A Giggling Pickle-Barrel
“Your Majesty. Your Highness.” Rodering bows, first to Mother, then to me. We are in Mother’s sitting room, going over wedding plans. I’ve tried to tell her that I’m not yet engaged, but she insists on getting ahead. She stops lecturing me on the importance of seating arrangements to nod at my servant.
“Forgive the interruption, but there is a young lady in the stables making oatmeal for a horse.” Rodering’s voice betrays no emotion. Mother raises an eyebrow.
“Oatmeal for a horse?” I repeat.
“Your Highness has asked to be appraised of the young lady’s activities.” Rodering coughs demurely. I flush.
“Why, Ingelbert.” Mother strokes the cat on her lap. “You never told me you were appraising a young lady!”
I am careful not to make eye contact with her. “I’m not,” I say. “I’ve just been trying to make sure Hugh doesn’t injure her.”
“Ah, Hugh’s girl.”
I don’t like Mother’s tone. “She’s not his.”
Mother smiles one of those close-lipped smiles that expresses a great deal. I flush again. She speaks to Rodering. “What does this young lady look like?”
“She has primarily been described this evening as filthy and wet, Your Majesty.”
“On other occasions?”
Rodering looks at me apologetically. I shrink down into my seat while he answers Mother. “Black hair, thin, very curious.”
Mother hmms in satisfaction. “Hugh’s girl, to be sure.” Her eyes gleam. “I suppose he knows you’re—what did you say? Appraising her?”
I rise stiffly. “Hugh has caused her a deal of trouble. I feel it is our family’s responsibility to help.”
“How thoughtful of you.” Mother taps her fingertips together. “It’s always wise to repay debts.” The cat on her lap stretches and mews, and Mother scratches its chin. “Very well, then.” She turns her blue eyes on me and I squirm. “Go see to your young lady.”
I hesitate. Rodering still stands at the door stoically. “Does she need assistance? You said she’s making oatmeal?” I ask.
“For a horse, yes.”
I don’t see why I should get involved. Whatever Miss Flanders is doing here, it’s really not my business.
On the other hand, I’m very tired of discussing seating charts for a wedding that may never happen.
I bow to Mother. She’s still giving me that unsettling smile. “I shall return in a moment.”
“Do not rush on my account.” Her eyes glimmer. “I find this a very interesting development.”
I bow again and hurry away. Nothing is developing, but there’s no use arguing with Mother.
Rodering informs me with a muttering cough that Miss Flanders is in the stable kitchen. Servants scurry to get out of the way as I stride down the halls and dash out into the rain.
I confess that I’ve spent little time in the stable kitchen. In fact, I’m not sure I’ve ever been in there before, but I find my way to it easily enough now. Grooms bow and look at each other with raised eyebrows when I pause in the doorway.
Miss Flanders stoops with her back to me, witchily stirring a cauldron over an open fire. I run a hand down my face. “Please tell me you aren’t brewing some potion in here.”
She jumps and spins to face me. Her soggy clothes fling raindrops across the room, and some hit the cauldron with a fizzle.
“Oh! Lucas!” Her face is bright red from the heat of the fire. “I didn’t mean for you to be here!”
“A pleasure to see you as well, Miss Flanders.” A smile twitches my lips. I step into the room and look her up and down. She’s rather less polished than she was at the ball last night, wet bodice clinging to her skin, skirt torn and muddy, and standing in a puddle that’s dripped from her clothes. Less polished, but no less charming. I swallow.
She laughs. “Is it really? You’re a very good liar, Your Highness, which is a relief! I’d curtsy, but I think I’d spray you with mud.”
“Is there an explanation for—this?” I ask, gesturing vaguely to the whole of her.
“It’s Hugh’s fault,” she says, as if that explains anything. “I need to get Kelpie some oatmeal before she breaks something.”
I run my hand over my face again. “Should I ask why, or should I just tell you to ask the cooks for some?”
“I’m afraid I promised her I’d make it myself.”
“Her?”
“Kelpie.”
“Does the horse care who makes it?” I ask hesitantly.
Hester purses her lips in a pretty pout. A strand of black hair is plastered to her forehead, and my fingers itch to brush it away. “That thing is no horse. I’d bet my left leg that she’s one of the Folk in disguise, or at least cursed.”
I shove my hands in my pockets. “Ah, of course. One of our horses is actually a faerie.”
“One of these days you’re going to wish you’d taken them more seriously,” Hester scolds. She turns to the fire again to resume her stirring.
I glance around the kitchen. Several other stable hands are at work, pretending not to listen to our conversation. I draw closer to Miss Flanders. “I confess, I’m still confused about all this, Miss Flanders.”
“Hugh gave me a crown for bringing Kelpie back here.” She frowns. “Maybe that’s why she was so worked up. The Folk do hate rain, you know.”
“Naturally.” I sniff. Something’s burning. From the corner of my eye, I see one of the other stable hands jump and frantically scrape the bottom of his pot; too busy listening and not busy enough stirring, I presume. I hide my smile. “And where is Hugh?”
“I left him at my boardinghouse—I hope it’s not rude to say that I wish he didn’t know where I live! I’m nearly ready to move!”
“Do you need help finding new lodgings?”
Hester clicks her tongue at me. “Really, Your Highness! You should stop offering to help all the time! Someone will take you up on it someday, and then you’ll be in a bind.”
“It won’t be you, at any rate.” I lean against the stone wall to peer into the oatmeal pot. It’s gray and lumpy; I don’t think Miss Flanders’ gifts lie in the culinary direction. I hope faerie-cursed horses have different tastes than I do.
Miss Flanders sniffs. “One of the Folk will wander through this city, and you’ll make some silly promise to help them, and then do you know what will happen?” She brandishes her dirty spoon at me. “ Then you’ll start feeling a heartache, and it will get worse and worse until you either keep your promise or die, and then Hugh will be the next king, and we’ll all be doomed.”
I don’t hide my smile this time. “You’ve got oatmeal on your nose.” I push away from the wall reluctantly. Miss Flanders doesn’t need anything from me, so it would be foolish to linger here. “But I don’t think you need to worry so much,” I add. “You assume I wouldn’t keep my promises.”
Miss Flanders wipes her nose with the back of her hand, flinging more oatmeal against the wall as she does so. I dart out of the way.
“You should still be more careful.” She gives the oatmeal a final stir and begins to scoop it into a shallow plate.
“You’ll take tea before you go,” I say. “And I’ll order a carriage for you.” With all the water she’s dripped onto the floor, I’m surprised that her gown can still be so wet. I narrow my eyes at her. “You won’t sneak off if I take my leave?”
Miss Flanders looks up at me innocently. “You wound me.”
This is not a promise, but I really shouldn’t stay any longer. Mother’s still waiting for me, and I hear grooms whispering in the doorway. “I’m telling the stable master,” I say, “so he’ll keep an eye on you.”
“Very kind of you, Your Highness.” Miss Flanders purses her lips and blows on the oatmeal to cool it. Her dancing eyes meet mine.
I really shouldn’t stay. With a sigh and a bow, I bid her goodnight.
HESTER
Lucas is kind—too kind. And too trusting. Of course I’m going to sneak away.
The stable master thinks I’m taking tea in the kitchen, and the kitchen hands think I’m off to find a carriage, and instead I creep back through the stables and down the drive. I hear the rattle of Hugh’s carriage coming and sink into the shadows of the trees until he passes. I don’t want to see him again, even if he did promise a second crown.
The sun’s gone down by now, and the rain, getting sleepy, has slowed to a fine mist. The gaslights turn the drops into shimmering halos and the puddles into twinkling mirrors. I pick my way down the wet drive, turning a coin between my fingers. An obliging groom had broken the crown for me, so I could leave a few pennies to pay for Kelpie’s treats, and the rest jingle in my pocket. How I wish I could keep them! If only I could march straight back to Mistress Mungon’s and tuck them under my mattress!
But that broken coffee-cart haunts my mind, and I can’t convince myself that it wasn’t all my fault. If I’d held the reins tighter—or not attempted the drive at all!—it never would have happened. I didn’t get a good view of the damage, distracted as I was, so I don’t know if the coffee-woman will be able to fix it easily or not at all, and I can’t go home until I at least try to make amends. Though it’s past sundown, I still have a bit of time before Mistress Mungon will bolt her doors and scold me for flouting curfew.
I shouldn’t be surprised to find the coffee-woman gone from her normal corner, but I look around in dismay, anyhow. The only evidence is a lingering aroma of roasted beans and a scattering of wicked splinters from the cart. A teenaged fishmonger with a mop of red hair stands under a gaslight on the other side of the street, halfheartedly advertising his wares. I’m not sure why he’s still out; I doubt anyone wants a day-old trout for a bedtime snack. But he might know something about the coffee-woman, so I cross the street to talk to him. I try to breathe shallowly as I sidle up; the aroma is a sad change.
“Salmon, miss?” The lanky boy asks in a monotone voice. His eyes are not very hopeful.
“Oh, no thank you,” I say, ignoring the greenish array before him. I don’t like fish at the best of times, and these certainly are not the best of times. I smile and hope he won’t notice that I’m only breathing through my mouth. “You don’t know where the coffee-seller’s gone, do you?”
He sighs. “Just like everyone else.” He looks at his sad wares. “No one buys my fish. Just want coffee. I’ve a nice selection of trout here, miss.”
The trout are not what I’d describe as nice , but I suppose he does have a selection: foul or fouler. “I don’t need fish or coffee,” I say. “I just need to know where the woman is. I have something of hers.”
“Sure you don’t want fish, miss? Did you see my eel?” He has such a pitiful voice.
I rub my temples. “If you can tell me where the coffee-woman is, I’ll buy a fish,” I say with a sigh.
He perks up slightly. “Salmon?”
I study the cart with distaste. The salmon looks at me with a glassy eye. “Fine.”
“I don’t know where she is,” the boy says as he begins wrapping the pungent creature in a wrinkled piece of newspaper. “Two pennies.”
“Two?” I blink.
“One, then.” He sighs and slumps again.
I hate spending even that, but I retrieve the coin from my pocket and trade it for the salmon with a queasy resignation. “You really don’t know where she is?”
The boy takes his time replying, wiping his hands down his gray trousers and looking off into the distance. I close my eyes and exhale—a mistake, because then I have to inhale , and I sputter on the piscatory fumes.
“You can ask at the tavern on Lark Street,” he finally says, while I cough. “That’s her old man’s place.”
I turn away with half-choked thanks . The odor lingers around me—probably, I realize with despair, because I am now carrying a semi-rotten salmon. How nice.
Lark Street is not too far away, and the late hour means there are no crowds to elbow through, although I do have to dodge several piles of fresh horse droppings. The cabs never sleep.
The outside of the tavern has a sign adorned with a bright red—well, what is it? I stop in the middle of the street to tilt my head and squint. Is it meant to be a cow?
I push open the door, and the hinges only squeak a little as I step into the dim interior. I enjoy the odor of ale and warm meat pie until I catch a whiff of my salmon. My inhale turns into a choking wheeze. Laborers sit at scattered tables, enjoying the aforescented ale and pies, and no one pays me any mind as I pick my way through to the bar.
“Excuse me,” I call to the large man pouring mugs of ale behind the counter.
He looks up, shaggy gray hair flopping into his eyes, and nods. “Welcome to the Red Lark. Wanting some ale, miss?”
That sign is supposed to be a lark? I suppose I should have guessed from the street name—
“Miss?”
“Oh,” I say, trying to recover my thoughts. “No, thank you. I’m just looking for the woman who sells coffee.”
“Too small to hold your liquor, hey?” The bartender sets the full mugs on a tray and scoots out around the bar to deliver them to tables. “She’s in the back. I’ll fetch her for you.”
I sink to a stool to wait for him, laying the salmon on the counter.
Then I pick it up again, because this looks like a clean tavern, and I hate to contaminate it with this thing .
The man makes his rounds and delivers the ale, then disappears through a swinging door to what I presume is the kitchen. Sure enough, the coffee-woman herself appears a few moments later, carrying another tray of pies.
“You!” she cries when she sees me across the tavern. “You’re the girl who ruined my cart!”
Every head turns to look at me.
I slide off the stool and try to look disarming. “I really am sorry about that. I brought payment—”
She doesn’t pause to hear my offer, just shakes a long finger at me. I’m impressed she can balance that heavy tray of pies with only one hand, but I suppose I should be paying more attention to what she’s saying and less to her forearm strength.
“You should be thrown in prison! Ruined my whole cart with that demon-horse, you did! ”
“So you don’t think she’s a natural horse, either! I’m almost sure she’s Folk-cursed!” I say.
This does not impress the woman. She sets her tray of meat pies on the nearest table with a thud and storms across the tavern to me.
I dig around in my pocket for the remainder of my coins. “I brought this as soon as I could—”
She dashes them out of my hand. I wince at the sound of coins scattering across the floor.
“It’s not enough!” she spits. “My cart is ruined!”
“I don’t suppose you’d want this?” I offer up the salmon.
Her inarticulate splutter convinces me that she does not want the salmon, and the way her arms snake out to grab me convinces me that she’s not really amenable to my offer at all.
Well, I’ve done what I could; now it is time for me to leave. I dart backward, narrowly avoiding her snatching fingers, and hurry to the exit.
“Stop her!” she cries, and a man with a straw hat—indoors! How uncouth!—leans my way, but I bend and dodge past the tables before anyone can get me. I very much doubt either the woman or her old man are going to shrug and say “Oh well,” so I make an immediate run for it. By the sound of it, the entire tavern crowd pours out into the darkness to pursue me.
Leaving their pies to get cold! Clearly, our priorities are not in alignment!
I pump my arms and run, turning the corner and hoping that I can get a bit of a lead. If I’m lucky, the misty fog will obscure me. Behind me, angry voices shout something that sounds like “Beef! Beef! Stop her!”
I presume that interpretation is not accurate.
“I paid the debt!” I yell back. A bystander gapes at me, and probably at the crowd of people chasing me, too. “I don’t have anything else to give!” Besides the salmon, of course, which is still dangling from my hand. The fish’s moisture has seeped through the newspaper, fusing it to my skin with a pungent wetness, and I fear I shall never be rid of the odor.
Either they do not hear, or they do not care, for the sound of pounding feet continues. I dart around another corner and dive down a dingy alley lined with barrels and refuse. I don’t slow until I topple into a fence, too tall for me to vault. Gasping, I check behind me; no one’s following me yet. The fog will only hide me so much, though, so I pry the lid off one of the rickety barrels leaning against one side of the alley. A mangy tomcat hisses at me from the shadows.
“Nice kitty,” I try. I’ve never cared for cats; he must sense this, for he hisses again and creeps nearer. I toss another glance down the alley. I can’t retreat—I’ll run right into the arms, or the fists, of the coffee-woman’s cronies.
The salmon—bless the fishboy and his salmon! I lob it toward the fence, and the tomcat pounces after it. While he rips through the soggy paper, I clamber into the barrel and pull the lid back over me as well as I can.
The scent of pickle brine washes over me, and I press a hand— not the one that held the salmon—over my mouth to keep from spluttering. A thick layer of sludge lines the bottom of the barrel, seeping into my shoes and soaking my skirt.
Well, I needed to wash this dress, anyhow.
I hunker down, breathing as shallowly as possible. From outside, a clattering noise grows closer, resolving after a moment into voices and thudding footsteps.
“Eh, there’s ’er fish,” sounds in a man’s voice. I imagine him pointing to the tomcat, and hope that the cat bites his ankle.
“Think she went over the fence?” A second voice, reedier, speaks, and footsteps pass me. “It’s pretty high.”
“She must’ve,” the first voice says. “I’ll boost you over.”
A series of grunts, then a heavy thud. “I think these are her footsteps,” the reedy voice calls. “She got over somehow.”
Bless whoever hopped that fence and left footsteps earlier. Possibly a real pickpocket, come to think of it, but I’m not currently in a place to criticize .
I hear a grunt, the tomcat’s hiss, and the scramble of legs against the fence as the first speaker follows his reedy friend over. Their voices fade away, and I let out a shaky breath. I can’t get out yet, though. They might come back this way, and even if they don’t, I have nowhere to go until I’m sure they’ve given up the search. My back is already protesting this position, and I feel the slow creep of pickle brine permeating my skirt.
I wait, and wait, and wait, but the men don’t come back through the alley. After a while, the tomcat jumps on top of the barrel with a purr, jamming the lid down further. I hear the sounds of his self-satisfied personal grooming above me.
“You should be nicer to me after I fed you,” I whisper through the briny wood. The cat makes no reply.
I count my woes. My neck may have a permanent crook, my dress is streaked with vinegary sludge, my landlady will have a fierce lecture for me, my friend will be forced to smell this pickley gown all night, and I am very hungry. I’d cry, but really this is too ridiculous! A hysterical giggle pushes itself out.
I hope those men don’t come back down this alley, because a giggling pickle-barrel is probably not something they would overlook.