Chapter 8 Bewitchingly Close #2
“Always the clever one, aren’t you?” he says, jingling a fistful of necklaces at me before dropping them back on the table. He shakes his head. “Your new husband wouldn’t like it. And what’s this?”
“A teapot from Melusine.” Even though I don’t want it, I hug it to my chest. “You can’t take it. She gave it to me.”
Father’s as aware as anyone that a gift from a godmother is non-transferable. He shrugs. “I’m sure that will serve you and your beggar husband very well.” He steps away from me and points toward the door. “Go. He’s waiting for you.”
“Can I say goodbye to the boys?”
An unidentifiable emotion flits over Father’s face. “No.”
I can’t get my feet to move until Father leans forward as if to grab me and haul me bodily down the stairs. The Duke’s grip left a very nice bruise already, and I don’t care to add to it, so I scamper out in front of him and down to the hallway.
I suppose I should be crying, or arguing, or using my Charm to find a way out of this, but I’m too numb to do any of that. I just want to go to sleep and wake up to find that this has all been a very, very bad dream.
Too bad I’m sleeping on the road tonight.
I stop short when I reach the bottom of the stairs. Father barrels into me.
“Now, this all seems very bad,” he says, “but it really will be good for you, Agatha, so go on, with your husband—” He stops, because he’s seen the same thing I have: my new beggar husband is gone.
Lem
As soon as Lord Montberger’s thudding footfalls get far enough away, I sneak up the stairs behind him. I’ve got to find Henry. Whatever the godmother did to me was dramatic enough that the Montbergers didn’t recognize me, but Henry will.
Probably?
He’ll help me make sense of … what just happened.
The corridors are dark, as the hour must be quite late, but it’s not a big house. I count doorways, hoping I’ve landed at the right one, and pound gently with my fist.
“Henry? Henry, are you awake?”
I wait.
Nothing.
I pound again, louder and more urgent. I doubt Lord Montberger will merely shrug his shoulders when he realizes I’m not waiting around to collect my unwanted bride. “Henry! It’s—” A fit of coughing chokes me.
When Henry still doesn’t answer, I rattle the knob myself. The door swings open to a darkened room and I stumble in, wishing I had thought to nab a candle from the entry hall. “Henry?”
I grope my way through the room, grunting when I hit my shin on a chair. “Henry?” I pause to listen for the sounds of my sleeping friend, but hear nothing.
Drat. I must have gotten the wrong room.
I stumble back into the hall and hurry to the next door, not bothering with the gentle beginning this time. “Henry! Open up!”
The door swings inward, and Henry appears with a wrinkled forehead and tousled hair. “Lem, where have you—” He stops, frowning. “You—you’re not Lem.”
“I am,” I say, or try to say. The second word gets lost in the coughs that make my lungs feel like they’re about to eject themselves from my body.
Henry shrinks back into the doorway, probably hoping to get away from any flying organs. “Do you need a drink?” he asks doubtfully. He shuffles back into the room. I follow, not waiting for an invitation.
The room is already lit—Henry hasn’t been sleeping. Probably, I think guiltily, because he was worried about me.
He holds a cup of water out to me with polite apprehension.
I take it and down it in one gulp, grateful to have something to soothe my parched throat.
“And what was it you needed from me, mister …?”
“I’ve bungled things. As usual.” I run my hand through my hair.
A mistake—my hair is greasy and matted, and my fingers get stuck in a tangle.
Did the godmother do this to me, too, or did I just run into more dirt than I thought on my nighttime trek through the woods?
“I’m L—” I get no further before the cough overtakes me.
Confused recognition dawns in his eyes. “You—what—no—what did you do?”
“I thought you went to look for a fairy, and the birthday party was awful—”
“You left the party to go out? By yourself?” Henry wipes an exasperated hand over his face. “What do you mean, the party was awful? Is the lady actually hideous?”
I scowl. “The lady,” I say shortly, “is so beautiful that you’d be drooling at her feet if you even glimpsed her.”
“Then why’d you run off?” Henry plops down on the edge of the bed.
I huff. “Rudest woman I’ve ever met.” But there will be time for complaining later. “The fairy—” I break out into a cacophony of hacking.
Loud footsteps, punctuated by Lord Montberger’s tipsy voice, echo down the passageway. I hadn’t pulled the door closed behind me, and stiffen now, casting about for a place to hide.
“Where is he?” Lord Montberger calls. “That, er, vagrant scum?”
Henry glances back at me in alarm. “Goodness, Lem, what did you do?”
“I didn’t mean—”
Lord Montberger stumbles drunkenly into the room. “I thought I heard you coughing,” he says with grim satisfaction. His brows lower as he looks from me to Henry. “Come on, man. What are you doing? Agatha is waiting for you.”
“Pardon, my lord,” Henry interjects. “I think there’s been a mistake—”
Lord Montberger points a meaty finger at me. “No mistake! I married them myself!” He hiccups.
“You what?” Henry asks, aghast. He turns to me. “I should have never let you out of my sight!”
“We don’t have all night,” Lord Montberger slurs. “Let’s get on with the plan. It’s going—hiccup—swimmingly so far.”
I’m the prince! I want to cry, but already know it will do no good. The godmother put some sort of spell over my voice that prohibits me from speaking of my identity.
Or … my former identity?
I’m confused, and not sure how serious Montberger is about his threats to drag me out and horsewhip me, so I take a hesitant step toward him as I cast another desperate look at Henry. “I’m not a beggar. I’m—I’m—”
A vein pops in Montberger’s forehead. “I’ve had just about enough of this acting,” he grumbles. “I’ve done my part. Now you do yours. Out, I say! Not you!” he adds, when Henry tries to follow me. “I thought we had a plan.”
“Meet me in the morning,” Henry mutters. “Stay on the main road, and I’ll bring the horses.” In a louder voice, he adds, “Many blessings on your marriage?”
Montberger marches me back to the entryway, where his drooping daughter looks as if she’d—well, really, she just looks uncommonly beautiful, and perhaps bored of this whole situation. She has no right to appear so calm.
“If any of my men see you on the estate tomorrow, you’ll be shot on sight,” he says firmly as he thrusts us from the house. “God be with ye.”
The door slams behind us with a deafening finality as we tumble down the stone steps and catch ourselves on the gravel drive. The moon, nearly set by now, shines down on Agatha’s face, bewitchingly close to mine.
I swallow. I had forgotten just how overwhelming her beauty is.
Good thing she looks as though she’d like to bash me over the head with that odd teapot she’s carrying. That will ensure I keep my wits about me.
“Well,” I say with a gulp. “I suppose we’d better move on, then?”
Lady Agatha grits her teeth and marches down the drive, gravel crunching beneath her. I fall into step behind.
I suppose things could always be worse, but I don’t really see, at this present moment, how.