Chapter 29
Agatha
I take it back. I don’t need help. At least not the sort that Father and Count Chrestowine are offering.
“Really, Agatha.” Father chews the inside of his cheek. “I didn’t think you’d be so—so—” He tosses his hand up. “So upset!”
I take a deep breath, then another, trying not to say what’s on my mind … but wait. Why should I keep it from him? What’s the point in pretending now?
“You don’t think I should be upset that you married me to a stranger and kicked me out of the house in the middle of the night? On my birthday? You don’t think I should be upset that even now, you want me to remain married to a man who so obviously desires to harm me?”
Father shifts uncomfortably, his gaze darting about the room. “It sounds, well, not good,” he admits. “But the duke is … is rich.” He swallows. “Harm is a strong word, you know.”
Unwelcome tears sting the corners of my eyes. “I trusted you, Father. And you—you—” I sniff. My voice quiets. “I thought you loved me?”
Father’s face slackens. “My girl—of course I love you. That’s why I want what’s best for you. That’s why you have to return to your husband.” He reaches out and takes my hand again. “Think of how embarrassing it would be for the family if he makes a scene, Agatha. Your brothers would be ruined—”
He’s right, I know. If I’m Mansfield’s lawful wife and leave him, the shame that follows my family will be great. I think of the innocent faces of Phildan and Pudan and of my stepmother’s gentle spirit, and I droop.
“Besides, Agatha, you’ll be rich! Just like we’ve always wanted!”
“You forget,” the count interjects, “Mansfield is not the only rich man in Candor.” His eyebrows raise as he pushes away from the wall he’d been leaning against. Sneaky man, trying to make us forget his presence.
“I think I could promise to treat you better than he would, and could certainly provide you with everything you desired.”
“Not lawfully,” I sniff.
Chrestowine shrugs. “I don’t mind.”
The moment seems to harden and crystallize, as if each part of the scene is reflected onto a facet of a diamond: Father’s shifty expression.
The dark, polished walls. The Count’s amused smirk.
The flare of the lamp fizzing on the side table.
A gleaming gold button on the count’s jacket.
And, if I could see my own face in one of these fragments, it would be calm and haughty and beautiful.
But set off in its facet, as isolated as every other element of the tableau.
The memory of different reflections rise: Lem and me, stretched and distorted on the surface of the stream we’d dined beside one night.
And then, the faces of Phildan and Pudan, peering over my shoulder to catch a glimpse of themselves in my warped mirror at home.
And another from the same warped mirror, the sight of Stepmother pressing jewels into my pocket with white, trembling fingers.
These reflections don’t have the clarity or the opulence of my current scene.
But in them, I had someone by my side.
I thought I wanted this sort of life, with money and things and the adoration of crowds. But what is the diamond reflection worth, if I am confined to a solitary facet? Would it not be better to have the rippling, wavy mirror that promises to show a scene of companionship?
Too late, though. Father already signed my future away. If Melusine had given me more common sense years ago—
But it’s too late now.
“I’ll go back,” I whisper. “For Phildan and Pudan and Stepmother. But you’ll never see a penny of Mansfield’s money if I have a say, Father.”
He splutters.
“It was wrong of you to treat me like this.” I draw myself up to my full height. “But what’s done is done, I fear. So let us go back to Mansfield’s.”
“Don’t be hasty—” Chrestowine begins, as Father heaves a relieved sigh.
“You have something she can borrow, Chrestowine? And the use of a bathtub? Can’t go back dressed like that.”
I flash my most brilliant, insincere smile.
“Mansfield wanted a beggar wife, and he shall receive one. Come, Father. You too, Chrestowine,” I call over my shoulder as I turn to glide from the room.
I haven’t quite given up on the idea of getting out of this marriage, although I fear it is a slim chance that the count can offer any sort of help.
He’s unscrupulous—offering to run away with a married woman!
—and oily, but he may yet come in useful.
I don’t wait to see if the men follow me. I know they will. I am, after all, Charming.
Lem
The ruffian drags me through a series of slightly-mildewy corridors and tosses me into a gaudily-ornamented room. I tip like an inebriated inchworm. It’s the guitar and teapot. They absolutely ruin my balance. Without them, I’d probably be able to tuck and roll and take out the ruffian by his feet.
Probably.
Duke Mansfield is in the room, slouching in an armchair. He frowns when he sees me.
“Here’s the one I found by the back gate,” the ruffian grumbles. “Told you we should keep it locked.”
“Then the delivery girls couldn’t get in.” The duke rolls his eyes. Personally, if I were keeping prisoners, I think I’d be more concerned with security than with the daily milk-and-egg-mongers, but perhaps I just have my priorities out of order. Or perhaps the duke really likes milk.
“Where is Lady Agatha?” I demand.
He doesn’t answer—not surprising, even though I’d asked very politely. I did speak in Candori, didn’t I? Just in case, I raise my voice and ask again as I scramble off the floor. “Where is Lady Agatha?”
Mansfield’s focus is on the ruffian, who does not appear to enjoy the scrutiny.
He lifts me by the guitar strap again. “I guess he must’ve helped the girl escape.” His tone is much sulkier than it has a right to be. He’s not the one being strangled with a guitar strap. Wriggling would be unbecoming, however, so I submit to the indignity.
“Escape? You let her escape? Idiot!” Duke Mansfield’s tone is aghast, but joy rises in my heart. Of course she escaped. My lady is clever, and talented, and capable, and I love—ahem.
“It’s hard to find good help these days,” I say, then, “Er, that’s rather tight,” to the ruffian, who takes this as an inducement to squeeze tighter. “Unhand me. Or … or … else.”
This is sadly ineffective.
“Who are you?” the duke asks. “And what do you know about Lady Agatha?”
Despite my best efforts, my scowl loosens. Agatha is free. Agatha is not here. “Quite a bit,” I say. “I am her husband.”
The Duke’s eyes narrow. “Oh, that idiot. Well, I am her husband, and don’t forget it. Where is she?”
This is the sort of juncture where it would be very helpful to have a planning brain. I have only a moment in which to gather my thoughts, come up with a brilliant idea, and then bluff my way out of this.
Unfortunately, I just open and close my mouth before shrugging.
Pathetic.
“You’ll be free as soon as I retrieve her,” he says scornfully. “And you’d better get far away from here, too. I don’t want your sort around my wife.” I’ve heard this tone many times before, though usually not directed at me.
Because I am stupid and pathetic, I reply, “She’s my wife.
” He’s not the only one who can sound scornful, even if I’m in the costume of an impecunious minstrel and he’s resplendent in …
well, actually, resplendent is going a little far.
He’s cleaner than I am, and isn’t carrying around all his worldly possessions on his back; and, primarily, all his worldly possessions consist of more than a singular semi-tuneful guitar.
However, these things aside, I can still repay scorn for scorn, and I take brief pleasure in the surprise my insolence causes.
Brief pleasure, because he’s the one with the ruffian and the power. “I already told you she’s mine.” There’s a nasty glint in his eye. “Why are you smirking like that?”
“Maybe I was remembering what Lady Agatha said of your face.”
His face—which Agatha described accurately—turns a strange shade of orange. “You’re awfully brash for a beggar.” He must make some sort of signal to the ruffian, because I find myself squeezed tighter than ever.
I aim a kick at the ruffian’s shin, which very nearly lands. He yanks the guitar strap.
This is not good, I think. It appears that the duke and his ruffian have the entirety of the upper hand right now.
At least Agatha isn’t here—and at least the duke doesn’t know all my secrets.
Things could yet be worse.
“Just tell me where she went,” the duke says.
Providentially, I don’t actually know. I thought we were going to find this Mansfield to annul our marriage, and then she’d marry him instead, but it seems like I was wrong. (My clue is the fact that she ran away.) Where else would she go?
There was another noble here in Glen Violet I think she mentioned—a count, or something. I wonder if she’ll try him next, or if maybe … maybe she’d go back to the inn to find me?
I clamp my lips together mulishly.
“You have nothing to gain by hiding what you know.” The duke stands and begins pacing. There’s a faded track already leading from a sagging leather armchair to the streaky window.
Huh. Good help really is hard to find.
“I said tell me where she went!”
“Oh, er, well?” I say. This earns me a painful knock on the side of the head from my overlarge captor. “No.” I spit blood on the duke’s floor. “I will not.”
“Idiot,” he mutters. I miss Agatha’s insults greatly. At least she varied her epithets. “You can’t have her back, you know. Even if she wanted someone like you.”
“She never called me ugly.”
Ah. This must be a sorer spot for the duke than I realized, for he stomps his foot and gnashes his teeth. “Idiot,” he seethes again. “Take him away.”
The ruffian tightens my guitar-strap restraint as I try and fail to kick him off.