Chapter 27
Lem
“What are you doing?” Henry hisses. He waits behind me in the tree-lined lane, alert and ready to bolt again.
“You don’t have to come.” I pause halfway through the gate.
“I just—” My voice grows thick for some reason.
The noises from the other side of the fence increase.
“No time.” Sweat breaks out on my brow as I take another cautious step into the yard.
Henry grabs my arm to hold me back. I should fight against his grip harder, but, well …
I am not, fundamentally, the sort of person who dashes into possible danger.
He scoffs. “No time? What are you even rushing toward? Why are you so concerned about her? She barely even looked back at me after she gnawed the door down!”
“She what?”
“Beautiful, though,” he continues, an absent look coming into his eyes. “I slobbered like you said I would, once we got out of the cellar.”
Agatha was in a cellar? I can’t believe I ever thought this duke would be a good option for her. What’s the use of money if there’s no affection? If there’s no respect?
“I’ve got to help her,” I say with resolve. The wind rustles the hedge, showering us with pale pink petals from a tree that arches over the top. Inside the yard, the noise has died down. Because Agatha’s gotten away? Or because she’s been caught?
Henry sighs. It’s one of those dramatic sighs that makes me squirm, the implied judgment eating away at my certainty.
Useless. Pathetic. Fool.
But instead of scoffing, he only says, “And what will you do after you rescue the fair maiden?”
“You know me, Henry,” I say. “Have I ever had a plan?”
A flash of amusement and camaraderie lights his face. “If we can get a couple of horses—you have your horse, yes? She wasn’t in the stable when I left Montberger’s.”
I shake my head. He purses his lips.
“Unfortunate,” he says. “Well, we’ll make do. Rescue the maiden, steal some steeds, whisk her back to Rhylorria, break whatever curse you collected—”
I cough.
He hesitates. “It can be broken, can’t it?”
I laugh mirthlessly and rub the back of my neck with my free arm. “I … don’t know. It’s not—it’s not really a curse, and I don’t know …”
The wind, suddenly chilly, nips around us again. I jam my feathered cap more firmly on my head.
Henry only frowns for a moment before adapting to the situation. “Well, it’s basically what we were going to ask the godmother for, anyhow. No one will recognize you when we get back.”
“I can’t go back yet.” Like a coward, I mumble the words.
His face goes slack. “You can’t—?” When I don’t answer, he leans closer. “You’re not serious, Lem! You hate this country! Or—no. Don’t tell me it’s the wife? You really want to stay with her? Please tell me you’re not in love, or something equally stupid!”
I try to shake him off, but his grip on my puffy sleeve is too tight. I scowl. “No,” I say. “I’m not—I mean, I like her—that is—” I clear my throat awkwardly, and that’s all the farther I get, because the rustling from inside the yard suddenly bursts to the outside of the yard.
Henry drops my sleeve, eyes wide. “Lem, run!”
I do, but not fast enough. The red-headed ruffian who’d mishandled Agatha this morning nabs my arm in a bruising grip and yanks me back through the hedge tunnel. Henry had begun darting up the lane, but stops at my cry.
Henry, more athletic than I, launches himself at the ruffian. It knocks him off-balance enough that I manage to wrench free.
“Get out of here,” Henry grunts.
Like the fool I am, I don’t listen. I join the tussle, or try to, and am rewarded by a strong punch to the nose which has me briefly seeing stars. Then the ruffian’s got me by the neck.
“Where’s the girl?” he snarls.
I perk up. Well, I would perk up if I were capable of moving, and if my nose didn’t hurt so terribly. “She got away?”
The ruffian grunts a curse and shakes me before tossing me to the ground like a limpet.
I glower. It’s less useful than I’d prefer.
“I don’t have time for you,” he grumbles. Henry manages to connect a right hook—or perhaps it’s a right cross; I did not excel in boxing lessons—with the ruffian’s midsection.
My chance. I scramble to my feet, blood dripping from my nose. I suppose it’s broken and will be forever crooked and Agatha will mock me for it. Then, with a flash of something like enlightenment, I turn and run away …
… further into the garden.
Henry swears.
But it makes sense. If the ruffian’s going out to look for Agatha, then she’s not in anymore.
The best thing I can do is distract him, so I take off, the pain in my head causing me to lope in a drunken zigzag.
I dodge a fragrant lilac bush and stumble through a weedy patch of white flowers before the ruffian catches up and grabs the guitar neck.
“Careful with that!” I snap. “It was a gift!” The guitar strap pulls against my chest, leaving me flailing like a leashed puppy who sees a rabbit.
Henry, still cursing my stupidity—I don’t criticize him for this; it’s more than understandable—launches himself at the ruffian again, but the oaf keeps his elbow looped through the guitar strap.
“Take it off, you imbecile!” Henry yells.
Oh. Right. I suppose I could just twist, like so, and work my shoulder out from under the strap—
The ruffian, seeing what I’m attempting, pulls the strap tighter around me, catching my shoulder at an awkward half-in-and-half-out position.
Perhaps I can imitate Agatha, and chew it off.
I’m ashamed to admit that I do try it, craning my head and gnawing fruitlessly at the leather.
And I’m also ashamed to admit that the action reminds me that I’m hungry.
Leather shouldn’t taste good, but, well, it has a sort of earthy flavor that has me salivating.
A nice mushroom-and-leek tart would be nice right now—
An echoing thwack startles me away from thoughts of pie. The ruffian’s landed a blow on Henry’s chin, even while half-strangling me with the guitar strap, and Henry crumples to the ground.
The ruffian grunts, stoops to grab my brother’s limp body, and hauls us both across the lawn.
Agatha
The proprietor of the inn looks both surprised and guilty to see me.
Guilty? “Did you tell Mansfield we were here?”
He winces behind the counter. “He promised a great sum of money …”
Money. I’m sick of it. I mean, I wish I had enough to buy myself a nice roast, but otherwise, I’m sick of it.
The innkeeper sets down the dish he was wiping and rests his hands on the countertop. “Why isn’t your husband with you?”
I go very still. “I thought he would be here.”
“Naw, he went after you as soon as you left,” the innkeeper says. He winks—odious man—and adds, “Maybe you’re glad to be rid of him, hmm?”
For all the times I’ve bemoaned my fate as a godmother-chosen child, I put my Gifts to good use now. I draw every scrap of Poise and Grace and Elegance into one freezing, condescending look. The innkeeper withers from the force. “I am not. Where did he go?”
The innkeeper doesn’t meet my eyes as he picks up his dish again. “To Mansfield’s, I presume.”
“To Mansfield’s?” The innkeeper must be wrong; Lem might have left to search for Henry again, but he wouldn’t follow me to Duke Mansfield’s. He wouldn’t even know how to find it.
The innkeeper laughs dryly, a muscle jumping in his neck. “He insisted I tell him how to get there.” He raises an eyebrow, a faint blush staining his cheeks. “I take it he didn’t rescue you after all?”
The idea of Lem trying to rescue me is less laughable than it would have been a few days ago. Mind, I don’t say it’s a good idea; I doubt he’ll be successful. But my heart warms all the same.
“I’m going to kiss that stupid man when I see him,” I mutter. It’s not what I meant to say, but it’s effective in shutting up the innkeeper, so I’m satisfied. I keep my voice witheringly polite. “Thank you for your help.” And I turn and prepare to climb the mountain yet again.