Chapter 15
Agatha
My optimism is unfounded. We push through the underbrush for most of the day with nary a stream in sight. My tongue clings to the roof of my mouth, and I almost wish I wouldn’t have shared the last bit of water from my teapot with Lem yesterday.
Not really. I’m not that selfish. But almost.
I halt suddenly. We’ve climbed to the top of a high hill to get a better view of our surroundings, both because we need to find a drink and because I may have lost the road, too.
An opening in the trees tumbles us onto an open ridge.
The sight takes my breath away—or it could be the climb.
The mountains roll out before us, blue and hazy, with vivid pink clumps of rhododendrons peeking out here and there.
A road—maybe the one we’d been on yesterday, maybe not—cuts a brown ribbon down the hillside to our left and leads to a tiny cluster of buildings in the valley below.
A silver stream gurgles down through the valley, and my parched throat rejoices. We’ll have water, at least.
“Finally,” Lem mutters. He passes behind me, not even pausing to appreciate the beauty.
“Wait,” I say reluctantly. He stops and turns when I speak. “Before we get to the village, we should decide what we’re going to say.”
“Maybe you should be quiet again.”
“Because you’re such a smooth talker?”
His brows lower. “At least I don’t insult everyone I see.”
“I can’t help it.” I grit my teeth. That’s not where I had intended this conversation to go. I flatten my lips and wrench my gaze away from Lem’s too-perceptive eyes. I hadn’t noticed the flecks of green in them before.
“Agatha,” Lem says, frustrated. “You’re so—so—”
I meet his gaze again, raising an eyebrow in challenge. Go ahead, Lem. Tell me how you really feel. Tell me how awful I am and how you can’t wait to be rid of me.
Instead, his eyes drop to my lips. He wrenches himself away and plods down the hill.
“So what?” I call after him, scampering to keep up with his longer strides, wincing as I go. I’d give anything for a cup of tea, a hot bath, and a fresh pair of stockings.
I suppose I’m not likely to get any of those for quite a while.
“If you don’t have to finish any of your statements, neither do I,” Lem tosses over his shoulder.
Exasperation bubbles up in me. I’m tired, and I’m hungry, and I want tea, and I’m not in a mood to deal with this arrogant, pig-headed—
“I’m sorry!” I yell at his back.
He stops. For a moment, I think he’s going to ignore me. Then he turns. “What?”
“I’m sorry,” I mutter again. Another thing I didn’t mean to say. It was better when we were existing in mutual silence. At least then I wasn’t saying anything regrettable.
Lem stalks back to me, feet dragging in the dirt, skepticism on his face. “The great Lady Agatha, apologizing? To a poor beggar like me?” He lays a hand on his heart. “What prompted this bit of graciousness?”
“Thank you for not making us go with that corn man yesterday.” It surprises both of us.
It’s a good thing I can’t blush, or my cheeks would be heating. Lem’s turning red enough himself, but I can’t tell why. Embarrassment? Anger?
“You’re impossible to figure out,” he finally says. His voice is so gruff it may as well be a growl.
Fine. If that’s all he has to say—
I cross my arms and resume walking down the hill. Lem falls into step beside me.
“So, what’s your plan?”
I purse my lips, not sure if I’m relieved that he’s changed the subject or disappointed he didn’t press for an explanation.
He wouldn’t have had to press very hard, either—I was nearly ready to tell him everything, and probably would have thrown myself into his arms as a bonus. Since there’s no tea forthcoming, I could use a hug.
It’s a good thing, I decide, that he didn’t press. I definitely don’t want to unburden myself to Lem.
He’s still waiting for a plan. I shrug one tight shoulder. “Do you think we should try the mute wife thing again?”
“I don’t have any better ideas,” Lem admits.
I glance at the guitar thudding against his back with every step. “You’re sure you can’t play?”
“I never learned.”
“Maybe you should try,” I say with an attempt at humor. “Your godmother might have enchanted it so it will play for you.”
“Do you think it will do any good?” His voice is doubtful, but not unwilling.
“I could sing,” I say, “to cover up all your wrong notes.”
“And this will help us how?”
I offer another shrug. “It’s what minstrels do.”
Lem reaches behind himself to twang one of the guitar strings absently. “Can’t hurt,” he finally says, slowly.
“Unless we’re so terrible that they kick us out of town for the damage we do to their ears.”
Lem shoots me a sour look. “Kick me out, you mean. I know you can sing well enough.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Do you?”
“Don’t play coy,” he scoffs. “You probably have some kind of gift for it, don’t you?”
I nod, and in a fit of generosity, add, “I won’t let them kick you out. It’s either both of us or neither of us.”
“And if I wanted a break?” Lem mutters.
I punch his arm.
And I could be imagining it, but I think the ghost of a smile uncreases his forehead for the briefest of moments.
Lem
I really can’t handle very much more of this. Agatha’s the most confusing woman I’ve ever met. Does she hate me? Does she tolerate me?
I know she doesn’t like me.
And I don’t care.
We descend the hill toward the cluster of buildings we’d spotted from the ridge. I hope Agatha’s minstrel scheme works; my feet have never been so sore in my life, and the bread wasn’t enough to sustain us forever.
I unsling the guitar as we enter the valley and approach the village, plucking a string to test the instrument. It sounds nice, I suppose, though I have no idea what it’s supposed to sound like.
“Is it even in tune?” I mutter to Agatha.
She dips her head, a touch of amusement flashing in her eyes.
Very nice of her to laugh at my ignorance.
I strum all the strings once or twice. Agatha winces.
“For goodness’ sake, not like that.” She steps in front of me and grabs my left hand, repositioning my fingers over the strings. “There. Don’t move them.”
I swallow. “I won’t.”
I strum again. Even to my ears, I can tell the difference now. These notes belong together.
“Just keep it steady,” Agatha whispers. We’re almost at the village now. A group of children have paused their games to watch us approach.
I keep my left hand taut, afraid that if I relax at all, I’ll lose the fingering Agatha pressed me into. My right hand finds a semi-steady rhythm. Agatha listens to me for a few strums, then hums along for a moment before breaking into song.
I very nearly drop the guitar.
Gifted is nowhere near adequate to describe the loveliness bursting out of Agatha right now. She sounds like a songbird mixed with an angel. It’s so beautiful that I stop my strumming to just stare at her.
She stares back and jolts me into motion again.
It doesn’t matter that I’ve lost the chord and keep plucking strings off-beat—Agatha’s voice is beautiful enough to charm anyone.
Here’s her solution: instead of talking to people, she just needs to sing at them. She could repeat all the nasty things she’s said to me in song, and I’d kiss her with gratitude.
Er, not actually kiss her. It’s an expression.
My hands are sweating, the guitar doing its best to slither out of my desperate grasp. My notes are sounding less right than they had before, but I’m not sure if that’s because my fingers moved, or if any noise would sound bad compared to Agatha.
Her soaring melody slows, fades, stops.
I do one final pathetic strum.
She’s smiling at me—a real smile, not one of her practiced bits of gentility. It’s the most genuine and the happiest I’ve seen her.
I realize I’m smiling back. Or as close as I get to smiling, anyhow, which is basically just not frowning. I clear my throat. “That was, er, good.”
A smatter of applause stops me from any more embarrassing confessions. I wrench my gaze from Agatha and see a couple of villagers clapping for her. One of them, a stout woman with dark hair and red cheeks, motions to us. “Lovely, lovely!” she cries. “Come, can we offer you a meal?”
Agatha flashes me a delighted smile and hurries to follow the woman, grabbing my hand to pull me with her. Unexpected, but I don’t dislike it.
She must realize what she’s done right as we get to the woman’s house, because she drops my hand hurriedly and wipes it on her skirt.
Well, I was sweating.
The stout woman opens her blue-painted door and stands back so we can enter. “My family would love to have you join us for dinner,” she says, beaming.
“Thank you.” My voice mingles with Agatha’s. This might be the first thing we’ve agreed on.
Inside the humble cottage, a similarly stout man sits on a low chair, whittling. An overwhelming number of children make an overwhelming amount of noise, which might be a good thing; no one will be able to hear Agatha talk.
The woman bustles over to a bubbling pot on a black stove. My mouth waters at the scent of herbs, and I share a gleeful glance with Agatha. Her eyes grow round. I follow her gaze to see what’s caught her attention—it’s riveted on a chipped china teapot.
Huh. What’s with her and teapots?
There’s a general bustle, as the children show us to seats in a confusion of noise and contradicting instructions.
Agatha and I end up at one end of a long, narrow table, while the woman—Berta, she says—ladles a green sort of stew into polished wooden bowls.
Her husband—Bert, which is very confusing—offers us a tin cup of water.
“You don’t mind sharing?” he says apologetically. “We had enough for everyone at one point.”
“Six children ago!” Berta calls.
The children laugh and whisk around with napkins and baskets of hot muffins.
I push the tin cup over to Agatha. “You must be thirsty after that song.”
She drains it in one long gulp. One of the children, watching, giggles and snatches it to refill.