Chapter 6 Some Sort of Infectious Fungus
Agatha
“What did you just say?” Father stares at me as if I’ve been cursed.
Which I have.
Which is why I just told The Honorable Mr. Jacobson that his hair reminded me of a dead possum and I’d like to meet the next man, please.
I didn’t mean to say it! I swear I tried to stop!
But my heart is pounding, my insides are twisting, I’m so nervous that I can’t even manage a simple how d’ye do without blurting the first thought that pops into my head, and I can’t explain this to either Father or The Honorable Mr. Jacobson, who is hissing, still possum-like, in anger.
I can’t even say “I’m sorry,” because I’m …
not. His hair is hideous! And we both know he’s just about last on Father’s list of good matches!
I curtsy anyhow, and glide away, leaving him sputtering behind. Father grips my elbow.
“What were you thinking?” he whispers, distressed. “Well, you weren’t wrong, but moderation, Agatha!” His voice changes back to a jovial, company-friendly volume. “Lord Turneyblade,” he says without releasing his nervous pinch on my arm, “may I present my daughter Agatha.”
How do you do, how do you do, I think, but “How do you live with yourself, you egotistical sadist?” comes out instead.
I clasp my hand over my mouth, but it’s too late.
“How dare—” Lord Turneyblade begins, but Father blusters a hasty, “Forgive her, my lord!” and tugs me away.
Unfortunately, there’s nowhere to go. Father’s got us well and truly stuck in the midst of a squirming horde of leeches, and he can’t give me any sort of talking-to when we whirl and come face-to-face with another man.
“You must be Lord Ditherby,” I say. And I mean to stop there, and if I could have, everything would have been fine. But I’m too rattled. “I can tell—everyone talks about that wart on your nose.”
“Agatha!” Father gasps. He motions to the musicians to begin playing, and says in a louder voice, “Why don’t you dance, my dear? Ah, Mansfield—dance with my daughter!”
Duke Mansfield, greasy and unappealing as always, bows, and I accept his hand wordlessly. He shoots a black glare at the prince still lounging disinterestedly in the corner. “My lady,” he says, pulling me into the center of the room, “you look as ravishing as always.”
“I know,” I say.
He does not like this reply. His lips twist in a scowl. “I believe it’s considered proper for you to repay the compliment, my lady …?”
“You’re terrible to look at,” I say helplessly, “and you’re an oafish dancer, too.
Let me go before I say anything worse, if you would.
” I wrench myself away and push through the crowd.
My palms are clammy, heart racing. This isn’t how the evening was supposed to go—this isn’t supposed to be happening!
But now that I’ve started, I can’t seem to stop vomiting up insults.
“Lord Pandretta! I can’t believe you made it!
I thought old age would take you on the carriage ride over.
I suppose if I married you, it wouldn’t have to be for long, anyhow, which would be a blessing.
Young widowhood would suit me fine. And Count Nettlestone?
Are you drunk already? You never had a chance here, so may as well drown out your miserable feelings of complete inadequacy. ”
Dimly, I hear the rage around me. Father is trying to apologize faster than I can spit out new offenses, the men I’ve insulted are grumbling, and some of the yet-to-be-affronted suitors seem to think this is a twisted sort of game and are lobbing personal remarks at one another.
Someone breaks a wine glass, and the noise of tinkling crystal joins the hubbub.
And yet I can’t seem to stop.
“Sir Rosefield? Oh, no, I won’t shake hands—I really don’t want to touch you.
Ever. You look diseased. Mr. Lunette! Who dressed you?
Did you close your eyes and point to garments at random?
I don’t know how else you’d come up with that ensemble.
Ah, Lord Englebrick—I was hoping we wouldn’t have to speak. Your leering makes me uncomfortable.”
Father tries and fails to yank me away. I spin to another group of men. “Count Leone! You were possibly a handsome man … once? Unlike you, Lord Marguerite—I doubt even your mother could have liked your face.”
I think Lord Marguerite says, indignantly, that he favored his mother, but I push past him. I’ve got to calm down and get this under control. I’ve got to get out of here. There’s a window on the far side of the room—
“Sir Wallency, Mr. Stoking! Please never come here again! Lord Hurdebrooke, don’t you have a maid to see somewhere?
” I wish I could stop. Or at least, I wish my voice would rise or shake or somehow betray my discomfort; I wish I didn’t sound so serene.
No one can tell I’m cursed. They all think I’m enjoying this.
“Count Chrestowine, you may as well leave; there will be no gambling tonight, so you’re sure to be bored. ”
“I put money on the fact that you wouldn’t marry Mansfield,” Count Chrestowine says with a too-toothy smile, “so I’m tolerable happy.”
One of the offended men attempts to grab me. Trembling, I shove between Chrestowine and the spluttering Lord Hurdebrooke—nasty man. I don’t regret insulting him at all.
“Lord Shadebales, excuse me. I don’t have anything to say to you; you’re not interesting enough. Mr. Jestery, I’d call you boorish and insipid, but I doubt you know those words.”
I’ve made my way to the back of the room and forced myself into a corner. Only one more man stands between me and the window.
Prince Limplemoyne looks more interested now. “So you are the lovely enchantress of the woods.”
“Move.” I bite my lower lip.
“What?” he replies, not moving. “No, er, colorful words for me? After you had so many for everyone else?”
“I think you’re pathetic,” I snap, casting a glance behind me. Lord Marguerite has Father by the shoulder and is yelling something about ‘never been so insulted in my life.’ “Why would a prince need to find a godmother? And aren’t you lowlanders afraid of them?”
His eyebrows lower.
“Plus, you’re still filthy, although I see you’ve gotten the bird’s nest out of your beard.
And your name! Utterly ridiculous! Limplemoyne sounds like some sort of infectious fungus that grows between an old man’s toes.
” I jerk a thumb over my shoulder at Sir Rosefield.
“He probably has it.” I twist the golden fabric of my skirt.
“Now, if you’d do something useful for once in your life and move out of my way—? ”
“I don’t know why I’d do anything for you. Useless and idiotic, was it?” The prince crosses his arms and steps backward so he’s completely blocking the window. “I presume you’re trying to escape, but I think you deserve whatever punishment is coming to you.”
I lunge, desperate, but it’s too late. Duke Mansfield has shoved his way through the crowd and bears down on me with the force of a ravenous wolf. He catches my upper arm, fingertips digging all the way down into my bone. I wince at the touch, but his voice is what truly terrifies me.
“Lady Agatha,” he says, black and harsh. “You’ll regret this.”
“I know,” I whimper. “I know.”
The Duke’s relentless grip, and that ever-present Poise, are the only things holding me upright. If I fell to the floor (gracefully), I would perhaps inspire pity instead of the mounting resentment that is currently directed at me. A shame that his grip is so very relentless.
“You’re not going to let her get away with that,” Sir Rosefield whines to my father, still halfway across the room. “She called me diseased!”
“The lady wasn’t wrong,” Mr. Lunette says. “Everyone can see you scratching.” His arms squeeze tightly across his chest. Trying to conceal his outfit, I presume.
“Shut up, Lunette.” Duke Mansfield sneers. “She’s a bit mouthy, but I can tame her, Montberger. Shall we proceed to your office to draw up the betrothal?”
My eyes widen, and I look to Father. His gaze darts from me to Prince Limplemoyne to the duke, and he dabs his soggy handkerchief to his brow.
“Let us not be too hasty,” he answers, finally.
“You are not the only gentleman who would, ahem, like to put in an offer.” His pitch rises as he speaks, questioning.
Questioning if anyone here still wants to marry me—me!
I clamp my teeth together. My thoughts are much too messy to let escape.
“I’m sure I don’t want her anymore!” Lord Marguerite screeches. “Mansfield can have her, with my blessing!” He makes a face at me—interestingly, improving his appearance; when he scrunches all his features up it makes them less overwhelming—and stalks out of the room.
“I do apologize for my daughter’s ill manners,” Father says with a cough as he shuffles through the crowd. “I’m not sure what’s come over her, but I’m sure it will not be repeated.” Again, that questioning tone.
Duke Mansfield digs his fingers deeper into my flesh. I can’t wince, and I can’t say anything polite, so silence seems to be my best bet.
Lord Turneyblade eyes me maliciously. “Give her to me. It would be a pleasure to teach her to mind her tongue.”
“I’d rather kiss a slug,” I say. Lord Turneyblade’s face turns a blotchy purple.
Father mops his brow again. He’s relieved, I think—relieved that someone still wants me, even if that someone is proposing and threatening me in the same breath. Anger simmers in my breast. I push it down.
Prince Limplemoyne coughs and steps away from the wall, eyeing me with unconcealed disdain. “Well.” He clears his throat. “I came, er, to see a spectacle, and I have, so …”
Father dips his head. “Your Highness, of course you have first right—”
Prince Limplemoyne raises his eyebrows and holds up a hand. “Oh, no. I don’t want her.” He blushes as his gaze meets mine. “That is, she did say I was pathetic.”
Father only shrugs, perhaps realizing that I am quite unsuited to queendom now. Or perhaps he’s just practical enough to move on to the next man. “Then I’d be happy to speak with you, Your Grace?”
I focus. I can charm the duke out of his frustration, if only I can gather my composure long enough. Say something pleasant. Say something soothing. I can learn to control it, and he’ll forget this, and we can be happy enough together—
“No,” I blurt.
“What?” Father raises his eyebrows.
The Duke pinches my arm. “No one asked you,” he says.
“I said no.” I raise my head and let Melusine’s Gift of Charm encourage me.
Perhaps my voice will be calming enough that I can enchant everyone here, like a siren, and slip away and go to sleep for a thousand years.
“I’d rather pluck out my toenails one by one than spend one more moment in your presence. ”
Well, that’s not precisely what I’d intended to say.
I raise my voice. May as well commit, now that I’ve started; it’s not like I can make this any worse than it already is.
“I refuse to marry any man here. I’d rather spend every night in a pigsty, or knit with nettles until my fingerprints dissolve, or journey from lake to lake seeking a scummy frog prince—”
“Enough!” Duke Mansfield roars. I wince. His eyes hold a level of disgust—no, hatred—that I never imagined he could direct at me. Am I not still beautiful? Am I not still perfect, in every other regard? How dare he look at me so!
It’s nearly enough to make my Poise falter.
“Silence, you—you little—” The duke uses a very nasty word. “You’ll keep your smart mouth shut from now on.” He emphasizes this by shaking me.
The prince scowls at him. “There’s no need to use such language with a lady.”
I look to Father, hoping he’ll say something in my defense.
“She insulted you, too, Your Highness,” the duke sneers. “Let me defend your honor.”
The prince’s eyes narrow, but he hesitates for only a moment before shrugging. “A pleasure, my lady,” he says. “I wish you well.”
“Your wishes are as pathetic as the rest of you,” I say with bitterness. “If you won’t help me, you can leave.”
“Agatha, really,” Father protests feebly as the crowd parts to let the prince through.
“And you too, Father.” I try to stop the words, but it’s too late. “As pathetic as the rest of them.”
His look of surprise melts into hurt, but he coughs and tries to change the subject. “Well, if you don’t want the duke, I’m sure someone else will take you—”
“No,” I interrupt. “I would have. I suppose you don’t believe me, but I really would have.
But any of these men”—I throw my free arm out in a frustrated circle—“who still want me are either idiots—I’m talking about you, Mr. Jestery—or sadists—that applies to most of the rest of you—and I won’t have any of them. I’d rather die.”
In the deafening silence that follows my honest declaration, the men trickle out of the room until only Count Chrestowine and Duke Mansfield are left with me and Father. “Nasty little thing,” the duke says. “Not at all like you promised, Montberger.”
“I do apologize.” Father’s voice is weak, uncertain. He wrings his handkerchief, not meeting my gaze.
I’m sorry. I bite my tongue until I taste blood.
“Is that fairy still around?” The duke finally lets go of my arm, shoving me roughly. My Gift of Grace keeps me from stumbling, though just barely. “Maybe it could cut out her tongue.” He turns his back on me to pour a glass of wine.
“You don’t mean that, Your Grace.” Father clears his throat. “Agatha, perhaps you should go to your room while the duke and I … discuss things.”
The duke, eyes glittering, hands the wineglass to Father, who drains it in one gulp. My outburst has left him parched, it seems.
Swallowing my remonstrances, I look around the nearly-empty room. Broken glass litters the floor and ruined garlands have left scatterings of blood-red petals. Poise keeps me from sobbing at the scene of my ruined birthday party.
I came to be celebrated.
I leave in disgrace.
Pausing in the doorway, I glance at Father—
He clenches his jaw and looks away.