Chapter 12
Agatha
I sense the prince scowling behind me as we rumble on down the road, so I pointedly turn my attention to the weathered farmer who seems to be taking up much more than his fair share of the narrow bench.
I very nearly open my mouth to say something glib before I remember Melusine’s curse.
I focus, making sure the thoughts I want to share are the ones topmost in my mind.
My body decides to speak for me, my stomach rumbling in hunger. The farmer, hearing, chuckles. “Help yourself to a bite if you want.” He clicks to his horse. “Best tomatoes in Montberg District.”
My mouth waters at the thought of food, even if it’s just raw tomatoes, and I turn backward eagerly, holding out a hand so the prince can pass one to me.
“Thank you,” I say to the farmer, quite honestly.
I’ve never tasted anything so delicious.
Warm from the sun, juicy, and just a bit sweet …
I eat four tomatoes whole, with absolutely no shame.
When the edge has finally been taken off my hunger, and I feel that it would be uncouth to take more from the old man, I sigh, dabbing a bit of juice off my chin.
“Where are you headed?” I smile in what I hope is a winsome-but-not-too-inviting way.
The farmer smiles back, revealing a row of uneven teeth, and tips his head, indicating the load of produce the prince is currently squashed—pun intended—between. “I’ll set up at the market in Thickwood.”
The prince leans forward to tap me on the shoulder. I’m about to swat his hand when I remember he’s already told the farmer we’re married, and I don’t want to give the farmer a reason to doubt that. Lem—the prince—may be annoying, but he’s also safe.
I don’t get that sense from the farmer looming next to me.
“Is Thickwood on the Rhylorrian road?” the prince asks.
The farmer chuckles, half-turning so he can look at the prince with a quizzical expression. “Not from around these parts, hey? Naw, that’s still a fair piece away.”
The prince says something in Rhylorrian. I’m sure it’s despairing and melodramatic.
The farmer focuses on me again. “And, if you don’t mind me asking, why’s such a pretty lady running away to Rhylorria?”
“Running away?” I hide my angst behind my most serene expression. “Oh, no. The—” I cough to stop myself from revealing Lem’s princely identity.
“I have to meet a friend,” he interjects. “Urgently.”
The farmer raises his eyebrows at the prince’s snippish tone. “Well, once the market is done, you might be able to hitch a ride with the Ruthbergers. They won’t get you all the way, but old Jeb will do near anything for a pretty lady.” He chuckles.
The prince snorts.
We hit a nasty bump in the road, jostling me into the farmer’s side and—by the sound of the prince’s mutterings—jostling him into the pungent sack.
“I hope, for my sake, that you’ll be able to get a bath somewhere soon,” I cast back over my shoulder. I bite the inside of my cheek; I hadn’t meant to needle him right now.
“Please tell me there’s a magistrate in Thickwood,” the prince grinds out.
“Naw,” the farmer repeats. “Lord Montberger is back up the mountain, or you could go to Glen Violet. Duke Mansfield’s there.”
“We can’t go back,” the prince says, bitterly. I straighten my shoulders, trying to ignore his baleful look. Unfortunately, he keeps talking. “Can this beast go any faster? If we don’t reach my, er, friend before this evening, I’m afraid—”
The corner of the farmer’s lips turn down. “She’s an old girl,” he says, affronted. “Can’t rush her.”
“At this rate, we might as well be walking!”
“Can if you want,” the farmer replies. “I don’t mind giving the lady a lift on her own.”
My eyes widen. Oh, heavens. I don’t particularly like Lem’s company, but at least I’m not worried he’ll try to do anything to me. Without thinking, I interject, “My husband’s just fussing because he’s used to having his own way. Don’t mind him.”
The farmer mutters, “Is that right?”
Lem glowers at the back of my head. I can feel it. “Perhaps my wife,” he grouses, “would care to explain why we’re in this predicament instead of calling me a fusspot!”
Interest sparkles in the farmer’s eye. I squeeze my jaw until it hurts, my heart beginning to flutter the way it had at the ball. If I can stay in control—if I can just avoid talking—I have nothing to worry about.
“Well, now,” the farmer says, unaware of the churning in my insides, “I always do like a good story.”
I resist, offering a tight-lipped smile instead.
“If only you hadn’t made yourself so—so repulsive to everyone else,” Lem continues, “you could be at home, and not slowing me down!”
Control, Agatha, control. Don’t say anything.
“But instead, here you are, acting like you’re some sort of princess, while I’m inches away from refuse and being treated like a beggar—”
“That’s not my fault!” I burst, unable to hold back any longer. “You’re the idiot who went in search of—”
“I could have had it fixed by now, if your father didn’t pawn you off on me!”
I snap, whirling in my seat to seethe at him. “He didn’t pawn—” I choke on my next words, unable to form the rebuttal I want so desperately to believe. I turn away, blinking back angry tears. How dare he speak—
—the truth.
Useless Agatha. Unwanted Agatha. The fairies-chose-the-wrong-girl Agatha.
The farmer, engrossed in our spat, has dropped the reins, and the horse is enjoying its freedom by munching on a patch of red clover growing along the ditch.
The farmer lets out a low whistle. “My lady,” he says, “if this man is ill-treating you, I’d be honored to shelter you for as long as you need. ”
“I’m not that desperate, you lecherous old man,” I snap. My eyes widen as I realize what I’ve said.
“Oh?” The farmer’s eyebrows draw together.
“My skin is crawling just from being near you.”
“Agatha!” the prince rumbles.
But it’s too late. I can’t take it back—I can’t even apologize, since my head is swimming with thoughts like I hate the way you’re looking at me and all I want is more of your food. Neither of which would be winning things to say at the moment.
The farmer crosses his arms and waggles his chin. “Out of my cart, then, both of you. Rude little thing, aren’t you?”
Oh, if only I could say something—anything—to salvage this!
Just a few days ago, I could have talked this man into giving me his entire cart of vegetables, and today I offend him so much that I can’t even ride all the way to Thickwood with him!
“Please, sir,” I begin, desperately, “—I’d rather walk anyhow. ”
I curl my fingers into fists so tight that my nails are probably drawing blood. Curse Melusine! Curse this stupid mockery of a Gift!
No. No, this can’t be happening again. My breathing is fast, my ears ringing.
My heart gallops so quickly I’m afraid it will run away completely.
Dimly, I realize that the prince has hopped out of the back of the cart and is holding a hand to me, although his face is lined with anger.
I take his hand, my head still spinning, and allow him to help me down.
The farmer barely waits for us to move before he snaps the reins, and the old horse takes off with a previously-unseen burst of energy.
In my daze, I probably would have been crushed by a wheel, but Lem still has my hand and pulls me to the side of the road. I watch, horrified, as the farmer disappears around a bend.
“Do you realize what you’ve just done?” the prince rumbles. “That was our chance to get out of this blasted forest and find—”
“I know,” I whisper. A single, perfect tear rolls down my cheek. I realize that Lem’s fingers are around mine—no, that I’m squeezing his hand like a little lost child. Mortified, I shake him off and turn so he can’t see my forlorn face.
First my suitors, then Father. Now I even drove a stupid old man away. And I’m still stuck in the woods with a prince who despises me more than any of them do.
Lem
What on earth possessed Agatha to start insulting the farmer like that?
Sure, we weren’t making quick progress—and my seat was decidedly uncomfortable—but at least we got to rest our feet for a bit, and munch on a few vegetables! And then she just had to go and be saucy, and now we’re stranded again, with no hope of getting anywhere today, and—
Oh, heavens, is she crying now?
I’m not going to stop being angry just because she cries. I’m sure she’s accustomed to that—pouting until she gets her way—but it won’t work with me. Even if her pretty little bottom lip trembles, and her blue eyes pool with unshed tears, and she looks so lost and ashamed—
She turns her head. Good. I was getting distracted.
“No use crying now,” I grunt. “We’d better keep walking.”
Agatha goes icy, her already-perfect posture somehow straightening even more. “I wasn’t—” she begins.
Her attempt to deny it annoys me even further. “What were you thinking? Can’t you be nice for even thirty minutes?”
“No,” she snaps. “I can’t.” Her voice is trembling with an emotion which I have no desire to name. Let her quiver and feel sorry for herself.
“Besides,” she continues, with less trembling and more bite, “you started it, anyhow. You’re the one who kept nagging about how slow we were going—”
“You called him a lecherous old man!”
“Because he was!”
Agatha finally looks back at me, and my heart does an odd twist at the sight of her forlorn face. What she really needs, I think suddenly, is someone to hug her and tell her it will all be alright.
Well, she’ll have to keep walking to find someone to perform that service. It certainly won’t be me.
For some reason, we’ve stopped and are standing in the middle of the road, locked in a silent war of who can stare the hardest. I hate to admit it, but she’s about to win.
I wrench my gaze away. “Come on,” I mutter. “If we can get to this village, maybe we can find a new ride to the next town, whatever it was called. And our first stop can be the magistrate.”
“So desperate to be rid of me?” Agatha’s voice stings.
“Yes.”
“And what am I supposed to do then?”
I lower my chin to my chest and keep marching forward, like an angry bull. “Find someone else to torment.”
Agatha is blessedly silent for several long moments. It’s a nice reprieve from the snide remarks and insults.
Wonderful silence—I’m so glad she’s holding her tongue at last—I have nothing to feel bad about—
I try telling myself these things, but they don’t work. I scowl, looking at Agatha to see what’s causing her uncharacteristic reserve.
The pooling tears have broken forth, sliding down her porcelain cheeks in an unending river. Her lips are pressed so tightly that they’re white from the exertion.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter. “I didn’t mean it.”
She doesn’t acknowledge this. If anything, the tears increase.
I stop walking, grabbing her hand so she’ll still, too. “Will you stop?” I grumble. “I don’t know what to do with crying women!”
She finally turns her head to look at me, but won’t say anything.
And I thought her tongue was sharp—those eyes … !
I swallow thickly. “Listen,” I try again, my voice gruff. “I’m sorry—really, I am. I tried to apologize earlier when you were sleeping, too. I’ve been—” I run my hand through my hair. “Probably somewhat unpleasant.”
Her eyes widen, and I can tell she wants to make some smart retort, but she doesn’t.
“And you don’t need to worry about what to do after we’ve, er, annulled this. I’m sure your father will take you back, and if not, plenty of other men will line up to take care of you. You’re—you’re a very lovely woman, when you aren’t talking.”
Something twitches in her neck.
“Well,” I finish awkwardly. “I guess, if you have nothing else to say, we can go on.”
I’m still holding her hand, I realize, and let it go with more reluctance than I should feel. Her delicate fingers are cold, and I have an overwhelming urge to keep her hand in mine, help her warm up a bit.
I’m not a man to be controlled by base urges, however, so I jam my fist into my pocket, removing the temptation to let my arm swing a little closer to Agatha’s, and resume walking.
After a moment, Agatha falls into step beside me. I risk a glance or two—or more—as we walk. The tears gradually slow, but she doesn’t break her white-lipped silence until we break through the trees and see the dusty village—Thickwood, was it?
A strange regret pulses through me. Did I actually miss hearing her sharp opinions? Impossible.
And too late, now, anyhow. Now, all we have to do is keep her from insulting anyone else so we can hitch another ride. And perhaps find something beside tomatoes to eat.