
Still, it was late afternoon by the time he reached the lake, and he was more than ready to find Phoebe and return home.
His shoulders slumped and he let out a growl of frustration as he took in the expanse of water before him, realizing that locating Phoebe somewhere in the miles of shoreline would be more of a wild goose chase than he had anticipated.
Lake Lossos was large enough that he couldn’t see across to the other side, and the shore was dotted with rock formations and thick patches of grass and other greenery that would be the perfect hiding place for a frightened goose far away from home.
He started walking along the edge of the water, choosing the direction that would keep him on the side of the lake closest to the castle, and cupped his hands around his mouth to yell, “Phoebe! Where are you?”
Nothing but the sound of the water lapping against the pebbled sand and distant birdsong from the surrounding forest met his ears. He trudged forward, moving slowly and swinging his head from side to side. “Phee, it’s time to go home.”
A flash of white on the water caught his eyes, and the tail end of some kind of water fowl disappeared behind a large, rocky outcropping. Atlas quickened his step. “Phee?” He had to climb up a short hill to get to the other side of the rocks, and as he crested the hill, he froze.
The small flock of swans drifting in the water and sitting on the shore was disappointing, but expected.
The woman with the flaxen curls and a face that would make an artist weep with joy, sitting barefoot in the sand while pulling apart what appeared to be a pile of plant stems was…not.
She startled at his approach, looking up at him with the bluest eyes he had ever seen. They widened at the sight of him, and he could see her entire body tense like a coiled spring.
“I’m sorry.” He held out his hands and stopped moving. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m not going to hurt you.”
She continued to eye him warily.
“I’m looking for a goose. I don’t suppose you’ve seen any around here?”
Atlas looked at the swans as he spoke, hoping that perhaps Phoebe had hidden herself in their ranks.
He stepped toward them for a closer look, when suddenly the woman was on her feet, planting herself between him and the birds, holding her arms out at her sides as if somehow, she could keep him from seeing them.
Her eyes sparked with fierce determination.
“I’m not going to hurt them. I’m just looking for my goose.” He tried to step around her, but she moved with him, blocking his way.
His patience, already worn thin, snapped, and so did he. “Get out of my way.”
She held her ground, moving with him step for step as he attempted to go around her the other way.
Atlas had enough. “Move.” He wrapped his hands around her upper arms and picked her up, setting her to the side.
As soon as he released her, she leapt at him like a feral cat, pounding her fists against his back and trying to pull him backwards by his shirt.
He turned, gripping both her wrists in one hand and holding her in place against his side while he searched the area of the water obscured by the grass and rocks.
“I told you: I’m just looking for my goose. ”
Once satisfied that Phoebe wasn’t concealed somewhere in the vegetation, he released the woman and put some distance between himself and the swans. They floated in the water, looking on with a detached interest and showing no signs of feeling threatened.
The woman, on the other hand, was glaring daggers at him.
She rubbed her wrists, and the movement drew his eyes to the red, irritated skin on her hands.
Guilt prickled in his chest. Ms. Fumley would have his hide if she knew how he had just manhandled a defenseless woman.
“Did I do that?” He gestured with his chin to her hands.
“I’m sorry if I hurt you. You just…wouldn’t get out of the way. ”
Her hands dropped to her sides and she lifted her chin in challenge. Her eyes flashed accusingly, but she said nothing.
Atlas blew out an exasperated breath and shoved a hand through his hair. “I think we started off on the wrong foot. I’m Atlas.”
She answered with a sullen glare. The sun was setting now, bathing her hair and skin in golden, fiery hues.
Now that he was paying closer attention, he could see that her white dress, though plain at first glance, was expertly tailored and boasted subtle lace details that shimmered when they caught the light.
She held herself like royalty, despite the streak of dirt on her face and her lack of shoes.
She obviously comes from money and status. The nobility are the only ones who would wear a dress like that and go wading in the lake like it’s no problem. But what is a woman like this doing alone by a lake?
He tried again. “Are you lost?”
She lifted a single eyebrow, as if judging him for the perfectly reasonable question.
“A ‘yes’ or ‘no’ would be more helpful,” he offered, the regret at his earlier treatment of her slowly evaporating. “And the customary response when someone introduces themselves is to return the favor.”
She stared, blinked twice, then turned on her heel and walked back to the pile of greenery. She lowered herself gracefully to the ground, picked up one of the long stems, and began pulling off the leaves.
He was close enough to recognize the plant, and Atlas sprang forward, plucking the stem from her grip. “That’s stinging nettle!” The back of his hand was already burning from where the leaves had rubbed against his skin. His fingers, calloused as they were, fared slightly better.
The woman huffed in annoyance and picked up another nettle.
“What are you doing? You’re going to hurt yourself.” This time, when he tried to grab the plant away, she whipped it behind her back. Her eyes dared him to try again. He stepped back and threw the nettle to the side, muttering, “You need help.”
The sun dipped below the horizon, shifting the shadows to shades of blue and purple.
“What I need,” the woman said with enough ice in her voice to put a chill in the air, “is for you to stop manhandling me and taking my nettles. Is the air so thin up there that it’s caused you to forget your manners, or do you just assume you can get away with being rude because no one else is strong enough to fight you? ”
His jaw dropped, both at the sound of her voice and at the scathing words. “You can speak?”
She looked at him as if he had said he owned a harp that could sing. “Of course I can speak.”
Atlas crossed his arms defensively. “Why didn’t you before?”
“Because the sun hadn’t set.” She spoke as if her answer were the most obvious thing in the world and turned her attention to gathering all of the nettles into her arms and placing them next to a rock far from the water’s edge.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
She breezed past him to where he had dropped the nettle and scooped it up with a pointed glare before adding it to the pile. “It just does.”
He shook his head helplessly. “I’m confused.”
She rolled her eyes and planted a hand on her hip, staring him down with the ferocity of a tiny, yapping dog. “I’m breaking a curse. One of the requirements to do so is that I need to be silent while working on it.”
“And the significance of sunset is…?”
“When the sun sets, it’s too dark to work. Also there are apparently large men in the area who don’t understand how to respect personal space, so I need to block off time after sunset to tell them to go away.”
Atlas dropped his hands and exhaled heavily. This woman is testier than a cornered bobcat. “I already apologized. I’m sorry if I hurt you.”
Her smile was false. “That’s a horrible apology; I don’t accept.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I don’t accept your apology.”
“Why not?” He was feeling defensive again, and despite the fact that he knew he should keep moving if he wanted a chance at finding Phoebe before it was completely dark, there was something about the woman that left him unable to leave until he had some answers.
Who is she? Why is she here? What in Eukarya does she mean by a curse?
“Why not?” she scoffed. “Because you didn’t actually take ownership of your actions. You apologized if you hurt me—meaning that you don’t actually think what you did was wrong, you only feel bad for the resulting pain. Which there wasn’t.” She added the last words quickly.
“No, that’s not—” He started, but she cut off his words with a wave of her hand.
“Not that I’ll be losing any sleep over it. You’re going to be on your way, aren’t you? Something about a goose?”
“Phoebe.” He frowned, still dissatisfied with her assessment of him. For all that he liked to be alone and played into his reputation as a frightening giant to achieve that peace, he didn’t actually want to be cruel.
“Fee what?”
“My goose—her name is Phoebe. I’ve had her with me since she was a gosling.”
She tilted her head to one side, considering him. “Huh. I wouldn’t have pegged you as a name-the-goose type of man.”
“What kind of man would you have called me?” Atlas discovered that he was strangely invested in her answer.
“The kind that manhandles women when they don’t get their way,” she deadpanned.
“I said I was sorry!”
She lifted a brow.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before amending, “I mean, I am sorry. I shouldn’t have touched you.”
“Thank you,” she answered primly.
“In my defense,” he began, and she threw her hands up in exasperation and stalked to the rocks at the water’s edge. She pulled a pair of shoes from somewhere in the shadows and tugged them on as he pressed on. “In my defense, you weren’t being very communicative and kept getting in my way.”
“Which should have communicated to you that I didn’t want you over there!”
“I’m looking for my goose.”
“And I’m trying to keep the swans alive long enough to break their curse. For all I knew, you were here to take advantage of the situation. The only one around here allowed to wring their necks is me.”
There was too much information spinning around Atlas’s brain to make sense of it all. “I thought you were trying to break the curse?”
“I am.”
“Then why are you talking about wringing their necks?”
“I didn’t say I would,” she muttered darkly. “Only that I’m the only one allowed to do it.”
“I see.” He didn’t really, but nodded slowly as if he did, anyway. “Are they…friends of yours?”
“No.” She smiled that sweet, fake smile again. “They’re my sons.”