Chapter 4 A Dirty Forest Man
Lem
I do not like this forest.
The fairy—or nymph, or ghost, or whatever it was—has long disappeared by the time we scramble upstream.
“You don’t expect me to mend those trousers, I hope.” Henry eyes the flapping fabric on my knee.
“You shouldn’t have let that branch snag me.”
“There,” he says. The mossy bridge I’d seen the figure cross is just in front of us. He walks to it.
“You can’t go across,” I object.
He frowns. “Why not?”
“It looks like it’s only held together by algae and hope.” I wrinkle my nose. “It will crumble as soon as you step on it, and you’ll plunge to your death.” I approach the bridge more cautiously than he had and peer down over the edge of the bank.
The ground has risen enough that it is a bit of a drop, and the rocky stream beneath looks unforgiving, if the algae and hope decide to give way.
“You said the fairy-person crossed it before,” he argues. “And the bridge is still holding.”
“I think you’re heavier than a fairy.”
Henry might be too polite to tell me he’s going anyhow, seeing as I’m technically his prince—
“I’m crossing anyhow.”
—or he might not. “I could have you flogged for this insubordination, you know.” I straighten my jacket and inch closer to the bridge.
“Cleaning those trousers will be punishment enough.” Henry’s tone is still jovial. “You stay here. I’ll find whatever it was you saw and bring her back.”
I bite my tongue and watch him pick his way across, grimacing when a chip of stone breaks under his heel. “You know I can’t swim, so if you fall, you’re on your own,” I grumble toward his back.
“If I fall, you’ll have to go back to the king and queen on your own.” He tests the next stone.
“Don’t joke about that!”
Henry spares a glance over his shoulder. I try to look less pale and nervous than I feel.
“I’m not joking,” he says lightly, and marches across.
Agatha
Stupid, stupid, stupid fairy. Anything else—literally anything else!—would have been fine! But this Gift?
How am I supposed to shmooze with a houseful of suitors tonight if every time I open my mouth, my thoughts come out?
What am I going to say to Father?
I’d better practice.
I’ve been marching through the woods, away from my thoughtless godmother’s glade, but I take a breath and force my feet to stop. No use rushing back home like this; I’ll never be able to keep my Gift a secret.
“Oh yes, Father.” I look up at the trees looming above me. “Melusine gave me …” I try to say “the traditional Gift,” but instead my traitorous lips say, “the most useless and idiotic curse of free speech.”
I grind my teeth together. So I really can’t lie. There must be some other way around it. I try again a few more times, willing my tongue to form something unsuspicious to tell Father.
None of it works.
No matter what I attempt, my mouth refuses to form the words I need. I suck in a breath and start walking again. I have to come up with something. There must be something …
I keep muttering under my breath. If I can’t say an outright lie, I need to at least suppress some of this profanity that keeps coming out.
“I’m sorry, Father,” I practice. “Melusine didn’t give me the Traditional Gift.
” The first few times I say it, Melusine’s name is appended with some colorful language, but by the fourth or fifth repetition, I’m capable of saying it blandly.
I suppose that’s my Poise coming through for me.
And I still have my Charming Voice, so no matter what I end up saying, at least it will sound nice?
I kick a pebble. “Curse you, Melusine,” I grumble. This is making my day much more complicated.
Shafts of golden sunlight illuminate a clearing in the trees ahead of me, where the forest pulls back a bit from the edge of the stream.
I march onto the bridge, my feet silent on the moss-covered stones, and pause in the center.
Closing my eyes, I practice again, this time mouthing the words.
“I’m sorry, Father.” I should be able to say that; I am sorry.
“Melusine gave me a non-traditional gift again.” Bland enough, if I can refrain from attaching a curse to my godmother’s name.
“She thought it would make me a … better communicator.” Again, true, even if I have many more thoughts on the subject.
I mouth the words over and over, then move on to whispering, trying to force my thoughts to match what I want to say.
“My—my lady?”
A man’s voice startles me out of my trance. My eyes fly open and I take a step backward, pressing a hand to my heart. On the opposite bank, a man kneels. He’s covered with twigs and mud, and there’s a puppy-like, adoring expression in his eyes.
I’ve seen that look before. I have that effect on men.
“I’m sorry to interrupt you,” he continues. “Are you—uh, are you one of the ladies of the wood?”
I blink, but don’t answer, afraid of what I’d say if I opened my mouth.
He waits hopefully. The silence stretches on.
“We’ve—I’ve—anyhow, I’m looking for a godmother,” he finally says. He coughs, probably embarrassed. He shouldn’t be; all sorts of fools wander these woods looking for a fairy.
I survey his outfit more critically. Fine tailoring, though snagged with brambles.
I don’t recognize his face, with a scar covering the left side, and I know everyone of note in Candor.
Not a local, then. Some desperate simpleton with just enough money to think he’s important, but not enough to solve his problems.
A bird chirps from somewhere deeper in the forest, breaking the silence that’s probably growing awkward for the poor fellow.
“Are you—are you a godmother?” He shifts uncomfortably. Mud has begun seeping up his trousers. The hopeful look is fading.
I swallow and will myself to think polite thoughts. Very slowly, I manage, “I am not a godmother.”
The relief I feel at being able to form this simple admission is honestly pathetic. I was polite to a silly man in the woods—so? That’s nothing to be proud of!
The man’s face falls. “Oh. But you look so …”
I shouldn’t be flattered by this. I’ll have dozens of suitors, including a duke, at my feet in a matter of hours! A dirty forest man shouldn’t be able to make me preen! And yet, I am. Womanly foibles.
I favor him with a smile and toss my hair. He watches admiringly.
“Are you a—a regular fairy, then? Or one of those … nymphs?”
I laugh. “I am not.” My heart lightens hearing my own voice. I’d been worrying for nothing; Melusine’s curse won’t be so hard to counteract, after all. This man is still making eyes at me.
He pushes off his muddy knees and brushes his trousers pointlessly. “May I ask who you are then, lady? Certainly not mortal?” He steps closer to the bridge, looking at me appraisingly. The streaming sunlight pulls golden highlights out of his brown hair.
“Perhaps not entirely mortal,” I say. I’m almost surprised to hear myself. I had thought this would be so much more difficult! Yet here I am, talking quite smoothly to a handsome—yes, I think I’ll call him handsome, despite the twisting scar—stranger in the woods.
I’ll be just fine tonight.
He takes another step toward me. “How may I refer to you, lady?”
I glance at the sky. The dirty stranger is flattering enough, but I do need to be going. There’s a duke waiting for me. “How would you like to refer to me?”
“Well,” he says, as I step across the bridge, “if you aren’t a fairy, you must be an enchantress.”
“Have I enchanted anyone recently?”
Another step. I’m quite close to the bank now, and I let my gaze skim over him: thick brown hair, mussed and full of twigs; fine blue jacket with smart red embroidery along the cuffs; torn and muddy trousers.
“Perhaps you have.”
I like his voice, so I spare him another smile before sidestepping around him to flit into the trees. He doesn’t try to stop me, although his face shows his disappointment.
Cute man. I hope he finds what he’s looking for. “Be careful with the godmothers,” I call back. “They don’t always give you what you want.”
The encounter with the muddy stranger helps smooth my mood from the tangles Melusine had left it in. I still flirted admirably. A true conquest.
I imagine the stranger will think of me fondly, perhaps for the rest of his life; I shall probably be the ethereal figure that haunts his dreams from now on. It’s a pleasant thought for me.
Less pleasant for his future wife, but she’s not my problem right now.
My problem is still how to work around this curse Melusine laid on me.
My flirting is just fine, so as long as I can keep Father happy, I should be all right.
At least for tonight; tomorrow will worry about itself.
Eventually, I’ll have to get this under control, because no duke wants a wife who speaks her mind.
I pick up my skirts and hurry through the woods, aware of how much time I’d wasted already. No more disheveled men on the way home, and I sneak in the back door to avoid the guests who are arriving for the ball. I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone.
The teapot rustles against my skirt as I climb the stairs, and I frown down at it.
I can’t believe that fool of a godmother didn’t think to make this teapot unbreakable!
That would have been an easier enchantment than making it spill-proof, I’d guess!
I wish she’d at least filled it with something; I could use a hot cup.
Though if Melusine made tea, it would probably be noxious. I might find myself sprouting a tail.
“Melusine cursed me,” I mutter, brushing a stray leaf off my skirt. I have to practice what I’ll tell Father. “No, that’s not what I meant to say. I wanted to say that she cursed me.” Oh, why is this so difficult? I had no trouble flirting with that man!
“What did you say, Agatha?”
I start, but smile as I look up the curving staircase. “Phildan! You surprised me!”
“Did you say she cursed you?” His wide eyes peer from between the banisters above me.
“Why do you always show up at the worst times?” I wince as the words leave my mouth. “That’s not—I didn’t mean—”
“Sorry.” He retreats from the banister. “I’ll leave you alone, I guess.”
I try to say that I’m not frustrated at him, but my speech betrays me again. “I just have something more important to worry about right now. I don’t have time for—” My cheeks flush as I bite my tongue to keep anything else from tumbling out.
“I know.” His forlorn voice echoes in the stairway. “Father says the same thing.”
My heart wrenches. “Father is stupid,” I say hotly.
Phildan creeps back to the banister, eyes wider than before.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself.
This Gift—Curse—whatever it is—is slippery. It seems almost controllable for a moment, and then I get agitated and the words just slosh out like an overfilled cup of tea.
“What did Melusine give you today?” Phildan asks, hesitant.
I try to form the words in my mind before I speak.
“A useless, terrible, bumbling—ugh.” I finish climbing the stairs and sit on the floor, close to my brother.
“The worst possible—” No, that won’t do, either.
“She changed how I talk.” I have to say it quickly and then clamp my mouth shut so I don’t add in any more adjectives. Inelegant, but diplomatic enough.
Phildan nods. “I can tell.”
I close my eyes. “I can’t say anything I don’t actually think.”
“Oh.” It’s a small, hurt sound. “So, you meant it when you said—”
I try to say no, but it comes out a flat “Yes.”
“Oh,” Phildan says again. He scuffs a toe against the carpet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be a bother.” He turns and begins to scamper away, but I stop him.
“Please don’t leave. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” This is true, and Phildan must sense it, because he inches over and lets me rest my chin on his tawny head.
I keep my eyes closed and focus on what I need to say next. “I’m frustrated at Melusine, and it’s difficult for me to … to speak as I usually do.”
Phildan snuggles closer. “But you always say so many nice things, Agatha. I’m sure you really think them.”
I don’t answer.