A Little Bit Antsy
I didn’t go to Ungus after all. I stood outside the butcher shop, biting my lip and thumbing through my money bag. He’d have let me stay, even if his mother scowled, but it would have been asking for help. I couldn’t do it.
Instead, I wandered to a particularly shabby inn— The Wet Og , according to the faded sign hanging crookedly above the door. I presume a letter is missing, but whether it was originally Dog or Hog is anyone’s guess. Neither sound inviting to me, but what do I know about naming public houses?
I’ve been here two nights, but I plan to find another boardinghouse today; the inn charges nearly twice as much as I paid Mistress Mungon.
I absently pass a hand over my heart and readjust my sack over my shoulder as I make my way through the bustling streets from the inn to Mistress Corthope’s. I take a long way round so I can avoid the coffee-woman’s corner. Chemmy waits at the end of Willowby Street, brows furrowed as she watches the crowds. I wave, and she hurries to meet me, although her face doesn’t brighten.
“You really should stay with Ungus,” she begins, looking me up and down for any sign of ill-usage by the other occupants of the inn.
“I have a door with a lock,” I say. “You can stop worrying so much about me.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Prince Fitzhugh came looking for you yesterday.”
“I hope Mistress Mungon asked him if he’d like to tour the bedrooms,” I say, with only a little bit of spite.
“He was very put out to find you gone.”
I sniff. “I’m sure.”
“And you have a letter.” Chemmy pulls a slightly-bent envelope from a pocket. I take it eagerly, recognizing the handwriting.
“It’s from Mum!” It’s been weeks since I heard from them. I step further off to the side of the street, out of the way of traffic, so I can slit it open with a fingernail—dirty, I notice; it’s about time I had a bath.
Thoughts of baths fade when I scan the scrawled lines.
Chemmy places a hand on my arm when I gasp. “What is it?”
“Fire.” My stomach falls to my toes. “Started in the sty and spread to the house. Dad—Dad …” I stare unseeing at the passing crowds, and the letter flutters out of my limp fingers. Chemmy catches it from the air.
“Oh, Hester.” She rubs my arm, a soothing, grounding sensation. “I’m so sorry. Is he—?”
I shake myself and catch a shuddering breath. “Hurt, but not …” My voice trails off, unwilling to say the worst. I take the letter back and read it once more, slowly, absorbing the news. Dad saved the herd, but at what cost to himself? I wish Mum went into more detail; she must’ve written in haste. Sty demolished, house half-charred, Dad injured … “She needs me to come back.” I bite my lip.
“Of course,” Chemmy says. “What can I do to help?”
My laugh is bitter; it shouldn’t be. Chemmy doesn’t deserve my bitterness. “You can’t.” I refold the letter and tuck it in my pocket. “I don’t have a way to repay you. ”
“For goodness’ sake,” Chemmy mutters. “Can’t you, just once , accept that I’m not trying to trap you, or whatever it is you think your faeries do, and let me help—”
“ No! ” I wince at the hurt in Chemmy’s eyes. “That’s—that’s just not how we do things.”
“The way you do things is wrong, Hester!”
“You need to save for your wedding to Ungus,” I say, forcing cheer into my voice. “Which you must write and tell me all about.”
“Write—you don’t mean to stay in Ramsfeldshire that long?” A milk cart comes rumbling over the cobblestones, so Chemmy steps closer as she speaks.
“It depends how Dad is,” I say quietly. “I’ll just have to see.” I take her hand and squeeze it. “You’ve been a better friend than I deserve, Chemmy.”
“Oh, Hester.” Chemmy wraps her arms around me. “I could help with—”
I sink into her embrace for a moment, but shake my head when she says help . “You don’t get it. Help isn’t an option. We have to do it on our own, or die trying.”
“ You don’t get it, Hester.” Chemmy pulls away, frustration dancing across her features. “You don’t have to do it on your own. There are no faeries here waiting to bargain your soul away.”
My hand snakes to the warding charm I wear around my neck. “You don’t know that. Ungus’ mother, for example, seems malevolent.” My attempt at humor works; Chemmy makes a noise somewhere between a giggle and a sob, and then she pulls me to her fiercely. “You need to get to work.” I dash a hand across my eyes. I’m not crying; it’s just a bit of dust, is all. “And I need to wrap everything up before—before I leave.”
“Will you leave today?”
“If I can,” I say. “I’ll write when I get there so you won’t worry.”
“I’ll worry anyhow,” Chemmy says.
“Come visit on your wedding-tour,” I say. “I’ll feed you fresh cheese and you’ll never want to leave. ”
“I’ll tell Ungus to take me, if he ever gets around to offering.” Chemmy tries to smile, but it’s not quite convincing.
“Well. Good-bye for now, then.”
“Good-bye, Hester.”
A final embrace, and Chemmy disappears reluctantly down Willowby Street. I wipe my hand over my eyes, sparing just a moment to mourn, well, everything.
The first thing is to collect my wages from Mistress Corthope; she grumbles and grouses, but hands them over. To my surprise, Jinna even says she’s sorry I’m leaving and wishes me well. I secure the money in my pocket and turn my thoughts to what else I must do before catching a coach.
My worldly possessions are already in the sack slung over my shoulder; Mistress Mungon’s temperamental eviction worked in my favor, after all. There’s nothing left for me to do but leave—but the thought feels wrong. Something tugs at me, a sense that I’ve left something unfinished, something unpaid. I tick through recent interactions: who has done me a favor? What have I accepted?
I hadn’t expected this about the city: so many people are kind—despite Mistress Corthope’s stinginess and Mistress Mungon’s somewhat crazed fear that I’d try to seduce a prince under her roof—that it’s difficult to keep track of debts and favors. Too many friends are willing to help: Chemmy, Ungus, my fellow boarders, Lucas. Especially Lucas. I have a sort of ache deep in my chest, which must mean I owe something to someone, but I don’t know who it is. Does my conscience still smite me about the coffee-woman? Did Lucas do too much for me? Or has Chemmy helped me in ways I didn’t even notice?
Maybe this longing is not related to a debt at all, but only my heart whispering its desire to stay here. Foolish. I tuck my head down and force my feet toward the station. Ramsfeldshire has no rail service yet, but I have enough money to purchase a fare for the fastest stagecoach; I could be home as early as tomorrow afternoon.
Still, that nagging, that tugging, that feeling that I must turn around—I must return to the palace—
The moment the thought flows through my mind, I scoff and walk faster. To the palace! My heart has betrayed itself; this is no pull of an unpaid debt, just the fanciful longing of a girl for a man she cannot have.
The day is fine for once, and I let myself walk a little slower to get my final view of Wellington-upon-Chesbury. A cab driver tips his hat to me while a pair of girls in yellow dresses scamper along the pavement behind a long-haired dog. I pass a smithy, and the heat and smells of smoke and metal billow from the open doorway.
A man on a horse—a pretty roan mare, I notice, with delicate hooves—trots past me, slowly. He cranes his head to look back once he’s passed, and his eyes linger on me. I shiver and stop to buy an apple from a balding man with a produce stand. I’ll need to eat something before I get home, and the time it takes picking a suitably plump fruit lets the man on the horse disappear before I resume my walk.
Too soon, the blue-shingled inn that serves as the station for the Ramsfeldshire stagecoach comes into view. My heart gives me a final tug, but I step through the door to pay my fare.
It’s time to go home.
LUCAS
Hugh follows me into the library after breakfast. Very annoying.
After a quarter of an hour trying, unsuccessfully, to focus on my work despite his yawnings and twitchings and general restlessness, I set my book on my lap. “Do you need something?”
His lips stretch in a sickly smile. “I do, actually.” He stops pacing to stand in front of the natural history shelf. “Don’t you feel even a little bit” —he looks around, shrugs—“antsy?”
“Me?” I raise my eyebrows. “You’re the one prancing all over the place.”
“Obviously, I am antsy. I thought you would be too, considering …”
“Considering what?” I search around for something to mark my place in my book; quiet study is unlikely until Hugh leaves. No markers appear until I pat my breast pocket—the letter to the princess. I haven’t sent it. I can’t send it until this business with Miss Flanders is settled. It wouldn’t be fair to the princess to offer marriage while I am still so … antsy .
I slip the letter between the pages and close the book. “Considering what?” I repeat. Hugh chews his bottom lip. When I stare at him, expectant, he twirls and paces over to a window.
“Do you remember—that is—you know that evening, when Lydia jilted me, and I had a bit too much of the strong stuff—”
I lean forward in my chair. “Yes?”
Hugh clasps his hands behind his back and clears his throat, still staring out the window. “I’m in a bit of a bind, Luke. I said—you remember that I said—”
A knock on the door, and Rodering slips in silently. “Your Highnesses,” he says, bowing.
Hugh turns away from the window. The trouble I’d heard in his voice doesn’t show on his face.
Rodering walks to me and holds out a folded note. My heart beats faster, but I keep my features neutral. It’s not long, and I read it in a matter of seconds. Miss Flanders has been found. One of my men observed her going to the Ramsfeldshire stagecoach station this morning.
I let out a deep breath, tension easing from my shoulders. “Very good, Rodering.” I nod. “No answer needed. ”
“Your Highness.” He bows and leaves. I refold the note along its creases and rise, hesitating only when I meet Hugh’s gaze. A calculating glimmer has replaced whatever anxiety was there before.
“Something important?” He smiles.
“A small matter I’ve been working on.”
“I don’t suppose it has to do with my Miss Smith, does it?”
“She’s not your Miss Smith.” The phrase is rote by now.
Hugh is fully grinning. He strolls to an armchair and settles down, one leg crossed over the other. “You found her, then?”
“Why would you think that?” I tug at my collar.
“I suppose you’re going to speak to her?”
Am I? “I don’t know if that would be necessary,” I murmur. My instinct had immediately been to go to her, but what business is it of mine if Miss Flanders wants to return to Ramsfeldshire?
“If you don’t, I will.”
I roll my eyes at the smugness in his tone. “I thought you were going to tell me of your troubles, brother.”
Hugh leans back, lacing his fingers behind his head. “What troubles? I find myself quite content with the circumstances now.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Perhaps you will not disturb my studies again today.”
“Oh? Was I disturbing you?” A lock of hair flops on Hugh’s forehead when he leans toward me. He cranes his head to make out the title of the book I’m holding. I tuck it beneath my arm, so he turns his attention to the shelf I’d been sitting by.
It’s a bit of a catch-all shelf, so he won’t be able to tell I’ve been reading about the development of Folk superstitions in the western counties. Not that there’s much to read. The study has been sorely neglected; someone should do something about that.
“Of course not.” I bow to him. “Enjoy your time in the library.”