Chapter 26 Knight in Shining Armor
Lem
Agatha said I was always scowling?
She should see me now.
I’m surprised the gate is still standing, given how intensely I’m glaring at it.
After a minute, I’m forced to admit that the godmother did not gift me with the ability to stare holes into walls, which is inconvenient. If I see her again, I’ll request that.
In hindsight, that would have been a better request to begin with—if I could create fissures merely by looking hard enough, I could have gotten out of any number of interminable meetings and whatnot. It would have made being a prince—and king, eventually—bearable. And I could have had Agatha, too.
If only I could go back in time. I know better now.
My ruminations do nothing to help me with my present problem, which is what on earth am I supposed to do next? I’m still standing outside Duke Mansfield’s locked iron gate, with no way to get inside, and a decent chance that if I make an attempt, he’ll have me tossed into a dungeon or something.
Are there dungeons in Glen Violet? Probably not proper ones, at any rate, and that would be even more demeaning.
I’m procrastinating again. Thinking gloomy thoughts and scowling at the duke’s gates distract me from the fact that I still haven’t settled on a course of action. If Henry or someone were here to tell me what to do—
No. I square my shoulders. My guitar rustles against my back.
No, I’m not going to waste time scowling, and I’m not going to waste time wishing for Henry.
I’ll figure this out by myself, and I’ll save Agatha from the duke, and she, all radiant and smiling, might welcome me with open arms and admiring eyes …
I set my jaw in a firm frown. No more thinking that way, either. I’ve got to focus.
But it’s hard to think when I’m worried, and hungry, and hot.
The sun is beating down on me, the air lazy and humid, and I want nothing so much as to take a nap.
There’s a nice shady stretch of moss outside the entrance to the duke’s estate, bordered by a thick patch of butter-yellow flowers.
If I rest a while, perhaps I’ll have a better idea later …
I shake this thought off, too. I will not rest—I will not moan—I will not hope.
I’ll do something.
I just have to decide … what.
Indecision gnaws at my insides while flies nip at my outsides. I bat them away. If only I could bat away everything in my head as easily.
Well. Standing here is doing no good. I can’t get in by knocking.
I could, perhaps, climb over the fence?
Readjusting my guitar strap, and patting Agatha’s teapot—still warm—to make sure the knot is holding, I slouch along the fence.
The backside will probably be less visible to random passers-by, and thus, less embarrassing when I inevitably rip my trousers or fall on my nose, so I turn the corner and slink nonchalantly around the estate.
I try to slink nonchalantly, anyhow, even though I’m sure that I look suspicious, nervous, and highly chalant. I wipe my forehead with an already-damp shirt sleeve.
With a darting, guilty glance around, I turn the next corner so I’m in the rear of the duke’s estate.
There’s another road back here—it’s not like I’m sneaking around his private property yet—but it’s a much smaller track, not the impressive drive that led the way to his front door.
Dappled sunlight filters through emerald ash leaves, and the decorative iron fence is replaced by high, slatted boards.
Branches stretch through gaps as if to warn that even if this section looks rickety, there’s plenty of backup behind to reinforce it.
A noise catches my attention. A gruff man’s voice seems to be swearing, quite a bit. I stop.
If there’s an angry man on the other side of this wall, perhaps I’d better not attempt to climb it. I could always …
My brain stutters, trying to think of something to do instead. Busk on the street corner until Agatha comes out? Wander around the city yelling for Henry? Forget them both and head back to Rhylorria?
Rhylorria. My heart aches for it. Mostly for the fresh breezes from the plains and the views of the horizon. And for the pampered palace life that I’d clearly been taking for granted.
Even if I could make it back there by myself, I’d be turned away from the palace as surely as I’d been shut out here. No use changing my plan now, even if it was never a very good plan; I’m going over.
Agatha
A fence! Why is there a fence outside the hedge? Shouldn’t the hedge be enough? How nasty is Mansfield, that he needs both a hedge and a fence to keep people out—or in?
I think a few choice thoughts regarding the duke. And I’ll say them to his ugly face, if we ever have the misfortune of meeting again.
My body, still prone on the ground and covered with bits of twigs and probably more than one spider web, slumps in defeat.
Perhaps I should just stay here. The thug hasn’t succeeded in getting this far, so I’m unreachable until they bring out hatchets.
Or torches. Or hounds. Or … well, actually, there are many ways this experience could become even less pleasant, if the duke has a modicum of imagination.
Judging by his monotone decorations and his bland punishments—scrubbing the floors?
Tossing me into a dungeon?—I doubt he does, but better not to test it.
I flail and wriggle until I’ve got my body wedged perpendicular to the fence line.
There’s very little room here, with the bushes doing their best to tip the fence over with the force of their growth, but I whisper my little affirmations once more.
I am graceful. Graceful enough to weave my way through these tangled limbs.
And I am nimble, nimble enough to contort my body around the less-pliable branches.
It’s a struggle, but the twisting and elbowing and pushing and crawling finally has an effect. My face is flat against the fence, multiple branches dig into my flesh, and there’s very little room to maneuver, but at least I’m upright.
Now, to get over. Or through.
I’d bet my teapot that there’s a gate somewhere along this fenceline. I pause for a second, wracking my brain to remember the layout of the estate. I hadn’t been paying much attention, distracted as I was by running away from the thug and worrying about Henry—
Henry! What has happened to him? The thug, I can hear, is still stuck in the hedge with me—hopefully he’ll be impaled by a branch and cut off that awful caterwauling—but the ruckus has probably drawn attention.
How many thugs does the duke have? I’ve only seen the one.
Is it possible that Henry got away already?
Gritting my teeth, I begin inching my way down the fence, my injured dress snagging even more on the rough wood.
I’d expect a duke to have a nicer fence than this. Stonework, or wrought iron, perhaps. That would have the added benefit of allowing his hedges a bit of breathing room and keep the shrubbery in better health. Does he not even care about the health of his shrubbery?
If the worst happens, and I am recaptured and forced to wed Mansfield eventually, I’ll be mistress of this place, and I’ll see that the gardener keeps these bushes tidier.
I doubt they’ve seen pruning shears at any time in the last four years.
I’d also relegate the root cellar back to its original purpose, and change those awful rust-colored runners on all the floors.
I could think of a lot of ways to improve this place, actually, though none of them would make much of a difference as long as the owner is still in residence.
I keep wriggling along, my back accosted by indelicate branches and my nose collecting scratches from the planks.
A bird, startled by my presence, whirrs away.
Sweat drips down my forehead and into my eyes.
I struggle to free an arm from the embrace of the hedge to wipe it away and am only rewarded by getting dirt in my eye, which stings worse than the sweat did.
Perhaps I’ll end up dying here, hemmed in by branches and suffocated by leaves, forever trapped in the hedge. Shall birds come nest in my skeleton? Will my body be a habitable home for the creatures of the mountain?
Will anyone miss me?
I grit my teeth. That is not the sort of thought I’m choosing to entertain at the moment. Flippant musings on death and the usefulness of my bones—fine. Plans for making this estate more hospitable—fine. Imprecations on Mansfield and curses on the womb that bore him—fine, if impolite.
But I am not, under any circumstances, going to let my mind wander to thoughts like will anyone miss me, because I already know the answer, and I don’t like it at all.
My mind, more stubborn than I am, keeps wandering to it.
“Of course no one will miss me,” I mutter.
Perhaps getting the words out will be a sort of cleanse, and I can return to my flippant plans for my skeleton.
“No one will miss me, and no one will mourn me, and on the whole, there’s very little point in even trying to get out of here, but I am doing it anyhow. ”
These last words burst from me with the defiance of desperation, the raw truth that is realer than anything else I could tell myself.
Maybe it doesn’t matter if I get out or not.
Maybe no one will care what happens to me.
Maybe, if I do escape the duke, I’ll be hemmed in by some other form of misery.
But despite all these things, I want to live and I want to be free and I am going to get out of here.
With renewed vigor, I scramble along, ignoring the scratches, ignoring the splinters, ignoring the sweat.
And then I have my first stroke of good luck.
Lem
The back gate is, blessedly, not as forbidding as the front. I might actually have a chance.
I bounce on the balls of my feet, rubbing my hands on my trousers to get rid of the clammy, slippery feeling. All I have to do is …