Chapter 17 #2
“I know your smiles.” I lean back, putting some more inches between us. “You have one you use when you’re—I don’t know, when you’re trying to trick someone.”
Those blue eyes grow impossibly rounder. “I what?”
I gesture uselessly at the empty air between us. “It looks very nice, but it’s, er, hiding something.”
She opens her mouth, but closes it wordlessly. Like a very pretty fish. Instead of saying anything, she takes another bite of bread, chewing with agonizing slowness.
“I’m figuring you out, you see,” I say, a touch of smugness in my voice. “You won’t be able to hide things from me much longer.”
She breathes sharply through her nose. “You won’t be around me much longer,” she says.
I blink at the bitterness. She’s not—she’s not upset about that, is she?
Agatha takes another bite, less dainty this time. I watch her.
“Stop staring at me,” she says after she swallows. “It makes my skin crawl.” Then, turning to face me, she says slowly, “And you smell bad.”
I scoot as far from her as I can without falling off the stone. I must have imagined the bitterness. She can’t wait to be rid of me and my skin-crawling stares.
We finish our bread and fish and cheese in silence, and as soon as it’s gone, we rise to finish climbing this mountain.
She should be happy. She only has to put up with me for a little while longer, then she can go wherever she wants, free as a bird.
I can’t resist one more look over my shoulder as we start hiking.
A forlorn sort of bird.
By the time we reach the wide road in the valley at the bottom of the mountain, I’m wishing we would have taken Berta’s advice and just gone around.
Perhaps it saved us some miles, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to walk at all tomorrow, so what was the point?
I’ll never catch up to Henry at this rate.
Thankfully, Berta told us where to find a stream where we can refill Agatha’s teapot, and the banks are bristling with bushes laden with fat purple berries. “Are these edible?”
Agatha, stooped over the water, cranes her neck to peer at me. I redden at her expression. “You’ve never seen a bowberry?”
“I don’t live here!” After a moment, I add, “So—does that mean I can eat them?”
With her teapot filled, she straightens. The briefest grimace interrupts the serenity of her expression. “Why don’t you try one,” she suggests. Her voice has an overly-sweet tone, and when she looks at me next, it’s with a wicked smile. “Maybe we won’t have to find a magistrate after all.”
I scowl and try to think of a snappy comeback.
I cannot.
Huffing, I unsling my guitar, plop down on the bank, and begin unlacing my boots. One of the brambles spears my shoulder.
Agatha moves in my periphery. I stiffen when I realize she’s sitting beside me. Not close, exactly, but … close-ish.
“They’re perfectly safe.” She holds out a handful of the berries.
I do not take any.
She rolls her eyes and pops one into her mouth. “I don’t actually want you to die.”
“How kind,” I grunt. I bend again to peel off my boots and stockings before plunging my feet into the chilly water with a wince. It feels good and terrible all at once, both biting and soothing. I glance at Agatha, who’s working on a knot in one of her laces. “Do you, er, need help?”
“No,” she says sharply, but modifies it after a moment in a calmer tone. “I have the Gift of Nimble Fingers. Aha!” The knot seems to untangle itself for her, and she follows my example.
“There’s more salve after you’re done soaking,” I say, voice gruff. “And some bread left, I think.”
Agatha’s nimble fingers reach over and drop a handful of the presumably not-poisonous berries in my lap. “You’ll like them.”
Impossible woman. I scoot a little closer.
We sit in silence for a while. If I could forget the fact that I’ve lost Henry and I’m unknown miles from home, I would probably enjoy this moment of peace in an enchanted forest with my lovely companion. She was right: I do like the berries.
Finally, I clear my throat and ask, “Do you have any ideas what we should, er, do now?” I look around. We’ve made it—I think—back to the road we were always supposed to be on, but certainly Henry is long past us.
Agatha presses her lips together. “Go ahead toward Rhylorria, I guess.” Her voice is measured. I wonder what else she’s not saying. “You can find your precious Henry somewhere along the way, and I can …”
“I still think your father will be looking for you,” I say gruffly. I’d like to take her hand to comfort her, but I doubt she’d appreciate it.
She doesn’t say anything for a long moment.
“If you still want to—I mean—” She cuts herself off.
I watch the way she wrinkles up her pretty face.
She doesn’t look flustered, exactly, but she’s annoyed at something.
“I think this road goes through Glen Violet,” she finally says.
“You might get news of your friend there, and if not, it’s close to the border. ”
“And there’s a magistrate who can …” I wave vaguely, my cheeks heating. It’s still odd to think that we’re actually married. If she wanted, she could just come back to Rhylorria with me.
I shoo that thought away. Foolish and pathetic, I remind myself. We barely tolerate each other.
“Yes,” Agatha says, her voice cool. She bends over to trail a finger in the stream. Her rippled reflection is heart-achingly lovely, as always. “Duke Mansfield is the magistrate there. Count Chrestowine lives there too, I think.”
“Do you know either of them?”
She laughs. It’s not a happy sound. “They were at my birthday party. I was supposed to be marrying the duke.”
Good thing I hadn’t said anything about us staying married.
I clear my throat, trying to think back to that awkward ball and remember which guest was which.
I think the duke was a pompous man with too much hair oil and a sickening habit of licking his lips whenever he looked at Agatha.
Yes, and he was the one who still wanted to marry her after her insults—said he wanted to tame her. My stomach twists at the memory.
I might have the names mixed up, I suppose. He’s probably not that bad. I’d said things I didn’t really mean, too, hadn’t I?
“Well. That’s wonderful, then. He can, er, unmarry us, and then you can live happily ever after with him.”
She doesn’t look at me. Well, at least I don’t think she does.
I’m very carefully not looking at her. I tell myself this is because the forest is a little bit beautiful, and I’d better admire the view while I’m here.
Evening sunlight filters through pale green leaves, and shy wildflowers nestle among the ferns and moss of the forest floor. A songbird trills to us.
It’s nothing to Agatha’s beauty, but it does its best.
“What are you thinking?” I finally venture.
It takes her a moment to respond. “That we’re still a few days from Glen Violet, and you need to be of some use between here and there.”
I frown as I turn to her. We were sort of friendly there for a while.
“Let’s practice your guitar,” she continues. “We’ll probably run across another village tomorrow.”
“Oh,” I say, very eloquently. “Right.” I fetch my guitar from where I’d propped it against a white-barked tree and attempt to look like I know what to do with it. I know Agatha is not fooled.
She smiles—the real kind—and scoots closer to adjust my grip. Her fingers dance across mine, leaving sparks in their wake. “There. Try that.”
And somehow, miraculously it sounds good, and somehow even more miraculously, Agatha relaxes and doesn’t insult me for the rest of the evening.