Chapter 11 Some Strange Candori Fashion
Lem
Never in my life have I met anyone as odious as Agatha Montberger.
Every single word out of her mouth is nasty.
I can’t wait to be rid of her.
At least, that’s what I’m telling myself as we follow the dancing stream down the mountainside.
I definitely don’t feel sorry for her—she brought this on herself; and I certainly don’t admire her quick wit—it’s much too sharp for my tastes; and I will by no means seek to extend this relationship.
As soon as I can get her off my hands, I will.
I’m not going to think about the fact that she almost cried when she spoke of her father, or that she uses smiles and condescension like weapons—or, perhaps, like armor.
Distracted, I nearly turn my ankle in a hidden burrow. Agatha, a half-step ahead, doesn’t even pause her sylph-like glide to see if I’ve been hurt. I scowl.
The stream descends steeply now, bouncing over little rapids and tiny waterfalls. The bank has narrowed enough that we have to walk single-file. Good. I don’t want to see her face, anyhow.
Ahead of us, the trees thin, and I catch sight of a broad road stretching out at the base of this mountain. Agatha must see it at the same time I do, for her stiff shoulders relax a trifle, and she increases her pace.
“Don’t go too fast—you’ll fall.” I don’t mean to say it; I don’t care if she does tumble down the rest of this mountain.
Agatha doesn’t acknowledge my kindly warning. Her shoulders re-stiffen as she continues her descent, not slowing. At least she doesn’t say anything rude this time. I try to keep up, but she has the sure footing of a mountain goat, while I’m more used to walking on flat terrain.
I’m still groping my way down, holding onto tree trunks with a white-knuckled grip while gingerly feeling out my next step down the loose hillside, when she arrives at the bottom.
My eyebrows draw together. Somehow she’s made this look effortless, even in her dainty boots.
I attempt to pick up my pace and misjudge my next step.
My foot lands on a loose rock, and I slip, landing on my rear and sliding halfway down the hill before my flailing arms catch hold of a tree.
I stop, but the rocks and dirt I’ve dislodged keep tumbling.
“Agatha!” I shout.
She whirls and watches the remainder of my little landslide race down the hill and scatter around her feet. Her eyes, wide with exasperation, find me splayed across the ground, clinging to a thin tree trunk.
“Watch out for, er, the rocks,” I mumble. I was only trying to warn her. I’m sure I’ve heard of avalanches as being quite dangerous.
“I think you got some dirt in your guitar,” she calls.
I think I’ve probably broken the guitar’s scrawny neck—the godmother warned me that it was fragile, or something like that—but when I scoot the rest of the way down the hill and find a spot steady enough to try standing again, I pat the instrument still slung over my shoulder.
To my surprise, it’s intact. Not that I can play it, anyhow.
“You might want to brush off your clothes,” Agatha says, wrinkling her nose at my outfit.
I glower at her. She needn’t look so amused by the whole thing. I could have broken my neck. And then where would she be? A widow at twenty-one?
Lady Agatha picks her way over the debris I inadvertently scattered and finds an oak tree with a sturdy trunk. With a sigh, she sinks to the ground and rests her back against it, then takes a slow sip out of her teapot.
Brushing off my trousers, I stomp after her. “Why are you sitting? We need to keep moving.”
She looks up, an angelic sort of expression on her nasty, lovely face. “I’m very tired,” she says. I think she clenches her jaw, as if she hadn’t meant to admit as much. Proud little thing, too, then?
“If my—if Henry gets to our meeting spot, and discovers I’m not there, and sounds an alarm that the”—I choke down the coughs—“we could be starting an international incident. Don’t you understand?” No need to tell her how unlikely this is.
“We’ll never beat this Henry, whoever he is, to a place you don’t even know where it is, and I’m very tired,” she repeats, emphatically. She settles herself more firmly against the oak.
“So am I! But you don’t see me complaining about it!”
“You may walk on, with my blessing.” Agatha sets her jaw like a determined gazelle. “I need to rest.”
“We can’t take the time—” Her words sink into my comprehension. “Wait, is the great Lady Agatha admitting … weakness?”
“I’m not the one who just slid down a mountain on the seat of my trousers!”
“I was trying to keep up with you so I could protect you!”
Agatha laughs. “If I’m relying on your protection, I’ll never last another night.”
She’s clearly not going to move, so I stalk over and plop down on the ground beside her, yelping when I land on an unusually large acorn. I cross my arms and look down the road, pointedly ignoring Agatha. Hopefully a carriage will rattle past soon, and we can beg a ride.
I yelp again when I feel something on my neck. “What are you doing?” I jerk away instinctively, regretting it as soon as I realize Agatha was voluntarily touching me.
I mean, I despise her. But I am a man, after all.
“You had a spider in your hair,” she says. “Next time I’ll just let it bite you.”
I turn away with a peevish grunt and set to watching the road.
My conscience starts to get the better of me as I stare at the brown dirt snaking away into the forest. She’s completely unlikable, but I haven’t exactly been on my best behavior these last hours, either. And, deserving or not, her father did just marry her off to a supposed beggar.
I swallow my pride. “Sorry,” I grunt, not turning my head. “I’ve—well, I’m not making this any easier, I guess. Thanks for taking care of the spider.”
I wait.
And wait.
Blasted woman, she could at least acknowledge that I’m trying!
With a frown, I look over my shoulder.
Lady Agatha’s head is lolled back against the tree trunk, lashes fanned out across her porcelain cheeks, mouth puckered up in a sad frown, chest rising and falling with slow breaths.
And if that isn’t just like her! Falling asleep when I’m trying to apologize!
Agatha
I’m having one of those unsettling, too-vivid dreams, in which I turn my head and see Lord Turneyblade next to me instead of the prince, and he’s leering, and I try to scream but I can’t—I can’t say anything—he’s about to hurt me, and I can’t call for help—
“Agatha!” A man’s voice and an insistent shaking wake me.
My eyes pop open. I shove the man away with a snarl. “Get your hands off me.” My chin is still quivering from my fright, and it takes me a wild-eyed, shaking moment before I realize the man isn’t Turneyblade, but the prince.
“Bad dream?” he grunts. “I’m surprised your subconscious can come up with something worse than this.”
I wipe a bit of drool off my cheek.
Oh, heavens, had I been drooling? The gaps in my gifting are serious, indeed! It seems like that would have been a much better thing to bestow on an infant than the Gift of A Straight Nose!
“I must have been sleeping a long while for you to think of anything that intelligent,” I reply frostily.
“Not long enough,” he answers. “I was enjoying the peace and quiet.”
“Please, don’t let me interrupt your reflection.” I tip my head from side to side, stretching out the muscles in my cramped neck. “I wouldn’t want to keep you from whatever it is you think about, if you ever think.”
The prince huffs something impolite and pushes up off the ground. Bits of leaves and twigs fall on me when he brushes off his trousers.
“Stop that!” I try to scramble out of the shedding zone. “You did that on purpose!”
The prince raises one annoying eyebrow. “Did what?”
“You covered me with dirt!” I stand up, shaking leaves out of the folds of my skirt.
“I would never do that to a lady.” He puts his hand over his heart. “Here, you missed one.” He reaches over and plucks a twig out of my hair. “Unless this is some strange Candori fashion?”
“Leave me alone,” I snap.
“My apologies. I didn’t mean to mess up your hairstyle.” He leans over to shove the stick back in my hair. I duck, pushing his arm away from my face, and take a few steps down the road before untying my teapot.
The prince glowers at me as I take a long sip. It occurs to me that he’s probably thirsty, too, and has no way of carrying his own water. Unless the guitar Melusine gifted him is also enchanted, and he’s just too foolish to figure it out.
The smallest, meanest part of me wants to let him stay thirsty. None of this is my fault, really.
But—well—it’s been quite a while since we were at the stream, and neither of us has had anything besides a handful of ramps. I purse my lips in annoyance, but march over and hold out the teapot ungraciously. “You may have a little bit,” I stress.
Surprise flashes across the prince’s face, which I take some comfort in. If I must be nice, at least I can also be unsettling.
“Thank you.” His voice is begrudging as he takes the teapot from me and tips it to his mouth. His brows crease in a frown. “It’s empty? That’s cruel, even for you, Agatha!”
I throw up my hands. “It’s not empty,” I huff. Stupid fairy. “It’s enchanted. I forgot. Here.” I snatch it back. “Open your mouth—I have to pour it.”
For a moment, I think he’s going to ignore me, just out of spite, but he finally opens his mouth like an overgrown baby bird. He’s not too tall, so I carefully pour a bit of water in, waiting for him to swallow before giving him a little bit more.
I don’t even dribble any down his shirt, which is less about me being considerate and more about not wanting to waste water, but I don’t need him to know that.
He licks his lips. I back away.
“Thank you,” he finally says.
I turn, shuddering. “Spare me the insincerity.” I can’t help a twisted, ironic smile; Melusine would have loved that bit of character development.
He scoffs. “Maybe I really was grateful.”