Chapter 18
Agatha
This journey would probably be more pleasant if we could converse more, but I’m afraid of what I’ll say if I open my mouth too often.
I don’t want to marry the duke.
Can I come with you to Rhylorria?
You’re not so bad, actually.
So we pass the next few days in semi-companionable silence, following the winding road up and down mountains and valleys, past thickets of rhododendrons and mountain laurel, gathering bowberries and ramps and busking whenever we find a village.
Though we ask after Henry, no one has seen a man matching his description.
Some evenings we sit (not too close) under the shelter of towering trees, and I help Lem learn an actual chord on his guitar.
Others we spend soaking our aching feet in a serendipitous stream while Lem molds little pots from the clay on the bank.
Conversation is limited, but not completely unpleasant.
He tells me tidbits about life in the Rhylorrian court—uncomfortable, I gather—and I share stories of Phildan and Pudan and Mrs. Dorian and Melusine.
And really … Lem isn’t so bad. He doesn’t really smile, and he’s a bit helpless when it comes to finding food, but he’s surprisingly attentive.
And he’s useful when we do come across other people; anyone who leers at me receives the full force of Lem’s scowl, and that, I am realizing, is a powerful thing to have beside me.
We’re on our third day of travels since leaving Bert and Berta’s village when we hear the clomping of hooves approaching around one of the bends in this mountain road. Lem positions himself in front of me like an overprotective gander as we step to the side.
The hooves belong to a shaggy brown mare pulling a gaudily painted cart. The driver—similarly gaudy—sits under a fringed awning and pulls the mare up when he spots us.
“Ho there!” he bellows far louder than necessary.
Lem nods stiffly.
“Fine day for traveling!” The driver’s bearded face breaks out into a gap-toothed smile. “Care for a ride? No charge for the lady!” He winks at me.
I can almost feel Lem’s scowl deepening. “We’re headed the other way,” he says, still stiff. “To Glen Violet and Rhylorria. Have you, er, heard any news from there?”
“Rhylorria?” The driver scratches his beard. “I might.”
Lem perks up slightly.
“If you can pay for it,” the driver adds.
Lem deflates again. “Never mind.” His voice is tight.
I push past him and smile at the driver.
“Please.” I focus all my effort into not saying anything about the man’s terribly striped suit or the blinding paint job of the cart itself.
“We could pay with a song.” I’m also careful not to let slip out because I can tell Lem is desperate for news and it would be nice to make him a little happier.
Lem doesn’t need to know all my thoughts.
“Minstrels! Wonderful!” the driver booms. “Sing, then! And we’ll see what it’s worth!” He chuckles to himself.
I do not like how loud he is or how smug he seems, looking down at us from his ugly cart, keeping news from Lem just because he can.
I do not like the way his mare sags and sighs as if she’s been driven too far for too long.
I do not like the yellow stripes on his jacket or the tassels on his awning.
In short, I do not like this man. But what are my Gifts for, if not to impress people I do not like, and get them to do what I want?
I’ll convince this man to give us news and share some food with us.
I smile at Lem, who shrugs and takes his guitar off his back, and then I sing my heart out there in the middle of the mountain road, crooning with every ounce of Charm and Musicality and Elegance I have.
It works.
By the time I’ve finished the song and Lem has strummed his final almost-on-time chord, both the driver and his horse are nearly in tears. He wipes his eyes on the striped jacket sleeve (the driver, not the horse).
“You have a gift, my lady!” he says. “A gift indeed!”
I let my eyelashes flutter modestly, the way men like, and clasp my hands in front of my skirt. “You have news?”
“Oh, ah, yes,” the driver says. He leans forward on his perch and attempts to look important. “That foreign prince—Limp-Lemon, I think he was called—is …”
He pauses. We wait.
“He’s dead!”
Lem reacts by not reacting at all. I let my eyes open wider and gasp. “What happened?”
The driver shrugs. “They say,” he says, tapping the side of his nose, “that he went out duck-hunting and never returned. New prince will be crowned any day now.”
I have never needed my Poise so desperately. That’s the rumor they’re circulating about Lem? That he was eaten by ducks?
I risk a glance at Lem, who is scowling, as expected. I wonder if it pains him to hear of his rumored death. Does he worry about his grieving parents? He speaks very little of the king and queen, but they must care about what’s happened to him. I lay my hand on his arm and squeeze gently.
The touch startles him as much as it startles myself. I look away, unwilling to meet his gaze, and turn my attention back to the cart driver.
“Oh, we already know about the prince.” Quite true. It comes out easily. “Would our song be worth anything else?” I’d like to add good man to the end for maximum charm, but I’m afraid I’d gag on the words.
The driver frowns. “Already know—! But I thought I had the corner—!”
I step closer to the cart to interrupt his mutterings. “We hadn’t heard the part about the ducks.” This mollifies him somewhat. “We’ve been walking for days.” I will myself to look small and pleading. “Do you have anything you could share with a couple of hungry travelers?”
The driver’s eyes dart from me to Lem and back. “Ah, very well,” he finally says. He turns to rummage in the cart behind him and pulls out a small parcel and hands it to me, letting his touch linger on my wrist.
I offer my gratitude with my most winsome expression and step aside so the driver can continue on his journey. He clicks to his horse and they jingle on down the path.
“So,” I say to Lem once the cart is away from us and we continue our walk. “You’ve been bested by the ducks, Prince Limp-Lemon?”
Lem glares at me.
I open my mouth, think better of it, and shut it again. Instead of speaking, I unwrap the parcel to reveal a stack of flaky oatcakes. There’s an odd number, and because I am the soul of kindness, I divide the stack in two and wordlessly hand the taller one to Lem.
Lem
Limp-lemon?
Do these ignorant, uncultured, backwoods mountain people really not know how to pronounce my name? It’s not even difficult! It’s not even—
Agatha wordlessly presses a stack of something crumbly into my hand.
“Well,” I say, “I’m sure you have something else to say about it.”
She doesn’t look at me, nibbling at one of the crumbling cakes with her eyes on some far-off point.
“I think it’s very strange,” she says at last. “What did he mean, they’ll crown a new prince?”
I grunt, rubbing the side of my jaw absently. There’s no scar there now. “The succession isn’t hereditary. There’s, er, a sort of trial for it.”
She turns her gaze to me, head tilted. “How did you become prince, then?”
I grunt again. Surprisingly, she only sounds interested, not derisive, but I still find my hackles raising, the voices of one-too-many jealous courtiers echoing in my mind. “Never mind,” I say, gruffer than I intend.
She takes another bite, frowning. “So that’s why you came looking for a godmother?”
“It was Henry’s idea,” I admit reluctantly. “He knew I wasn’t cut out for princedom. You don’t know what it’s like, being forced into a role that you’re just so bad at.”
Agatha is quiet for a long moment. “Don’t I?”
“Of course not,” I scoff. “You’re perfect at everything.” It isn’t fair.
She almost laughs. “And you don’t think I was forced into it, too?”
I catch her eye. She’s as serene as ever, but there’s a sort of resignation to her expression, and I suddenly feel sorry for her. I wonder what it’s like to be chosen by a fairy as an infant. She wouldn’t have even had the eight years of childhood freedom that I did.
“So what are you cut out for, Lem?”
The question might be innocent, but it stings. I was supposed to be the shadow. Henry was the one who, after we lost our parents, had great dreams of knighthood and heroism, and I was willing to follow where he went.
And then I became prince, and Henry followed me to the castle so I wouldn’t be so alone, all the while knowing that we were both out-of-place. What am I cut out for?
I wish I knew.
Henry will have no problem back in Rhylorria—he’s good with people, easygoing.
And he has a head for numbers. If he hadn’t felt obligated to serve as my companion, he would have found a position as a steward or accountant years ago.
The most I can hope for is that whatever family employs him will have an awkward son who needs language tutoring.
I don’t think I’d be a complete failure at that.
I don’t answer Agatha’s question, and she doesn’t ask again.
She hasn’t spoken much these last few days of travel. I wish she would, as long as the questions don’t get too personal. Even when she’s insulting me, it’s still nice to hear her voice.
A fly buzzes around my head. I swat it away. The silence stretches out.
It was clever, the way Agatha spoke to that man. I didn’t expect to be eating anything besides whatever leaves we could scrounge today, so these sweet little cakes are a nice treat. I clear my throat and brush some crumbs off my jacket.
“Well done, getting us food like that.”
One of Agatha’s pale eyebrows raises slowly. “It was well-done, wasn’t it?”
Conceited woman.
“You said it first,” she says, as if hearing my thoughts. After a moment, she adds, “Does this rumor change your plans?”
“Why should it?”
She shrugs. Her voice uses that cool, precise tone she employs when she’s trying to be nice. “It just seems …” She stops, presses her lips together, and begins again. “I only wondered.”
“Henry will figure it out,” I say with more confidence than I feel.
Agatha takes a bite of her oatcake and chews slowly.
“In fact,” I continue, “he may have even started the rumor to, er, well. For some reason.” I feel my cheeks redden and am thankful for the scruffy beard that hopefully covers the worst of the blush.
“Maybe it’s a secret message,” Agatha says. “Is there a significant duck in your personal history?”
It takes a moment to realize she’s teasing, but not mocking. I’m too surprised to think of a smart reply.
“Or perhaps,” she continues lightly, “he’s telling you to beware of all winged creatures, or of hunting in general.
Or perhaps he knows you have enemies back at court—you do, don’t you?
I suppose a prince must—and he knows they’re lying in wait for you near some body of water, and he wants you to avoid it.
” She tilts her golden head to one side.
“You’re blushing, Lem! Why are the ducks important? ”
I cough on a bit of oatcake. “It was, er, something that happened in my childhood.”
“Go on,” Agatha prompts, and I can hardly say no when she’s looking at me like that.
“That’s all.” My voice is gruff. “I just fell into a pond. And then, er, ran screaming all the way back home. While the ducks chased me.”
Agatha giggles. “Poor little Lem.” She nudges me with her shoulder, which does nothing to alleviate my blush. “So you think he started this rumor as a … message?”
“Sounds dumb, doesn’t it?”
The breeze plays with the ends of her golden hair. “I suppose we’ll know soon,” she finally says, with forced lightness. “When we find your—your friend.”
I nod, my mood improving as I mull over the embarrassing rumor.
It seems the godmother’s gift was effective, though she didn’t accomplish it quite how I imagined.
If I’m supposed to be dead, and the hunt for the new heir is on, I can return to Rhylorria and live as I was always meant to, in simplicity and privacy. I’m—
I’m free, I suppose.
I thought it would feel better than this.
But of course, I’m forgetting Agatha. I won’t really be free until we’re separated. After we find someone to annul this marriage, and I make sure she has somewhere to go and someone to watch out for her, then I’ll be free and it will feel just as I imagined.
I shove the last bit of cake in my mouth and regret it. It was larger than I thought, and I choke on the crumbs. Agatha, noticing, rolls her eyes and takes the teapot off her sash.
“Stay still.” She tips a bit of water into my mouth.
“Thanks,” I mutter when I can speak again.
An unexpected twinkle lights her eyes. “You’re welcome, Lem. Or perhaps I should be calling you Limp-lemon?”
I scowl at her, but it feels like a friendly sort of scowl. “If you do …”
“What? You’ll play guitar while I’m trying to sleep?”
“Worse. I’ll—” I stop, flustered, because the only retribution that comes to mind is making her stay married to me, and that hardly feels like something to jest about. “I’ll think of something,” I finish lamely, and Agatha scoffs, but it’s as friendly as my scowl.
I swallow.
Yes. Just have to drop her off somewhere, and I’ll be … free.
Just like I wanted.