If You Ever Want to Begin a Hog-Herd
The next stage will not leave until this evening. I’ve secured my place, so now I have nothing to do but wait, and think, and fret, and pace, and ache.
And then do them all again.
If I’d known I couldn’t leave until evening, I would’ve worked another day with Mistress Corthope. It’s barely past noon; perhaps I should go back now.
Or perhaps … perhaps I should go somewhere else.
I bite my lip and look out the window of the inn. I’ve sat in every chair, toured the stable twice, drank a sludgy cup of coffee—a luxury, I know, but if I can’t come back anyhow, I may as well spend the ha’penny.
Now I’m back to pacing from window to window. The proprietor is not very fond of me at this point, I’m afraid.
But I don’t have to stay all afternoon, do I? I was so focused on getting on the coach that I forgot I could leave the inn until it’s time to depart. I should go stretch my legs—stroll past the opera house, or visit the Bridge of Wickets—I think I shall.
I smile at the inn’s proprietor and tell him I’ll return in time for the evening stagecoach; he doesn’t look sorry to see me go. I let my feet lead me where they will, ambling past green-shuttered houses, down narrow alleys, through open squares, along tree-lined avenues. I don’t hurry, and I try to rid my mind of all the anxieties swooping about like so many bats.
I’m so focused on not thinking at all that I don’t realize that my feet have ambled closer and closer to the palace until I stand at the end of the drive once again. I press my hand to my heart. Is this the debt that’s been calling me, then? Who do I owe, and what can I give him?
The coffee-cart woman comes back to mind. Is her need the one that’s been calling me? Hugh is responsible for the damage, really; can it hurt to give one of the footmen a message?
Of course it can hurt , my more rational side tries to tell me, but I ignore it. Today is not for rational thinking. I’m leaving Wellington-upon-Chesbury, and I’d like to say goodbye to … the palace. It’s a beautiful building, worth viewing one last time, I think.
“You again,” I’m greeted when I rap on the kitchen door. I smile sheepishly at the maid who’s opened it and wipe my feet on the thick rush mat. “Don’t tell me you’re here for oatmeal again.”
“You heard about that?” I ask.
“My brother works in the stable, and he was very amused by the whole thing,” she says with a laugh. She beckons me to come further into the kitchen. “You’ll be wanting to make a pie for the chickens now, I suppose.”
I laugh with her. “Couldn’t make pie to save my life, so the fowl will have to scrape along without me, I’m afraid. I actually was hoping to leave a message for Hugh—Prince Fitzhugh, that is.”
“A letter?” The maid leads me into the heart of the kitchen, and she turns her attention to a lump of bread dough sitting on a wooden table, kneading it with deft movements.
“No—I haven’t written anything. I’d just thought of saying something to a footman.”
“If he’s jilted you,” the maid says, sympathy oozing from her voice, “you’d be better off trying to forget about the whole thing.”
“Hugh didn’t jilt me,” I say, too loudly. Several fires crackle along the edges of the room, warming my cheeks. “I mean, it’s just about some damage his horse did that evening I drove her.”
“Ah, the day of the oatmeal.” The dough thumps against the table for several moments as she considers. Finally, satisfied, she smooths it into a ball and covers it with a cloth. Dusting her hands against her already-floury apron, she looks back at me. “I was going to run a fresh batch of biscuits upstairs anyhow.” Her voice is low and conspiratorial, and she glances over her shoulder at one of the cooks lurking in the background. “You can come along and leave your message on his desk.”
“I’d rather not run into him,” I say, but the maid shakes her head as she unties her apron.
“He’ll not be at his desk, I can promise you that!” She fetches a silver tray from another table. My mouth waters at the scent of fresh pastries. “I’m not really supposed to be doing this job,” she confides in a whisper, “but the girl who normally takes them wants me to put a good word in with my brother—the groom, you remember—so she’s letting me have a turn. It’s fun to sneak about the princes’ rooms, and I do get dreadfully tired of bread!” We wait until the cook is berating another servant—for the crime of plucking a chicken incorrectly, from what I can hear—and we sneak through the kitchens and up the stairs to the family’s private quarters. I recognize the hall from my time spent sewing drapes. I suppose this is my last time here.
That thought sends another stab, which is illogical: after all, I never expected to be here in the first place. Tragically enough, heart-stabs don’t seem to follow logic.
We pass Lucas’ rooms—he’s probably not there right now, so I don’t need to blush!—and down another corridor I haven’t been in before. The maid stops before a door.
“Why is it purple?” I ask. All the other doors are respectable door colors .
“His Highness has his own ideas about things,” the maid says dryly.
“He was wearing a rather bright pair of trousers the other day.”
The maid raps once on the door and waits for a few heartbeats. “I don’t think he’s in.” She turns the knob and beckons me to follow her into the room. “There’s paper on his desk. You can write your note there.” She walks over to a polished buffet and begins exchanging her fresh biscuits for the stale ones.
I stop in the doorway, overwhelmed by the riotously colorful room. This is nothing like Lucas’ orderly sitting room. “Why is there so much—” I wave my hand.
“I’m surprised you’re still asking that question.”
That’s fair. I should’ve expected Hugh’s room to bear some resemblance to his personality; there’s a disorienting jumble of potted plants, strange portraits, gaudy furniture, and mismatched candelabra. Hugh might be able to make sense of the organization and design choices, but I won’t even try. I step toward the desk, and the door closes behind me with a soft snick.
I have a momentary misgiving about using Hugh’s paper, but decide if it’s his debt to the coffee-woman, he can spare a half-sheet of paper, too. I jot my note without much thought, not wanting to spend too long in Hugh’s room.
Once I’ve signed my note, I let myself inspect the room more leisurely while the maid dusts crumbs off the buffet. A sunset-orange settee stands in front of a veritable jungle of ferns and purple-flowered vines. I sniff. Is that a pot of folkbane in the corner? A larger-than-life portrait of Kelpie occupies an entire wall. Maybe Hugh has misgivings about her origins, too.
“All done?” the maid asks. “Care for a biscuit? They’ll get tossed, anyhow.” She pops one in her mouth, but I shake my head. “I’d best get back to my bread, then. And you said His Highness didn’t jilt you yet, after all? I know I’m nosy,” the maid says cheerfully as I follow her back into the corridor, “but I love having the freshest news.”
“There’s nothing to jilt,” I protest. “He’s just a … a very odd friend.”
LUCAS
I almost chased Miss Flanders to the station this morning. I got as far as walking to the stables to have my horse saddled when I came to my senses.
Regardless of how I feel, I have duties, responsibilities. I must get my heart under control. Miss Flanders is leaving, apparently; if she needs my help, she knows she’s welcome to it. If she doesn’t approach me, I will put her out of my mind and—
— why is Hester Flanders stepping out of Hugh’s room?
I stop in the hallway. I’d been heading to my study after a morning spent half-listening to a duke drone about budget troubles. “I thought you were leaving,” I blurt.
Miss Flanders turns bright pink. “I am?”
A maid is with her. She drops into a curtsy, then offers a wide-eyed look to Miss Flanders, ducks her head, and hurries away.
“Forgive me.” I cough and adjust my cravat. “I didn’t mean to be so rude. I’m only surprised to see you here.”
I can’t tell if Miss Flanders looks ashamed or nervous. She twists her hands together. “I wanted to leave a message for Hugh—there was a coffee-woman, and Kelpie ran into her cart—anyhow. Excuse me.” She curtsies, but I hold out a hand.
“Wait,” I say. She looks up at me, eyes wide and questioning. I clear my throat. “Are you leaving the city, Miss Flanders?”
“How did you know?” She sounds perplexed.
“I—” I’m not sure if I want to tell her I had a search party roaming the city since Hugh told me she was gone. “One of my men saw you at the station this morning.”
One side of her mouth tips up in a crooked grin. “You’re not having me followed, Your Highness!” When I don’t respond, the grin turns to a surprised O . “Are you? ”
I look at the rose-patterned wallpaper. “Hugh told me you had gone missing. I was …” I meet Miss Flanders’ gaze again. “I was worried.”
Her flush deepens. “Well, here I am, then. Although I’m leaving tonight.”
“You’re going home? For how long?”
Her smile wobbles. “Yes. My parents—there was a fire—they need me.” She scuffs her toe along the carpet.
“Are they alright?”
Hester shakes her head. “Dad is hurt—I don’t know how badly. I thought I could bring them here, but …” Her voice trails off.
I clear my throat. “If you need funds—”
“We don’t do gifts.” There is steel in her gaze, and I purse my lips.
“A loan, then.”
“Or loans.”
“Even though you have to give up everything you’ve worked for?”
“Better to give up on my own than not earn my place.”
“I disagree.” Somehow we’ve drifted closer together, and my fingers twitch, wanting to reach out and touch her. I don’t. “People were meant to rely on each other. Life is more than bargains.”
Hester lets out a little laugh. “Why are you marrying that princess, then, Lucas? I’ve heard the rumors.”
I clear my throat. That’s different.
Hester doesn’t wait for an answer. She shakes her head. “It’s too risky. You might not worry about the Folk, but we do, and I—we—none of us can risk getting trapped by a bad bargain!”
“You surely don’t think I’m a faerie, Hester!”
“It doesn’t matter!” She takes in a little breath. “I don’t accept things from anyone.”
“Very well, then,” I say. “But stop blaming it on your superstitions when it’s only your pride!” Her mouth drops into an O again, offended instead of surprised this time. I lean closer, voice dropping. “ You’re not actually afraid of those creatures, if they’re even real. You’re just too stubborn to admit you might need someone else!”
She stares up at me, eyes narrowing. We are close enough that I could—
My gaze drops to her lips. I swallow hard.
“You think you know me so well, Lucas?” she finally breathes. “Please, continue.”
“If you weren’t so cursed independent, I could help you,” I murmur.
She huffs a laugh, bitter and fragile. “I don’t want your charity, Your Highness.” She emphasizes the title.
“I’m not offering charity. I want to—” I swallow again. An offer perches on the tip of my tongue, but I do not have the right to make it. I nod once, slowly.
My heart thuds. This is not how I want our final conversation to be.
“Forgive me, Miss Flanders. I wish you well.” I hold out my hand, and she hesitantly takes it. Her fingers are small and calloused and fit just right in my own. “If you ever need anything—and don’t bother interrupting to say you won’t”—she opens and closes her mouth, and I finally see the hint of a smile again—“I’d be honored to serve you. Friends?”
Her face softens. “And if you ever want to begin a hog-herd,” she answers, “I would gladly assist.”
Her fingers slip out of mine. I wish I could stop them. She smiles one last time, and then she walks past me and turns the corner and is gone.
I wait until even the ghost of her footsteps has died away before making my way back to my own rooms. Once safely on the other side of the door, I rest my head against the smooth wood and sigh. A headache pounds at my temples.
Hester is leaving. I cannot make her stay, and I cannot go with her.
She is not mine. I am not hers .
I had not even told her I loved her. Which, on the whole, is a good thing. Admitting as much would have been a breach of both reason and decorum, and could lead to no good end. And yet—and yet—
I sigh again and lift my head.
And yet, I wish I could have said the words, just once.
I stride through the room and find the book I’d been reading this morning—the one I needed a page marker for. The letter to the princess is still wedged between two pages. I pull it out and turn it over in my hands. The corners are wrinkled from being carried in my pocket and the ink has smeared. I slit the envelope and pull out the sheet inside, rereading my formal offer.
If I were the princess, I’d be insulted by such insipid words.
Can I really think of no way to make it sound more—affectionate? Tender? Personal, at the very least?
My words stare up at me, cold and lifeless and stifled, and I imagine Hester reading them over my shoulder. Hadn’t she accused me of bargaining away my life, as though I was dealing with one of her faeries?
A humorless smile contorts my face.
Perhaps I should rewrite this completely, put a bit more heart into it. Perhaps the princess would appreciate the effort.
I pull out a blank sheet of paper. I can do better, surely. If I cannot have the marriage I wish, at least I can make an effort to make this alliance something more than mere politics.
Despite my best tries, the new page is still blank an hour later when I am called away to another meeting with Father and a handful of lords—this one about proposed road improvements in the lower city—and after that, Mother nabs me for tea with the geriatric Lady Jingleby and her jowly son, who insist on a hobbling tour of the palace grounds. I cannot politely break away until it is time to dress for dinner.
But instead of dressing, I sink back down at my desk. The blank sheet stares up at me. I consider it thoughtfully, tapping my fountain pen on my chin. What if, instead of a proposal to Princess Islabetta, I wrote—something else? A stack of books catches my attention: treatises on negotiating alliances, debates over how to encourage economic growth in agricultural regions. I start scratching out some new ideas, only stopping when the first dinner gong sounds.
Before I rush to change, I pick up the wrinkled proposal I had been meaning to send to the princess and crumple it into a ball.
Then I toss it in the fire and watch it burn.