Chapter 17
Agatha
I didn’t lie to Berta—my feet do feel much better this morning. I’m not sure if it was her tarry ointment, or Melusine’s Gift of Health, or a combination of the two, but the open sores feel less tender, and I barely have to rely on my Poise to cover up my winces like I had been doing yesterday.
By the time Lem returns to Berta’s cottage, laden with both my and Berta’s teapots, plus the two empty cups, an armful of wet washcloths, and his guitar, Berta has packed us a basket to sustain us on our journey.
She swaps with Lem, taking the tea things back and directing one of the children to relieve him of the washcloths.
“I couldn’t carry the bedthings, too,” Lem says, a note of apology lightening his gruff voice.
Berta clicks her tongue. “The children will take care of that.”
Silently, I accept my teapot from him.
“We should refill that before we go,” he says. I agree.
Berta follows us from the cottage to the stream.
“Now, if you’re off to Rhylorria, the East Road is right beyond that mountain,” she says, indicating the blue-hazed summit rising abruptly on the other side of the valley.
“When the road forks, the right track will land you in Glen Violet after a few days, but it’s quite a climb. ”
Lem perks up.
I stoop to fill my teapot, rolling my eyes once he can’t see me. Of course he wants to climb the whole blasted mountain instead of taking the path around the base. Anything to get to his precious friend and be rid of me.
My more logical side says that earlier would be better; Lem is a prince, even if he doesn’t currently look it, and his disappearance must be causing consternation. Besides, I can’t live this way forever. I have to figure out what to do next, too.
I finish filling my teapot and sigh. Turning, I say, “We’ll go over.”
Berta’s red cheeks frown. “It’s steep, going up and going down,” she warns.
My polite, cheery smile does a little to reassure her. “It would be better if we can get there earlier.” This out, I bite my tongue, keeping the rest of my thoughts to myself.
If we get there earlier, Lem will find his friend and leave me.
If we get there earlier, I’ll be alone earlier.
Or, worse, I’ll run into Duke Mansfield—he lives in Glen Violet, when he’s not terrorizing the rest of the country with his insufferably greasy presence—and he’ll … well, either he wants to punish me, or he still wants to marry me, and I’m really not sure which I fear more.
I don’t dare open my mouth again until Lem and I are back on the road, Berta and Bert and the children waving a loud goodbye to us. I smile and wave silently.
Lem doesn’t say anything, either, until the village is well behind us. “How are your feet?” he asks gruffly.
“Better.” After a moment, I add, “Yours?”
“Better.”
We trudge along the winding road at the base of the mountain until we get to a fork. The left branch continues winding around, while the right snakes up in a series of switchbacks that disappear into the thick forest. We stop as if by agreement.
“We can go around, if you want.” Lem’s voice is husky.
“Afraid of a little climb?” I bite the inside of my cheek, regretting the words as soon as they’re out. I wish I could stop needling him.
“I’m trying to help you,” Lem grumbles, his face set in stern lines.
“You think you can help me?” I sniff.
A muscle tics in his jaw. “At least I’m trying, Agatha! You don’t do anything besides … besides smiling! And insulting me!”
“It’s because you’re so terribly easy to insult!” I snap. “You’re inept, and clueless, and your beard looks—your beard looks—” I stop, frustrated, because I will never tell Lem what I think of his beard.
I did not know I was attracted to somewhat scruffy beards on the face of scowling men, but apparently, I am.
Said scowling, scruffy man turns away from me and begins the climb, his guitar bouncing gently against his back as he goes.
I watch him for a moment, my heart sinking at the sight of the steep ascent. Melusine’s Gift of Health won’t protect me from very sore thighs. But it’s too late to call him back now—I can’t admit that I’d rather take the lower path, even though it will extend this journey and keep us together.
I scoff at myself as I begin trudging behind him.
Together. I can’t admit that I find his presence comforting—not now, not ever.
He’ll think I’m only with him because he is (or was and might be again) the prince.
Or, worse, he’ll figure out the truth: that I’m terrified of being on my own, and even with his scowls and general annoying tendencies, I feel safe with him.
He doesn’t like me, so I don’t have to impress him.
I’m not playing any sort of role when we’re together. I like that.
I swallow.
No, I can’t say any of those thoughts.
So I climb silently behind him and don’t say anything at all.
Lem
We almost had a truce last night, tending to each other’s wounds and together enjoying the meager triumph of finding a warm meal and a somewhat comfortable place to sleep.
She was almost sincere, almost soft with me.
Why is she back to her causticness now?
I tromp, step by step, up the mountain, huffing after only a short while. I glance behind me to make sure Agatha’s not straggling.
She looks as fresh as if she’s risen from a night of good sleep on a comfortable bed—which she did, because I let her have it, not that she even said thank you—and is out for a pleasant morning stroll.
I, on the other hand, am smelly and wrinkled and generally disheveled, joints aching after sleeping on the floor all night, guitar thudding against my lower back with every step, and Berta’s basket growing heavier by the minute.
I’m already out of breath, and we’ve barely left the bottom of the mountain.
I console myself with the thought that we must be getting closer to wherever we need to be, and I can find Henry, and then go home to Rhylorria, and then all will be well.
And if the thought of leaving Agatha tugs at something in my heart …
I push that idea away, set my face in a concentrated frown, and focus on getting up this blasted mountain one step at a time.
We climb all morning. My legs are quivering, and my breaths are coming in short gasps, but I don’t stop until the sun is directly above us.
Every so often, I turn around to see if Agatha is fairing as poorly as I am, but of course, she’s just fine. Fresh as a daisy. Breathing like normal, serene as a swan gliding on the lake outside Rhylorria’s palace.
Finally, I admit defeat. So she’s a better hiker than I am. So what?
“We’d better rest for a bit,” I say—or pant, rather.
There’s a large boulder at the side of the road, long and flat enough to serve as a bench, and I trudge my way over to it, mopping my sweaty brow with the back of my sleeve.
Curse that godmother for taking my pocket-handkerchiefs when she changed my identity.
Agatha follows me, settling on the stone with the grace of a sparrow alighting on a branch. I glower at her.
“What?” She scoots as far from me as she can.
“Why,” I say between gasps, “are you so much better at this than I am?”
Her face turns to surprise. She looks down, but not before I catch a smile—a real one, not one of those she uses to smooth people’s feelings—playing at the edge of her lips.
Wait a minute. I angle my body toward her, our knees bumping together. I know the difference between her smiles. That perfect, charming one—the one I’d seen when I first encountered her in the forest—is an act.
And it’s the one she’d used when she assured Berta that she’d be just fine walking today.
I grunt, making Agatha look up, questioningly. “You lied to Berta.”
Her eyebrows draw together, but she takes a moment before answering. I recognize this, too, the way she withdraws momentarily before she speaks—as if she has something to hide, and must shove it away so she can find the right words.
When she doesn’t pause, it’s normally because she’s about to spit something rude at me.
While I wait for her to formulate her response, I dig through the basket Berta had given us.
There are several small loaves of dense brown bread alongside a bunch of dried salted fish and a wheel of ivory cheese.
As we were leaving, Berta also told us to watch for some sort of berry I’ve never heard of.
I would, if I knew how to identify them, and if I could look up from the path once in a while, but I’ve been too focused on keeping my footing.
The basket also has Berta’s little ointment pot. Good. I can tend Agatha’s feet tonight.
She never did answer my accusation, I realize, looking back at her.
I realize something else, too: her chest is rising and falling as rapidly as mine.
She’s catching her breath; she made it look easy, but she’s not doing any better than I am.
Sudden guilt hits me. I would’ve stopped earlier if I’d known she was getting tired.
I shove the guilt away. She’s the one who never spoke up. She could have asked to rest. I won’t be accountable for her choices.
“May I have some water?” I ask gruffly.
Agatha wordlessly unties her teapot, pouring it in my open mouth. I do not enjoy this. I feel very much like an ugly baby bird waiting on its mother to bring it a morsel.
And I do not want Agatha to feel like my mother. I’d like her to feel—
“Have some bread.” I push one of the loaves into her hands and tear into the other. I watch her nibble daintily, my brows creased, trying to understand her.
“Why did you lie to Berta?” I ask again.
She looks at one of the trees towering over us. “Why do you say that?”
There—that tone. I lean closer, feeling like I’m about to figure something out. If I were as gifted as she is, I’m sure I would have grasped it all by now, but not all of us were so lucky.
Or … was Agatha lucky?
“Because I know the way you smile.”
At this, she looks at me, her blue eyes round and wide, her face heart-poundingly close to my own.
“You what?”