Chapter 13
Agatha
I manage to hold my tongue until we get near Thickwood, although I never do manage to stop the tears completely; they would squeeze out, no matter how hard I attempted to dry them by willpower alone.
When the plumes of smoke from Thickwood’s crooked chimneys are wafting up over the trees, the prince turns to me, face set in a frown.
Which is to say, his normal face.
I’d been in the middle of trying to swipe the tear-tracks off of my cheeks with my fists, but stop, guiltily, when he turns.
I’m not fast enough, and when he glimpses me, a flash of …
something … crosses his expression, and he pats at his breast, as if feeling for a pocket.
The something turns to surprise, and then back to a frown.
“The witch took my pocket-handkerchief!” he says indignantly. He shoves his hands in his trouser pockets but comes up empty.
I can’t think of anything useful to say, so I watch his little drama in silence.
“Was going to offer it to you.” His voice is gruff and a touch belligerent, but his face is slowly turning pink.
I open my mouth to tell him I don’t want any of his handkerchiefs, because I can dry my own tears just fine, but instead I say, “Thank you.”
Why must I be polite now? To someone who will not care one whit! If only I could have mustered that sort of sincerity when we’d been riding in the farmer’s tomato cart!
The prince pinks further, eying me with suspicion. I think he’s about to say something saucy in reply, but he must think better of it. “Now listen. Here’s what I want you to do.”
I listen. He clears his throat.
“When we get to the town, I’ll do the talking.” He folds his arms across his chest and sets his jaw in a very intractable position.
“I think that’s a good idea.” It surprises both of us again.
“You … do?”
I muster every ounce of detached coolness I can. “I do.”
The prince nods, satisfied, though a bit disbelieving. “I can tell people you’re mute.”
“Fine.”
He squints at me. “Fine.”
When he resumes his grouchy march to Thickwood, I let out a relieved breath. Perhaps this will go fine.
Lem
I don’t trust her. Not even a little.
We enter Thickwood, which is a cluster of houses barely big enough to deserve the name of village. An open square in the center boasts the market. I scan the assembly. It’s not what I would call a bustling place, with only a handful of sellers and a thin crowd buying their assorted wares.
Directly across from us, the old farmer Agatha insulted sells tomatoes out of the back of his cart. When he sees us, his brow lowers—but not until after he eyes Agatha greedily.
What had she called him? Lecherous?
I flick my gaze to her; she’s pointedly not looking his direction, a serene expression on her face. Her lips aren’t quite smiling, just tipped up at the corners invitingly …
… And I should not be looking at her lips.
My own mouth puckers in a frown, searching for a likely candidate to get us out of this hamlet. I spot a thin, balding man hunched over a meager pile of corncobs. He should do the trick.
“You, there.” I straighten my shoulders regally and stride across the dusty ground. Agatha follows—or at least, I presume she does.
The man doesn’t look up until I’m nearly wading into his stack of corn. Cheeky. Doesn’t he realize who I—
Oh, right. I dust my shabby jacket self-consciously.
“Corn?” The man’s nose wrinkles faintly as he addresses me.
My stomach growls. “No,” I say. “My—er, my wife and I—” I look behind me to make sure Agatha’s actually with me.
She waits silently, that same not-quite-smile playing over her features, and my heart does an awkward flip.
Her eyes flick to me with a cool amusement at my bumbling introduction.
Well, it’s not like she could do any better.
Turning back to the man, I continue. “We need a ride to Rhylorria. Or toward it, anyhow.”
The man eyes Agatha, expression shifting. “You’re the Lady Agatha,” he says. Greediness lights his eyes as he rakes them over her figure.
I withdraw a step and place a hand on her back. She twitches slightly, but doesn’t betray any discomfort on her face.
“Ain’t you?” the man asks.
Agatha looks to me, raising her eyebrows.
Oh. Right. I clear my throat. “She can’t talk,” I blurt. “Cursed.”
The man leers. “Best kind of woman. Happy to give you a ride,” he says with a wink, “if you have something to offer me in return.”
My arm sneaks tighter around Agatha’s waist, but I can’t think of any retort besides an annoyed growl. I wish, suddenly, that she hadn’t agreed to this “pretend-to-be-mute” plan. She could put this man in his place.
“We’ll find someone else,” I finally mutter.
I steer Agatha toward the edge of the market, ignoring the locals who stare at us—at her, with admiration; at me, with a mixture of curiosity and disgust. I don’t let go of her until we’re out of the main market area and semi-secluded on a little path that leads to a collection of rickety houses.
“That went well.” I unwind my arm and step away from her. I miss her warmth as soon as I do.
She rolls her eyes.
“Still not speaking?”
Agatha smiles at me, I suppose sarcastically. The problem is that she’s very beautiful, even when her smiles are sarcastic, and I’m having a hard time remembering what I meant to say next.
“You don’t have to pretend to be mute with me,” I say under my breath. “I know you’re thinking all sorts of colorful things in that pretty head of yours.”
Agatha favors me with a real grin before slipping back into her genteel mask.
I look away from her and study the houses of this village instead: peeling paint, missing shingles, a preponderance of lean cats lurking on the rocky ground. “Maybe if I threaten legal action—”
Agatha’s reply is to grab my hand and pull me further down the road, away from any listening ears. Once we’re whatever she deems to be far enough, she lets go of me as if my touch is poisoned.
“Legal action?” she says in a whispered hiss. “You think anyone is going to care if a dirty minstrel threatens legal action?”
I cross my arms in front of my chest. “The king could—”
“Your king,” Agatha replies cuttingly, “wouldn’t let you across his threshold dressed like that.”
I flush.
“Your problem—”
“Yes, please enlighten me again,” I mutter.
“—is that you’re still acting like an over-fluffed guinea fowl.” Agatha pauses to look me up and down, although it lacks any sort of flattering appreciation. “You’ve forgotten that you’re not a prince here.”
I tighten my crossed arms, a muscle twitching in my jaw, and stare moodily at the looming forest.
Not a prince.
Isn’t that what I wanted?
“Do you have any other suggestions how we could get a ride?”
Agatha doesn’t reply, and when I turn my gaze back to her, she’s biting her bottom lip, frustration dancing across her features. “No,” she finally says, her voice small and tight.
I take off the stupid feathered cap the godmother had given me and run a hand through my hair.
I’m not used to solving my own problems. I’m not used to having problems like this in the first place.
I’ve never been so hungry in my life, even after the onion-leaves and the tomatoes, and I’ve walked more in the last day than the whole previous sixmonth.
“I don’t know what to do,” I finally confess quietly. “I …” Pursing my lips, I tug at my collar with one finger. Why should I unburden myself to Lady Agatha? She won’t care.
Nevertheless, I continue. “I haven’t had to fend for myself since I became prince, and even before that, Henry was always there to tell me what to do, and now I feel—I feel helpless. I thought this is what I wanted, but—”
I’m too embarrassed to meet Lady Agatha’s gaze for a long moment, but I finally make myself act like a man and face her.
Her face doesn’t betray much—then again, it never does. Her eyes, though; they hold a great deal, and though it’s mostly unreadable to me, I think—I hope—perhaps there’s even a little bit of understanding.
“I’m hungry,” she finally says.
Well, it’s not a great moment of solidarity, but it’s not cutting, either, so I’ll take it.
She mimics my posture, folding her arms tightly around herself. “If we can find a way to get some food, we can keep walking?”
I feel my face drooping. A painful blister has formed on my left heel, and I’m sure my right foot will be quick to follow the left’s example. I had been looking forward to sitting for a while.
“We can probably go as fast as any of those carts, anyhow,” Agatha adds.
I sigh. “You’re right,” I admit grudgingly. I jerk a thumb over my shoulder, toward the market. “Did any of those moldy vegetables look appealing to you?”
Agatha huffs a delicate, self-deprecating laugh. “All of them.”
I match her tone, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck. “To think, days ago, I was in a palace with everything I could possibly want. Now, I’d sell my own shoes to get my hands on a stale loaf of bread!”
“No one would want those shoes.”
“I know.” An idea—pale, watery, perhaps idiotic—rattles around in my skull. Perhaps this guitar, worthless to me, would please one of these vendors? I almost confide my idea in Agatha, but I’m loathe to hear her scathing remarks.
I paste false confidence on my face. “Come,” I say. “I’ll see if I can get us some food before we go on.”
Agatha raises an eyebrow but follows me silently.
We pop back into the market, this time heading for a gray-headed woman who sits in a canopied stall, knitting. A table full of bread sits next to her.
I make a conscious effort to relax my posture this time, trying to use the tone of a servant instead of a prince. “Excuse me.”
The old woman looks up from her knitting, although her needles keep clacking. She nods approvingly. “Saw you talking to Hurn. Good choice, walking away. All his corn has worms.”
Agatha shivers. I cock an eyebrow, but don’t let myself look at her for too long, focusing on the old woman again as I take the guitar off my back.
“I don’t have any money,” I say, awkwardly. Never in my life have I discussed money—before becoming prince, I was too young to care, and afterwards, of course, people simply brought me things. “But I can trade?”
Next to me, Agatha stiffens. She pokes me in the side, shaking her head silently.
I ignore her. It’s my guitar, and it’s not like I can use it. The woman’s eyes light appraisingly. She sets her knitting into a basket and stretches out a wrinkled hand to take the guitar from me.
She hums as she inspects it. “Not that it will do me much good.” She glances at me, a shrewd expression on her lined face. “With my arthritis.”
Agatha pokes me again.
I know I should be haggling, but I can’t think of anything to say. I’ve no head for these sorts of discussions. I’m sure the instrument is worth much more than a loaf or two of bread, but I’d rather be the loser in this situation if it means we get something.
“It’s fairy-made,” I finally offer, my voice squeaking. Then, “Ow!” to Agatha, whose third poke is the most violent yet.
The old woman’s jaw drops, then she shoves the guitar back at me. “Goodness, I don’t want it, then!”
I take it back without understanding what’s offended her. She, frowning, snatches her knitting back up and resumes click-clacking. At my side, Agatha droops, her stomach rumbling sadly.
The woman’s needles slow a tiny bit. “Take a loaf,” she says grudgingly. “Can’t see a pretty young bride going hungry.”
I don’t move, stammering in surprise, but Agatha is not plagued by the same immobility; she leaves my side to reach out to the old woman, kissing the papery hand the woman extends her, then accepts a loaf—no, two loaves!—of bread from the same hand.
“Thank you,” I finally manage. “Thank you!”
The old woman shakes her head, an indulgent smile playing around her lips, and looks back down at her knitting. “You must be a foreigner,” she says. There’s no ill-will in her tone. “Don’t go around trying to use your godmother-gifts like that again!”
“I … won’t?” It comes out doubtful, like a question, and I can feel the exasperation rolling off Agatha. She smiles graciously at the woman, shoves the bread in my arms, and tugs me away, through the market and down the road on the other side of the village.
The scent of fresh bread is nearly overwhelming, and I follow her lead with alacrity. I may not have gotten us a ride, but at least we have something to eat.