Half-Folk, for Sure
“Lucas—Your Highness!” I scramble to my feet, or try to, but I’m not quick enough. Lucas has crossed the room before I can untangle myself, and he reaches out to help me up. His touch is both strong and gentle. Warmth sparkles up my arm and lodges itself firmly in my heart.
Wonderful. Now I can never wash this hand again.
“Pardon me,” he’s saying. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” His gaze flicks to the floor, where leaves from Inquiry into the Nature and Origins of Public Wealth have fluttered to rest.
“I’m the one who needs pardoning,” I manage to squeak. “I’m the one who ruined Hugh’s books.”
Wait. Why is Lucas in Hugh’s rooms?
Oh. Oh no .
“Hugh’s?” he echoes.
I groan. “These are your books.” Suddenly, I straighten. “And these are your rooms! Hugh didn’t do this!”
“Hugh didn’t do what?” His look is guarded.
I plant my hands on my hips and glare at him. “Hugh didn’t get us this job! You did! Why on earth —”
“I felt responsible.” Lucas holds himself very stiff. “Hugh told me about your lost position.”
“And I told you I’d got a new one! You didn’t need to interfere!”
“I didn’t interfere. I had a job that needed to be done.” His gaze meets mine, defensive and slightly apologetic, and I’m suddenly conscious that I’m alone in his rooms with him, and he’s probably just seen my knobby ankle, and I’ve ruined his book. My face flares.
“Have you hurt yourself?” He looks me up and down. I wish I’d worn my nicer brown dress instead of this faded red calico.
“Only my pride. And your books.” I grimace and begin gathering them up. Lucas bends to help, fingers grazing mine as we reach for the same one.
Well, there goes that hand too.
“I’m so sorry—I’ll—” I begin, but my voice quivers. I can’t promise to replace them; where would I even find any of these? Chemmy and I had visited a bookseller one day, but his stock was mostly cheap sensational novels, not Treatises and Inquiries .
“Don’t worry about the books, Miss Flanders. These two are unharmed, and the other one was already falling apart. I’ve been meaning to get it rebound for months.”
One of the things I wondered yesterday— would Lucas look at me in such an understanding way again? —is answered: Yes. I gulp. “Are you quite sure, Your Highness?” Whatever he says, I’ll owe him something.
“Quite.” He reaches out to collect the last book from me.
I frown at the boring title. “Pardon me, but have you ever read a vampire story?”
“A vampire story?” Lucas sits back on his heels and regards me blankly. “Why would I read a vampire story?”
“For fun,” I say, trying not to notice how nice he looks today. I like him like this—simple trousers, no jacket, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “Or for research, in case you ever come across one.”
“I suppose you will despise me if I say no.” There’s almost a smile in his voice .
“Very much!”
“I’ll decline to answer, then.” He stands and offers his hand to me again, and it would be rude not to take it, so I do.
“You can’t just not answer questions!” I protest.
“I am a politician.” His lips give a faint twitch.
“Do you really read all these? Have you even heard of penny dreadfuls?”
“Are those the vampire books you referred to?” Lucas asks, eyes beginning to crinkle around the edges. “You ask a lot of questions, Miss Flanders.”
“I have a very curious mind.” I sniff. “But since you haven’t answered my question, I’ll presume you mean no, so may I recommend starting with The Abbey of Orricor . It would enliven you.”
“Do I need enlivening?”
I brandish a book at him. “You have economic books in your bedroom!”
“You should see my study.” His eyes catch mine, and he smiles—actually smiles—at me!
Oh dear. How long have I been staring?
“The measurements!” I yelp. I’d nearly forgotten that I’m supposed to be working right now, and Mistress Corthope will be getting antsy. I can handle her ire, but I can’t handle the idea that she might barge in here and catch me talking to Lucas.
Mind, I don’t say flirting with Lucas, because I am not doing that. But I know how it could be construed, and I’m quite anxious to not let that happen.
“I’m sorry,” I say, “but I need to measure for new draperies, and I couldn’t reach high enough—” I gesture, defeated, at the books. “I really should replace the ruined one.”
Lucas shakes his head. “If we neglected to provide what you needed for your job, the blame is with us. You owe me nothing.” He glances at the windows. “Allow me to assist.” Lucas steps onto the chair and holds his hand out for the tape measure.
“Thank you,” I say stiffly. “But I don’t need help. ”
Lucas doesn’t argue, only wiggles his fingers until I give him the tape.
“Please don’t—I can’t afford to pay you back.”
“Pay me back?” Lucas looks down at me from the chair. His forehead wrinkles. “For what?”
“Help.” I squirm. “I can’t accept—”
Lucas ignores this. He stretches the measuring tape across the window and calls out the measurements. Then, “Is this some strange rule of your employer?”
“It’s the laws of nature,” I say with a sniff. “A favor for a favor. I don’t have a favor for you, so I can’t accept one from you.”
Lucas stares at me for a long moment. My cheeks heat under his gaze. “That sounds like a difficult way to live.”
His voice is compassionate, and it surprises me enough that I have no answer for a long moment. He’s right; this is a difficult way to live. Hasn’t Chemmy been trying to tell me the same thing? But I can’t just … stop. Even the thought of trying to change—of trying to let go, of trying to accept something freely, of trying not to worry so much—is enough to make my stomach clench.
“It’s all I know.” I don’t mean for my voice to sound so pitiful.
Lucas shoves the chair to the next window. “Suppose we trade, then. I help you with your measurements”—he stretches the tape over the window frame—“and you tell me more about Ramsfeldshire.”
“That hardly sounds fair.”
Lucas flicks his gaze back down to me and gestures to the stuffed bookshelves. “Is information not worth something?”
“I suppose.” I scratch down the number he says. “Though I’m not sure I have much interesting to say. Ramsfeldshire is mostly just fields of woolly hogs and warding charms hung over every doorway.”
“Warding charms?”
I follow Lucas to the next window. “To scare off the Folk, you know. I’m not sure how well they work, but I’m not going to be the first to stop using them, either.” I feel the ribbon around my neck absently. I’d tied one above the doorway of our boardinghouse, too, but Mistress Mungon didn’t like the way it looked, so I’d hidden it under a loose cobblestone next to the entrance. Hopefully it will still work down there.
“Tell me more about your Folk. What do they look like?”
“They’re not my Folk,” I grumble. “It’s not as though we’re inviting them around! Really, Your Highness, with all these books here, you should know everything already.”
Lucas’ gaze slips to me. “My father encouraged me to focus on foreign policy. I’m afraid I was remiss in my study of non-human creatures.”
I sniff. “And what they look like—well, I’ve heard that they’re rather wrinkled and scrabbly if you spot them in their glades, but they can disguise their appearance. Sometimes they’ll try to impersonate someone you know for a little bit—we call that sort Imposters—and sometimes they’ll swap themselves with a human baby—Changelings, you know.”
“And they do … what, precisely?”
“They’re blamed for all sorts of tricks, but mostly bargains. If one gets you in its debt,” I say, shrugging, “maybe it’ll cause you to dance for a thousand years, or maybe drive you to madness, or maybe steal you away to be a nursemaid—well, I suppose it wouldn’t want you for that one. They take more girls, naturally.”
“Ah,” Lucas says.
“You asked,” I grumble.
“And this fear of indebtedness causes your aversion to favors?” Lucas steps down from his chair again and leans against it. I nod. His eyebrows draw together thoughtfully. “That must have repercussions on the productivity of the district.”
“Perhaps?”
He strolls across the room and takes a book from the shelf, brows still furrowed in concentration. “I wonder if the effects of such superstitions have been studied from the economic angle. ”
“Superstitions!” I sniff. “It’s not just superstition! My Mum had a neighbor whose cousin’s husband’s great-aunt’s daughter was taken to a Folk glade, and when she finally came back she cried all the time, they say.”
Lucas flicks his gaze over to me. “You knew her?”
“Well, no.”
“Ah.”
“It’s very annoying when you say that,” I grouse. I glance down at my paper. I wonder if I should tell Lucas I need to measure the rest of the windows, or just take these numbers to Mistress Hardinge and come back later for the other rooms. He’s still thumbing through his book, and—and—well, it’s quite adorable, that’s all!
He looks up and catches me staring. “Pardon me.” His cheeks flush. “I fear I was distracted.” He snaps the book shut and tucks it under his arm. “Do you need measurements from the other rooms as well?”
“Yes—sorry—and thank you.”
“So how do you discern if a person is actually one of these Folk in disguise?” Lucas asks as he begins measuring the windows of the dressing room.
“See if they can lie, count their teeth, splash them with cold water.”
“Does it have to be cold?”
I squint. “Your Highness, are you mocking me?”
“Merely collecting information.” He looks down at me, and I see another real smile on his face for a moment.
And it is a very nice smile.
“Should I ask you to lie to me to prove that you are not one of these creatures, Miss Flanders?”
“Me!” I press a hand to my heart. “I’m wounded you’d even think such a thing.”
Lucas steps down from the chair and moves to the bedroom for the final measurements. “That’s no proof, is it?”
“Very well. My dress is orange. Although,” I add thoughtfully, “ the lie test isn’t foolproof. The Folk are sneaky in their wording. Plus, there are half-Folk, and quarter-Folk, and sometimes they can lie, depending on which nature is stronger.”
“A complicated business, in other words,” Lucas says, smiling again.
“Very,” I sniff. I think he’s laughing at me, which shouldn’t be surprising, yet I find myself longing for his respect. Silly. I have no right to wish for that. I bite my lip and focus on my paper, listening as Lucas reads out the last few numbers for me.
Finished, we walk back to the sitting room. I catch a glimpse of my face in the dressing room mirror. It’s nearly as red as my dress.
Lucas hands my measuring tape back to me, and I try not to flinch at the touch. “Thank you for the information, Miss Flanders. I hope my questions were not bothersome.”
“Not at all.” I dip into a curtsy.
“Do you know where your workroom is?”
The housekeeper pointed it out; I only need to go down one flight of stairs, turn left, and then turn right. If only I could remember how to get to the stairs!
“I can find it,” I hedge.
“I’ll show you the way.”
“You don’t need to do that,” I say. I’ve talked with Lucas quite enough for one day. I can’t go traipsing all over the palace with him! I’d begin to think he tolerated me!
Lucas pulls the door open. “After you.” I walk through stiffly, half thrilled that Lucas is escorting me and half desperate to be away from him so I can think straight again.
“Miss Flanders,” he begins as we walk down the hall, his voice growing hesitant and his gaze flicking over me, “I would gladly be of service to you. If you ever have a need, you have only to ask.”
“After all my talk about favors?” I raise my eyebrows. “Tricksy. Half-Folk, for sure. Has one of your parents ever exhibited signs of being a changeling? Does your father seem to have too many teeth?”
Lucas stops in the middle of the hall. I think I may have startled him again, and I should not be proud of that, but I am!
“I have not counted recently,” he says, rather choked.
I pat his arm—I pat his arm!—why am I patting the prince’s arm ?—and say, “I understand if it is a terrible shock.”
Lucas stares at me. I freeze.
And then—he laughs. He laughs! At me! And it’s not one of those mean laughs, either! His laugh is even nicer than his smile! “Miss Flanders” —he works to school his features back to their standard stateliness—“I do not think I know anyone else quite like you.”
I grin. “How very sad for you.”
“Very,” he agrees, ushering me back down the hallway. “I am sincere, though,” he says. “If I can be of assistance in anything, please send word. Ask for Rodering; he will make sure any message gets to me.”
“I am out of cheese,” I say meditatively. “If that’s what you mean.”
“I can ask Cook to serve some for your lunch.”
Why does he have to be so—so nice ? How am I supposed to stay rational when he’s being all gentle and understanding? I nod, and, being too addled to think straight, I speak without thinking at all. “If there happens to be anything you need from me —my parents have a fine collection of woolly hogs and would happily send one on the next coach if you desire.”
His lips twitch again. “As kind as your offer is, I fear that I would not know what to do with a woolly hog.”
“They’re wonderful to hug,” I say solemnly. “Quite soft, if you don’t mind the smell.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Then, with a smile that warms me all the way to my toes, “It has been a pleasure, Miss Flanders. Until next time.”
And he’s gone.
But he said next time .
Well, that won’t help me squash my daydreams, not even a little bit. I positively float back to work, and I don’t think my feet touch the floor for the rest of the day.
I walk home after Mistress Corthope finally releases me for the day. She’s taking a cab again, but I know she’ll take the fare from my wages if I ride along. Wind nips at my ears and tousles my curls. Scents of soot and bread, refuse and soap, swirl around me. Biting drops of rain begin to sting my exposed skin, but I don’t walk faster. Instead, I tip my head up to the sky and welcome the cleansing. Perhaps the rain can wash away the memory of all the very stupid things I said to Lucas today.
I pass by a bookseller, and I smile, my steps slowing. I spot a lurid poster for a new penny dreadful— The Indigo Creeper —and if I had any money to spare, I’d buy it and read it aloud to Chemmy this evening. We’d huddle close under the covers and read until we got scared, and then argue about who had to get out of bed to turn down the lamp.
Too bad I don’t have any extra money.
I do owe Lucas a debt, though—
I wonder if he would mind terribly if I got him a book and read it before I gave it to him? It would still be a repayment, wouldn't it?
I duck into the bookseller and make the exchange, wrapping the book carefully in my cloak. Now I have reason to duck my head and hurry through the crowds.
By the time I get back to the boardinghouse, feet damp and ears numb, supper is finished, and the other boarders are playing a game of whist in the common room. Chemmy sits near a sputtering oil lamp and knits, mouth moving as she counts her stitches.
I peel off my cloak, nodding a greeting to the people in the common room. Mistress Mungon looks up from a bit of mending she’s working on. “Supper is over,” she says. “But there’s a plate for you in the kitchen before you start your chores.”
I beam my gratitude and hurry off to the kitchen, and Chemmy follows me .
“Hester!” Her voice is nearly a squeal. “You’ll never guess what came!”
I take a bite of cold potatoes and make a face. “Did Ungus send you something?”
“It’s not for me,” she says. “I put it in our room so no one would bother it until you got back.”
“Is it from Mum?” I ask. She and Dad are scrimping, too, so I shouldn’t expect a package, but I do wish they’d send me some of Mum’s lardy scones. I haven’t found anything like them here.
“It’s not from your parents.”
I swallow another forkful of potato. What kind of grease did Mistress Mungon use on these? Or is this her normal recipe, and I’m merely spoiled from my palace lunch?
Chemmy huffs at my distraction and pulls at my arm. “You can bring that up! Come see!”
“You know how Mistress Mungon feels about taking dishes to the rooms!” I protest.
“We can sneak it back down later.”
I allow myself to be pulled along, munching potatoes as we leave the kitchen and head to the stairs.
Mistress Mungon is walking down the hall, and her gaze narrows when she sees the plate I’m carrying. “Miss Flanders, I have told you before—”
I gulp down my mouthful. “Sorry, ma’am.” She snatches my half-empty plate as she passes, and I droop as I watch her march back to the kitchen.
“Never mind her,” Chemmy says, and we continue on our way through the gray corridor and up the even grayer stairs. Our room is dark, so Chemmy fumbles with the oil lamp. It flickers to life, and I spy a magnificent basket on the bed.
My eyes go wide. My heart flutters. Is it—
“It’s from the palace!” Chemmy says. “I told you Prince Fitzhugh likes you!”
“It’s from Hugh? Really? ”
“Who else would have sent it?”
Who else, indeed?
I inspect it. A creamy envelope is tied to one handle, Miss H. Flanders written in a bold hand.
“I didn’t read it.” Chemmy plops onto the chair and smiles cheekily. “I didn’t think you’d want me reading your love letters before you got a chance to.”
“It’s not a love letter,” I scoff. It takes me a moment to untie the note, for my fingers are trembling.
Chemmy leans forward when I finally slide a note out of the envelope.
Miss Flanders,
How much cheese does a typical seamstress eat in a week? And lest you accuse me of bribery or Folk-esque favors again, this is merely part of your payment.
Sincerely,
I. L. C.
This is not a love letter.
So why is my face suddenly hot?
“You’re blushing.” Chemmy’s voice is smug.
“It’s the lamplight. It makes everything look red.” I peek in the basket and see well over a week’s worth of cheese, and my ire at Mistress Mungon’s greasy potatoes vanishes. I don’t even mind that she stole my plate from me. I grin at Chemmy. “I hope you’re hungry.”