Chapter 19
Lem
Evening is fast falling when we stumble down the final descent into the bustling town of Glen Violet.
Well, I stumble down. Agatha is gracious and gliding as always, though rather … gloomy, perhaps, since we met the man in the striped cart. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she wasn’t looking forward to getting to Glen Violet.
But I do know better. She’s probably worried she won’t be able to contain herself if she gives free reign to the bitterness of her soul.
I’m sure she’s counting the seconds until we’re unshackled and meditating on a particularly biting insult to deliver as an un-wedding present.
Yes, that’s it exactly. The curiously smooth expression on her face is masking her great anticipation, not any sort of nervousness.
“Shall we go to the magistrate first thing?” I say, or try to say, as the dusty road turns into cobblestones and trees are replaced with small, colorful houses. My voice is thick, for some reason, and I have to clear it and ask twice before Agatha can understand me.
She presses her lips together. “If you want to.” And it’s that voice—that voice that means she’s trying very hard to control herself—that almost breaks me.
I wish she didn’t have to control herself so much around me. I wish she’d just tell me how she feels, even if it’s ugly and unflattering. I wish I could help her relax.
On the other hand, here is neither the time nor the place for a drawn-out tirade, so it’s just as well that she’s bottling it up.
I cough. “It’s getting late.”
Agatha bites her lip. “I don’t really know where he lives.”
“And he’s probably at a dinner party or something.” I hesitantly meet her gaze.
She keeps her expression neutral. “Perhaps it would be better to petition him tomorrow.” She wrinkles her nose. “I doubt we’d get anywhere near his property while you smell like that.”
“You’re not terribly fresh, yourself,” I grumble, but it’s only moderately true. “So, er, what then?”
Agatha takes another moment before answering. “Did you and your precious Henry stay at an inn when you came through here?”
I run a hand through my hair and glance down the road. “Yes?”
“You must remember something about it. The street, or a nearby landmark, or what the building looked like?”
“It was—I think it had a squirrel on the sign.” I cross my arms. “But it may have been an evergreen.”
“A squirrel or a tree,” Agatha echoes. “Do you want me to applaud your great perspicacity? That’s a big word for ‘noticing things.’”
“I know the word.” I sniff. “And this isn’t even my native tongue. I haven’t heard you try to speak Rhylorrian at all.”
“That’s because my idiotic godmother decided to give me these”—she bares her pearly teeth at me—“instead of the Gift of Languages.”
“I learned without any gift at all,” I mutter. It’s the only thing I was ever much good at.
“Obviously, you are ungifted,” Agatha says. “But people don’t normally boast about that.” She sighs, her elegant mask cracking. “Let’s head toward the center of town, I suppose. We’ll just have to pick an inn.”
We trudge through the winding streets in glum silence.
I stay close to Agatha, noting the way she draws attention and glaring at anyone who gets too close to her.
We pass by several unsavory-looking public houses before finding something I feel is nice enough for Agatha.
The sign has a moth, which is neither a squirrel nor a tree. Agatha does not mention it.
She whirls past me into the dim interior. I look around sharply as I follow her in, hoping to spot Henry’s familiar face at one of the rough-hewn tables scattered throughout the room.
He’s not here. Why would he be?
Agatha watches me, her pretty lips pursed. She waits for me to catch up before tipping her head toward the man at the counter. “If you have any money, now would be a good time to tell me,” she murmurs, keeping her voice low.
“I have nothing.” I jam my hands deeper into my empty pockets, wishing the words weren’t so painfully true.
If I had even a portion of my previous wealth, I could get very nice accommodations; I could surround her with the luxury she deserves while we wait for Henry to find us, instead of the other way around; I could keep her comfortable until we annulled this …
… or maybe, she’d be content to stay with me and not annul this at all.
Stupid, Lem, I remind myself. Agatha hates you, and no amount of money would make you happy together. Better focus on that.
“We’ll have to sing again.” Agatha’s serene face doesn’t betray anxiety over our lack of resources, but I catch a trace of uncertainty somewhere in her voice. I wonder what she’s worried about. Having nowhere to sleep tonight? Going hungry?
Being stuck with me for another day?
I snort, regretting it when her face shutters. “You could sing,” I correct. “While I bring dishonor on every minstrel to ever wander these mountains.”
There’s a sparkle in the back of her eyes. I long to bring it out further. If making a fool of myself playing this stupid guitar is what it takes—
Focus, Lem!
She huffs a little laugh. “Indeed.” She eyes my guitar. “You should ask the innkeeper for permission to play.”
“Why don’t you?”
She bares her teeth in a charming-yet-insincere smile. “Because I’m in the mood to say terribly rude things and we’ll get thrown out.”
Well, at least she acknowledges it. I sigh and move toward the man at the counter. Agatha grabs my sleeve before I’m quite out of reach. “And remember to get rid of that stuffy-prince voice.”
I narrow my eyes, but she only twinkles at me. Stuffy prince voice, indeed!
I clear my throat before speaking to the innkeeper, a man of uncertain middle age and wispy brown beard. I draw myself up regally, then remember Agatha’s admonition. With a cough, I say, “Er, good sir, we require—that is, we’d like to, er, sing.”
The innkeeper does not look impressed.
“My, uh, wife,” I add, “has a very beautiful voice. Absolutely charming.”
Agatha must be standing somewhere behind me and smiling her most dazzling smile, because the innkeeper’s gaze wanders from me and his face relaxes into an easier grin. “Charming, indeed. Mauthmin, at your service.” He dips his head.
“My wife,” I say with another meaningful cough, “would be pleased to sing for your patrons in exchange for room and board.”
Mauthmin wrenches his attention back to me and laughs. “Room and board? She’d better be pretty good to earn all that.”
“She is.” I fold my arms over my chest, pinning him with a commanding stare. It is much less effective than it was a few days ago, with the power of the crown behind me. “Also, has a man—oh, about my height, blond, goes by Henry—taken a room in the last few days?”
“We have too many folks for me to remember everyone,” he says. He scratches his chin with a fingernail that’s dirtier than what I’d prefer in the keeper of my rooms. “Maybe. Don’t suppose you can pay for that any more than you can the room, huh?”
“If he were here,” I say stiffly, “he’d pay handsomely to know I was asking for him.”
Mauthmin chuckles. “You’re in high demand, eh?” Shrugging, he gestures to a corner of the room with a small, raised platform in it. “Performers over there. If your wife really is good, she’ll get enough tips to buy you something.”
I grit my teeth, but the innkeeper is already turning away from me to serve the next patron, so I return to Agatha, pointing toward the platform. “Ready for your big performance, wife?” I ask in a low voice.
She starts a bit, then tips her chin and glides like a queen through the room. People move for her, men gladly scrambling up from comfortable seats to clear the way. She gives out brilliant, benevolent smiles.
Smiles that are all false.
I follow, mostly ignored, except by a few men who grumble when they realize Agatha isn’t alone. I keep my posture regal, hoping that a distinguished air will offset my scruffiness.
I don’t think it works, exactly, but at least no one tries to accost me as I shadow Agatha.
She steps lightly up onto the little platform, smoothing her blue dress in front of her.
Somehow, although we’ve spent equally uncomfortable days traveling, she manages to have a graciousness about her, despite the wrinkles and the smudges of dirt.
She must be tired, but her face is bright; she must be hungry, but she holds herself straight and tall.
She is, in other words, absolutely magnificent, and I wish I actually did loathe her for it instead of ... whatever it is I feel.
I drop to sit at her feet. “My lady,” I say in overly-obsequious tones, “what shall I play for you?”
When our gazes meet, I feel the ridiculousness of my question, and despite my best intentions, the corner of my mouth twitches. She answers me with a little smile of her own—one of the real ones, not the sugary kind she dispenses so liberally to strangers.
My heart warms, catching that tiny little just-for-me smile. I twang a string.
Agatha sings.
Agatha
Oh, Lem.
Sitting docile at my feet, he strums the occasional chord, always a half-beat too late. He is quite useful, however, in keeping other men from taking any liberties, and I do appreciate that.
I repeat the folk melodies that I’ve sung in the villages we passed through.
The patrons here are as eager to clap along as their countryfolk were, and soon we have the attention of everyone in the inn.
Some sing along with rowdy voices when I reach the chorus of more popular tunes, while others only tap their toes, but everyone seems delighted.
Lem, always scowling, plays poorly but doggedly, and it’s—
Well, it’s endearing, is what it is, but I’d sooner face Melusine again than admit it. The rotten man doesn’t need an even bigger head.