Chapter 16 #2
I spread the blanket on the mostly-dry floor and ease myself down on it, staring unblinking up at the dark ceiling. My joints ache for the luxury of my bed back home, but compared to the experience of sleeping in the woods last night, this is relatively indulgent.
If I ever return to the palace, I’ll take time to thank the servants.
Although the floor isn’t terribly comfortable, it doesn’t take long for my eyelids to grow heavy and droop shut. The songs of the katydids and crickets outside are a pleasant lull, and I’m drifting off to sleep when another noise floats to my ears.
“Good night, Lem.”
I fall asleep with no scowl on my face.
Agatha
I sleep more deeply than I have for days—no, weeks. The narrow, squeaky bed is surprisingly comfortable, and Berta’s ointment tingles pleasantly on my toes.
I don’t wake until bright sunlight illuminates the room, shining directly in my eyes. I groan, throwing an arm over my face to block the sunlight. Why are there no curtains in here?
A rustle—a mouse? No, that must be Lem stirring.
I roll and peer over the edge of the bed. Lem’s still asleep, the lines on his face smoothed somewhat. I almost feel bad when I see him on the hard floor, nothing but a thin quilt beneath him. Almost feel bad. It was probably good for him.
Plus, he offered.
Plus, he’s the one who wants to annul this marriage. If he wasn’t so eager to be rid of me, perhaps—
I set my teeth, pointedly not wondering how we would get along, if we had a bit more time.
The bed groans when I push myself up to a seated position and swipe golden strands of hair out of my eyes. Lem rustles, but doesn’t wake.
I don’t look at him again. I don’t need to waste any time feeling sympathy for him or admiring the cut of his stubble-covered jaw.
Gingerly, I step over him, noting with pleasure that Berta’s miraculous ointment-and-onion treatment has worked wonders on my raw feet. I snatch up my clean-ish stockings and boots, which are not clean at all, and sneak out of the room on my tiptoes.
Outside, in the bright light of dawn, I stretch, then sit on the stoop of the schoolhouse to remove the bandages and shove my tender feet back into their confines. I wish I didn’t have to, but the pinching boots will be better than picking my way over bare gravel.
Smoke rises in thin gray lines from several of the cottages, and Bert and Berta’s house is already alive with activity. A tousled head pokes out of one of their windows, face splitting into a delighted grin when it catches sight of me. An excited arm joins, waving a wild morning greeting.
I smile and wave back before heading toward the stream on the other side of the village.
Drat—I forgot my teapot. Briefly, I consider going back for it, but I’d have to step over Lem again, so I walk to the stream empty-belted.
The water is cold and bubbling, and I take my time, splashing it over my face, neck, and arms before scooping a handful to drink.
A voice—no, a chatter of voices—approaches from the village.
More of Bert and Berta’s children surround me, all talking at the same time so that I can barely understand a word, but the way they tug at whatever part of me they can is a pretty good indication that they want me to come along.
I laugh, plucking the smallest one up before he toddles right into the stream—it’s exactly the sort of thing Pudan would have done a few years back—and let them tug me to their house, wrapped in a riot of questions that I have no time to answer.
We sweep like a noisy whirlwind into Berta’s house. She’s simultaneously nursing a fat baby and stirring an enormous black cauldron.
“Your teapot!” I say with real dismay. “I left it in the schoolhouse!”
Berta waves it off. “Sit!” She uses her wooden spoon to point to the bench that wraps around their table. “How are your feet?”
“Much better.” I obey her porridgy instructions. “Thank you.”
The child I’d rescued from an early dip in the stream settles himself on my lap, while another sets a bowl in front of me, and a third appears at my elbow with a hairbrush.
I take it with a smile and a nod, and several small girls circle around me to watch me brush my hair.
“Porridge will be ready in a moment,” Berta says cheerily.
I sink into silence—the cottage doesn’t need any of my noise, anyhow—and let the happy clamor soothe a little, wrinkled part of my soul.
This is so different from what I imagine a home with Duke Mansfield will be—would have been—like.
Not just in size, or volume, but in the ease that the family has with each other.
There’s yelling, but it’s in play; there are rebukes, but they’re said with affection.
And when two of the middle-sized boys begin roughhousing and one is hurt, there are plenty of hugs and soothing words to heal the bruised knee.
I like it here.
As promised, Berta’s porridge is soon ready, and she ladles a hearty serving for me. One of the children offers a cup of creamy milk, and I set to with great goodwill.
A rough knock sounds at the door, promptly answered, and Lem appears, eyebrows drawn together.
The lines in his face relax as soon as he spots me across the cottage. “Agatha, there you are.”
Was he worried about me?
There’s too much noise for me to say anything he could reasonably hear—and besides, I’m not sure what would come out if I tried to say something.
I’m feeling a bit too sentimental, touched by his unexpected care last night.
I do grace him with a smile, though, which makes his eyes narrow even as his cheeks redden.
The children soon have him bustled down next to me with his own bowl of porridge, although we once again share a cup. More than once our hands touch as we reach for it at the same time. He always draws back, allowing me to sip first.
Strange behavior for a self-centered prince.
When we’re finished, Berta perches herself on the bench across from us and folds her hands. Her rosy cheeks are still stretched in a smile, but her eyes are intelligent as well as merry.
“Now, in all the noise, I do think you forgot to introduce yourselves last night,” she says. One finger taps on the rough table. “But the nice man here called you Agatha, I believe.”
I’m very practiced at forcing smiles, although a nervousness creeps up my limbs.
“And I doubt there’s more than one Agatha in these mountains with a gift of song and hair like flowing gold,” Berta continues.
At my side, Lem sits more stiffly. Berta gazes at him with that same cheery expression.
“I’d be very interested to hear how my Lady Agatha came to be walking through these parts with no money, no change of clothes, and a minstrel who—forgive me—cannot play his guitar.”
I can’t answer. Can’t, because the nervousness clawing its way through my insides will surely force out some thoughts that I desperately want to keep to myself; thoughts that make me seem small and sad and pathetic and broken.
So I turn the force of my calm smile on Lem next to me, nudging him to answer.
He coughs. Then coughs again. Then looks at me helplessly with those green-flecked eyes.
Useless, adorable man.
I shrug, pick the milk cup up again, and sip.
Berta lets us wriggle in awkward silence for much longer than enjoyable before mimicking my shrug. “I only ask,” she says pleasantly, “because even down in these hollers, we’ve heard word that the Lady Agatha is destined to marry someone very rich and important. A duke, perhaps.”
Lem sputters.
“And I wonder if the Lady Agatha running away with a … minstrel … is going to cause problems, once Lord Montberger finds out.”
Lem grunts. “Oh, he knows. Don’t worry about that.”
Berta turns her sharp gaze back on Lem, who squirms. “I’d never fault anyone for a love-match,” she says, which causes him to tense like a cornered rabbit, “but I do hope you know what you’re doing.
” Her eyes swing to me, concern replacing some of her jollity.
She reaches across the narrow table to cover my hand with her own.
“Everyone knows Duke Mansfield is a harsh man.”
Now it’s my turn to stiffen. “He’s an ogre,” I blurt. “Lem is—”
Lem tips his head, waiting for me to finish that thought. Tolerable, I think, but I say nothing more.
“We want you to be safe, if this is really what you want.” Berta squeezes my hand.
I swallow a lump that’s formed in my throat and nod slowly. I still don’t trust my voice.
Lem, shifting imperceptibly closer to me, directs the full force of his grumpiness at Berta. “You don’t need to worry about my lady,” he says.
Berta’s good-humored face doesn’t flinch. “Oh?” She looks around the room, still smiling. “I suppose you have a bag of gold hidden about here somewhere?”
Lem folds his arms. “I have”—he coughs—“a friend. We’re going to find him. He was supposed to meet us, but we got delayed, but as long as we head to Rhylorria, we’re bound to find him eventually?” It should be a statement, but his doubtful voice betrays his uncertainty.
Now Berta’s smile fades. “You’re a fair piece from Rhylorria, dears. Lady Agatha can’t walk all that way on her poor feet.”
In my head, I recite I’m fine—you don’t need to worry about me—I’ll be fine—thank you for your concern, but I’ll be just fine. Perhaps if I make myself think it long enough, I can squeeze it out past Melusine’s curse.
“I don’t suppose anyone has a horse we could borrow?” Lem grumbles.
Berta shakes her head.
I’ve practiced in my thoughts long enough that I think I can make an effort to speak now. “My godmother gave me the Gift of Health.” I concentrate on each word, forcing my thoughts to bend the way I want them to. “My feet are already feeling much better.”
The mental effort of getting this much out and not blabbing anything else causes me to slump backwards. To my surprise, Lem’s arm is there, too, ready to catch me, his hand brushing my shoulder … comfortingly?
I stop myself before I lean into the touch. Better not forget that he’s planning on cutting me loose as soon as he can.
Berta’s cheery face is tinged with faint concern, but she doesn’t argue with my pronouncement. She smoothly hefts her bulk from the bench and dusts her hands on an apron. “We’ll send you with some food, then, if you can’t wait another day.”
“We can’t,” Lem says grimly. His fingers rub small circles on my shoulder. “We’re already late.”
Berta whisks back into action. “Don’t leave until I can get you a bit of something.”
Lem rises. “I left my guitar in the schoolhouse,” he says. He doesn’t meet my eyes. “Ran off without thinking of it.”
One eyebrow twitches. “You thought I left you?”
His frown deepens. “Maybe I was hoping.” He says it quietly, so Berta can’t overhear, but it contains no rancor. It’s almost—dare I say it?—teasing.
I smother my smile, casting my eyes to the floor. When I look back up, his broad back is disappearing through the cottage doorway. The house feels emptier without his grumpy presence.