Chapter 10 The Patch of Ramps
Lem
I clench my jaw and curse my own stupidity.
Again.
How could I have let Lady Agatha lead me all that way last night and never think to make sure it was the right direction?
Henry will be looking for me, and he’ll worry, and I don’t know how to find him.
He’s probably out already, trotting along with a warm loaf of bread—I bet he’ll have charmed some cook into feeding him—and he’s probably whistling, and here we are, on the wrong side of the mountain—
Think, Lem.
I take a deep breath of the moss-scented air. Beside me, Lady Agatha walks slowly, her pretty face screwed up in concentration. I have no idea if there are any brains in her head, so trusting that she can actually find us a source of water before we die of dehydration was probably a mistake.
At least if I perish, it will be in the company of a gorgeous woman.
Who hates me.
A cluster of evergreens blocks our path, so we skirt around them, trying to keep our steps as easterly as possible. I get a few steps ahead of Lady Agatha so I can hold some branches out of her way.
She brushes past me without an acknowledgment.
Spoiled thing.
Her stomach growls, breaking the silence between us, and my annoyance softens somewhat. She probably didn’t get any dinner last night, either. Her father didn’t seem to be in a mood to pamper her.
“I don’t suppose you know how to identify edible mushrooms,” I say.
She flicks a glance sideways. “I don’t like mushrooms.”
“What, you’d prefer puff pastries, served on a silver platter?”
“No,” Lady Agatha says. She stops and considers her next steps, checking our direction against the sky and presumably consulting whatever mental map I hope she’s following. “Not silver,” she says when she resumes walking. “I like gold.”
I roll my eyes. “I’ll make a note of that.”
As she glides on gracefully beneath the trees, dappled sunlight speckling her golden hair, I consider that it’s possible I’m being too hard on her. After all, I’m used to being served on silver platters, myself. I’m no more prepared for this vagabond life than she is.
Which is why it’s crucial to get out of this country so I can get on with things.
I nearly trip over Lady Agatha when she suddenly stops. She turns back to me, her blue eyes round.
“Do you hear that?”
A cheerful gurgling sound comes from the other side of a rocky outcrop. Her smile lights up the entire forest, and I’m struck dumb by its brilliance.
She spins away, still smiling. “Well, come on then!” She hikes her skirt up in one hand and sets off with renewed energy.
I take a moment to catch my breath—it’s not fair that she’s so beautiful!—before scrambling up the rocks.
She perches at the top, grinning. I catch up and pause, huffing a bit from the climb.
The rocks slope gently down to a quick-moving stream, and my mouth suddenly feels as dry as the mud flakes still plastered to Lady Agatha’s face.
I never bothered telling her that she hadn’t gotten all of them off.
I let out an undignified whoop and rush down to the water’s edge. Dropping to my knees, I cup my hands to catch some of the cold water and lap like a weary foxhound.
When I’m quenched, I remember Lady Agatha, and look around for her. She’s kneeling at the edge of the stream, her teapot submerged in the cool water.
“Do you have a china cup in your pocket, too?”
She turns her blue eyes on me and blinks. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re distinctly obnoxious?”
“No, never,” I answer honestly. “I have been called pathetic, however.”
Her smile is gracious. “I’m sure you have.”
The rotten woman can even make an insult sound charming. I stuff my hands in my pockets. “Pity you’re stuck with me, then.”
“Isn’t it!” She tips the spout to her lips.
Well, that does look like an easier way to do it.
She drinks until she’s satisfied, then submerges the teapot once more to refill it. I catch myself nodding. Wise. Less wise is the way she begins tying the handle back to her waist. I jump to stop her before she spills it all over her skirt.
“What?” She jerks in annoyance and pushes my hand away. “I already told you not to touch me.”
“You’ll—” I begin, but to my surprise, the tipped teapot doesn’t spill. I blink. “Does it have a stopper?”
“What?” she says again, this time less annoyed.
“Your teapot—” I point at it, dangling from her belt with the spout pointed straight at the ground.
“Oh, this? It’s from my godmother,” Lady Agatha replies. Since she’s unwilling to touch me, she has to put her palm to the muddy ground to push herself back to standing. “It’s spill-proof.”
I blink again. “Very useful.” And then, since I’m still feeling a bit guilty, I add, “Thank you for finding the stream for us. I don’t think I could have done it on my own.”
Lady Agatha smiles a small, pleased smile, and steps closer to me. I hold my breath. Surely she’s not going to—
She wipes her muddy hand on my shirt. “I don’t think you could have,” she agrees.
Agatha
The glow of pride I feel at having successfully found the stream, and the relief at quenching my thirst, are both short-lived. Now that I don’t have to focus on where I’m going, I have time to remember my aching feet, empty belly, drooping eyelids, and general disgust at this whole journey.
The beggar eyes my teapot, but wisely does not ask to borrow it. He stoops and scoops another handful of water into his mouth, splashing some on his muddy shirt, too. He rubs at the stain I’d left with less ill-temper than I’d expected.
I think I’m disappointed by that.
My stomach growls. That should have been impossible, considering my Gift of Poise. Intestinal gurgles carry with them a distinct lack of poise, in my opinion, but I don’t make the rules. Stupid godmothers do.
“Is it too much to hope that you know the location of a general store, or have an enchanted bread-box somewhere on your person?” the beggar asks. He wipes his mouth on the back of a shirtsleeve.
“A general store?” I ask in disbelief. “You don’t actually think—”
“Personal remarks aren’t necessary at this time, thank you very much.” The beggar holds up a hand. “It was a sort of joke. Maybe you don’t make them here in this wilderness.”
“No need to make them when I’m traveling with you.” I note with satisfaction the way the beggar reddens, either because of the insult or the extra-charming smile that accompanied it. Hopefully both.
“If I ever meet that fairy again,” he mutters, “I’ll wring her neck. She probably knew this would happen.”
I’m distracted by a sweet oniony smell, and turn in a circle until I see a patch of bright green plants a bit downstream.
“Where are you going?” Lem—the beggar, that is—calls as I hurry away.
“Ramps,” I say. He looks confused. Which is one of his usual looks, I’m coming to discover. Confusion or scowling seem to be his only options.
Carefully, I pluck several leaves off each plant. They’re tall, but not wide, with a light pink vein running from base to tip. And because I am so generous and benevolent, I give the beggar a whole handful.
He’s still confused.
“It’s food.” My tone sounds the same as when I explain things to Pudan. “You can eat it.”
His confusion turns into a scowl, but he takes the ramps from me and bites one. His face twists. “You expect me to eat this?”
I refuse to reply, because in my mind, I agree that ramps are better served with something else. One does not normally munch on oniony leaves by themselves. However, I will not encourage this beggar’s complaints, so I chew daintily, smiling at him all the while.
Beggars should not be picky.
Nor should they be wearing clothes that are quite so new.
The Cleverness which Father always discouraged whirs, puzzling over the loose pieces of the beggar’s behavior. I sit beside the patch of ramps, tucking my feet neatly to the side. No sense in wasting energy standing.
The beggar waits for me to continue, a guarded look on his very boring face. I narrow my eyes slightly—do I recognize him at all? His features continue to elude me, but scraps of things he’s said start to form a pattern. “You met a fairy, did you?”
He crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Yes.”
That nasty cough. It was worst last night when he … tried to say his name? Almost as if he couldn’t say what he wanted, a feeling which is, unfortunately, familiar to me now.
I’m confident I’m on the right track, but I want to verify my suspicions. “So, beggar,” I begin, “what was your name?”
He tips his head to the side, wary. “You know my name. I heard you hollering it like a frightened goat when you thought I was leaving you behind.”
I will not let him goad me. “And I don’t think you ever mentioned your profession.”
“You’ve already decided I’m a beggar.” He shuffles his feet.
“A minstrel, it seems, from the guitar?”
“Guitar?” he stares at me for a moment. “Oh! Yes. The guitar.”
“Play for me, beggar,” I command.
He snorts. “Aren’t minstrels supposed to be paid?”
“Your wife should get a song for free.”
“I don’t have a—”
“You forgot that we’re married?” I’m not sure if I’m more surprised or insulted.
“No,” he says crisply, even as his face turns pink. He reaches up and adjusts the guitar on his back. “I remembered.”
“Then woo your wife. Play a song for me.”
“I have no desire to woo you.” His blush deepens. Liar. He might not like me, but he’s not immune to me, either.
“Or you can’t,” I say, “because you don’t know how.”
“Why would I be carrying this around if I didn’t know how to play it?”
“Because you’re a liar.”
He looks away. “I’m not.”