Chapter 15 #2
“Where are you good folks from?” Bert settles himself at the other end of the table.
The child returns with the cup, so I take my turn draining it before answering. “Uh, well,” I begin. “Here and there, I guess.”
Agatha nudges me with her knee. Is it an approving nudge or an annoyed one? How am I supposed to know? No one poked or nudged me when I was a prince.
“Traveler’s life for you, hm?” Berta interjects.
“Er, yes. Precisely.”
“Lem’s never been here before,” Agatha says. Her words are slow and deliberate, but her tone is sweet. “I’m showing him around.”
“You’re local?” Bert’s gaze is thoughtful. “What village?”
Agatha can’t answer, busy with one of the fruit-studded muffins. By the time she’s done chewing, a small, black-haired tot has spilled a bowl of stew at the other end of the table, and she doesn’t have to answer at all.
The meal passes quickly and loudly, and it’s unlike anything I’ve ever experienced before.
Though I’ve dined with kings, I’ve never had food so absolutely satisfying or company so merry.
The uncountable children keep up a steady stream of chatter and are always refilling our cup or bowls or pressing more muffins into our hands.
Bert and Berta call out good-natured chides.
It’s too boisterous to keep up any real conversation, which is refreshing; Agatha and I just slurp our stew, rest our feet, and laugh along with the children.
She laughs, rather. I’m not practiced enough in the art. But I feel my face relaxing.
When we’ve eaten the final muffin, the children whisk away the cup and the bowls with a jostling clatter. They take them to a large basin and set to work scrubbing and wiping dishes. Agatha nudges me with a wicked gleam in her blue eyes.
“Shouldn’t you offer to help with the cleaning up?”
“Me?”
She raises her voice and addresses our hostess. “Would you like us to help clean up?”
Berta clucks and shoos us over to sit in a pair of wooden rocking chairs. “Of course not! That’s what the children are for. But,” she adds, “if perhaps you’d give us another song?”
Agatha has to elbow me sharply before I remember my guitar. “Oh! Oh. Yes. Certainly.” I retrieve the instrument from where I had unceremoniously left it beside the door. Settling back down on the chair next to Agatha, I try a tentative strum.
I got the fingering wrong, and the it jangles discordantly. I flush.
Agatha, with a little smirk, begins a song anyhow, and I mostly sit back and enjoy her singing, only plucking at a single string now and then. Most of them sound wrong, but once or twice I manage to harmonize. I’m unreasonably proud of those few times.
When she finishes, the family applauds again. A knocking sounds at the door. When one of the children open it, a grizzly old man with a beard nearly to his waist pops his head in the door.
“You’re not going to hog the minstrels all to yourself, now, are you?” he asks, beckoning to me and Agatha. “Come out and play for us. We can find you a better place to stay tonight than this overrun hovel!” This last bit is delivered with a wink, and the children set up a loud clamor of protest.
I think … I think I like them, actually, but a quieter place does sound nice.
Agatha, smiling brightly, obeys the summons and follows the old man outside.
The children—however many of them there are—and I trail behind.
A number of other villagers are already assembled on the grass, waiting for Agatha to grace them with song.
They let out a cheer when she appears, and she dimples, sinking into the grass and arranging her skirts around her. I lower myself to the ground awkwardly.
I’ve spent the last dozen years not sitting on the ground, and I don’t find it particularly comfortable now. Being a prince did have its benefits.
Despite the grass poking through my trousers, the spring evening is warm and peaceful. The sun, not quite ready to go to bed, makes Agatha’s already-golden hair gleam even brighter. I let myself admire her—just for a moment. It’s only natural.
A chorus of buzzing and chirping insects provide an accompaniment for Agatha’s singing, which is good, since I can’t offer much by way of help. I begin with one off-key strum, then Agatha takes over, and I mostly just pretend to move my fingers and look musical.
I don’t fancy that anyone is deceived by it, but then again, no one is really paying attention to me. The crowd’s in raptures over Agatha. I don’t blame them.
My fingers still, not even keeping up the pretense of playing, as Agatha starts yet another lilting ballad. This is … nice.
For the first time since that fairy changed me, I feel peaceful.
This doesn’t look like I thought it would, and I heartily wish I didn’t have to keep walking tomorrow, but if I ignore what comes next and just focus on the moment—well, I could get used to it.
I like the feel of the evening breeze ruffling my short hair, the feel of the setting sun warming my bare head.
(I’d left the feathered cap in Bert and Berta’s house.) I like the freedom of not being bowed to and fussed over and presented with incomprehensible political conundrums. And I like the sound of my companion’s voice.
Laying my guitar on my lap, I settle back and listen to Agatha sing, and I feel that perhaps she’s not so bad, after all.
Agatha
Lem wasn’t kidding when he said he didn’t know how to play. I wonder what they teach princes in other countries; he has no sense of rhythm or harmony, and it’s a relief when he stops trying to strum along and lets me sing alone.
I’ve always liked singing—how could I not? And singing like this, out in the open air, surrounded by friendly strangers and the solid, comforting presence of Lem …
I stutter over the next phrase in the ballad. Did I just think of Lem as comforting? Dear me. I’m glad Melusine’s curse didn’t carry over to what I say in song.
I’m tired now, and I yawn as I switch to a slow, low croon. It’s the sort of thing my mother would have sung to me, if she’d lived. Some of the village children, hearing the tune, snuggle into their parents’ or grandparents’ arms and rest their little heads on welcoming shoulders.
The setting sun has turned the sky from bright blue to brilliant orange to smoky purple.
A few stars are beginning their twilight vigil.
I yawn again as I finish the lullaby, my voice cracking on the final note.
I look around, hoping someone will have a cup of water, but see nothing. Instead I am met with pleading faces.
“Please, sing another!”
I cough to clear my throat, wishing for nothing so much as a cup of tea and a place to fall asleep, but smile and hum the starting note of another ballad.
Lem interrupts me. “My wife is tired.” He stands. “She needs to rest.”
The crowd acknowledges this with murmured apologies and breaks apart, scattering to their small homes. Lem beckons to one of Bert and Berta’s children, who runs up immediately. “Get the lady some water,” he says in his stuffy-prince tone, but corrects himself with an immediate, “please.”
The child scampers off to do Lem’s bidding.
Wait—is this thoughtfulness? From Lem?
When the child returns with another tin cup of cold water, I take it gratefully, gulping it with a newfound appreciation. Why have I always taken water for granted? I must make sure to fill up my teapot before we leave tomorrow.
A small yearning lights itself like a tiny flame in my soul.
What if I didn’t have to leave?
What if, when Lem frees me from himself, I could find a home in a village like this?
Could I learn how to cook and garden and tend animals? Could there be a place for me in a family like Bert and Berta’s, with a man who enjoyed my company, and someday a houseful of laughing children?
It’s a thought I’ve never entertained before.
Marriage was always a thing of duty as much as delight, with the presumption that what I am—not who I am—would earn me a place of luxury and ease.
But what if real happiness is not found in marrying the wealthiest suitor, but in choosing someone to work alongside?
What if—what if I could find something like this?
I shouldn’t let myself dream. No one will want me with my unbridled tongue.
The crowd has nearly all dispersed, only the old bearded man and Berta—plus a plethora of her children—left. They’re caught in an energetic conversation. Berta has one child on her hip, one tugging on her skirt, and another rolling in the grass at her feet. I smile.
A hand reaches down to me—I look up and see Lem, offering to help me. My smile loses some of its joy, suspicious of his thoughtfulness, but I accept the help silently. I wince when I’m standing again, wishing that I had some way of relieving my aching feet.
“That was beautiful,” he says gruffly. His usual scowl is smoothed away, but he still doesn’t smile.
“Thank you.” I glance at his guitar. “I can help you learn, if you want.”
Lem shakes his head. “I don’t know what good it would be to me.”
“Well, once we’ve—annulled this, you’ll be on your own. And I really don’t think you can draw a crowd with your current skills.”
Lem’s face shutters. “When this is annulled, I’ll go back to Rhylorria,” he says. “And I won’t need to play for anyone.”
Berta, still covered with children, approaches us, wiping her eyes on her apron. “Beautiful,” she says. “Made me cry, you did.” She uses her free hand to smack Lem playfully on the shoulder. “Although you could use a bit of practice, young man.”
He chuckles self-consciously. “No practice will make me a comparable talent, I’m afraid.”
“Well,” Berta says, “as long as you appreciate that lovely wife of yours.” She nods.
“Now, you both look weary. Let me show you a place you can sleep.” Turning, she leads us across the green toward a building slightly bigger than the others.
“I’d gladly put you up with us, but you’d have to fight for your place on the floor, and I doubt you’d enjoy it.
It’s warm enough that you can sleep here, though.
The children have already brought over some bedding.
” She’s led us to another one-story structure, this one boasting a glass window and a shiny bell hanging by the door.
“Our new school,” she explains. “There’s a little bedroom for the teacher, once we get one. ”
I wait for Lem to open the door.
He doesn’t.
I kick his ankle, causing him to look at me with a frown. I raise my eyebrows and jut my chin toward the door handle.
Spoiled prince. Used to everyone waiting on him.
He finally understands what I mean and reaches for the door while Berta readjusts the child she carries. “Oh, let me,” he says belatedly.
It’s an improvement, anyhow.
I glide inside the schoolroom, Berta and Lem following. My boots click over the polished wooden floor as I walk down the aisle between the rows of desks.
“We all chip in to teach for now,” Berta explains.
“But someday we’ll be able to get someone in, someone with a real education.
” She points to a door on the far side of the room.
“The bedroom is back there,” she says. “My oldest already made it up for you, and filled up the water pitcher for washing. There’s a candle in there, too.
And mind you come back to our house for breakfast. Just porridge, but it will stick with you for a while if you’re walking on tomorrow. ”
She smiles her rosy-faced smile at us as we thank her, then backs out, shooing a few more children from beneath desks to swirl about her as she exits.
I exhale when they’ve left, the door shutting behind them with an echoing click. Lem clears his throat. I wait, wondering what he’s going to say, but he walks to the bedroom door without speaking.
I tell myself I’m not disappointed by that.
I follow him. A flickering candle illuminates the dusky room, making shadows dance over a narrow bed covered with a cheerful patchwork quilt. A tiny washtable sits on the other side of the room, with a pitcher and basin, and I suddenly realize how filthy I feel. If only I could find a way to bathe—
Lem clears his throat again, and the room feels much smaller and less welcoming. The bed seems very narrow indeed, and how exactly can I wash anything with no ability to undress?
“I can take the floor,” he finally says in a grudging tone.
My eyebrows raise, but I don’t say anything.
Better not discourage this newfound morsel of thoughtfulness.
I cross the room—it only takes a few steps—and bend over the pitcher, splashing cool water over my face.
I wish I had a cloth, but I’ll have to make do with only my hands to scrub my exposed skin.
When I’m a trifle cleaner, I step back from the basin and let Lem follow my example. I sit on the edge of the bed, feeling bad about getting the quilt dirty, and begin to pry my swollen feet out of their boots.
Lem, done with his ablutions, turns while I’m in the middle of picking burs out of my bootlaces. “Do you—want help?” he asks, awkwardly.
“Yes,” I say through gritted teeth. Drat. I had meant to say no. He doesn’t even have the Gift of Nimble Fingers, so I could have done this faster myself if he’d only asked if I needed help instead of if I wanted it.
His eyebrows shoot to the top of his forehead at my unexpected admission, and he drops to his knees to bend over the stubborn knots.
It is a good thing I can’t blush.
It takes him a few unbearably awkward moments to unpick the initial tangles, and when the boot is unlaced he gently pries it off my foot. I clench my jaw at the abrupt pain.
“Your foot—”
I look down and see what’s surprised Lem. My once-white stocking is crusted in dried blood from the blisters and the chafing of our journey.
I’d like to say it’s fine, but I know it won’t come out as I intend. Lem makes quick work of my other boot, peeling it off to reveal more of the same.
He doesn’t say anything, face set in a deep frown. He rises and turns away.
I should probably thank him, but I’m not sure what else I might accidentally say—
He turns back to me, washbasin in hand, and sets it on the floor. “Soak those,” he says gruffly. “I’ll go ask Berta for some—salve, or something.”
My mouth drops open in surprise, but he doesn’t wait to hear my answer. He’s out of the room before I’ve registered what he’s said.
The great Prince Limplemoyne, fetching foot salve from a local farmwife?
How things have changed.