You Can’t Smell Folk
“Hugh! What a surprise!” I jump up and paste a smile on. My voice wobbles like the belly of Great Lerp, the patriarch of our hog clan. “What—what brings you here tonight?”
“You know what,” Hugh says. His eyes are darker than I remember, and he holds his right hand fisted over his heart. He stumbles into the room, dripping and shaking.
“At least close the door behind you,” I scold. “My dad will catch cold.”
Hugh ignores me, dragging himself to the hearth on the opposite wall, so I march over and shut the door. I don’t like having Hugh boxed up with us like this, but I can’t have that rain coming in. Mum and I just finished fixing the walls!
“Well, well, Miss Smith!” Hugh says, once he’s thawed a bit. He eyes me, no smile on his face. “I’ll have you know that you’ve caused quite a bit of annoyance for me!”
Does the man hear himself? He’s the reason I lost my job and my room in the boardinghouse, and now he’s complaining to me! “I’m sure I’m terribly sorry.” I hope I sound very insincere. “You can just give me that other crown, and that will be the end of it.”
Hugh stares. “A crown? You think I came all this way for a single crown?” He fishes in his pocket, pulls out a handful of coins, and scatters them over the floor. “Take what you want. I have a more urgent matter.”
It’s my turn to stare and press a hand to my heart. “If it’s not the crown, what is it?” Mum and Dad goggle silently from their respective places at the stew-pot and the bed; I don’t care to perform introductions at the moment.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know, Miss Smith!” Hugh’s voice turns mocking. “What, did Luke never tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“He really didn’t!” Hugh blinks and casts around for something to sit on. He finds my chair and yanks it closer to the fireplace, then sits backward on it, crossing his arms on the back of the chair and staring owlishly at me. “Well! I suppose there’s some fun to be had here, after all!”
“ What are you talking about, Hugh?” I snap at him, changeling or not. This can’t get worse .
My ire amuses him. He puts a hand in his breast pocket and smiles, displaying his perfect teeth. “I hope you’re ready for some excellent news.”
I frown. “I don’t remember ever having excellent news from you.”
Hugh laughs. “My dear Miss Smith—or should I say, my dear Hester Flanders”—I shiver; I don’t like hearing my name on his lips. He curls a finger to beckon me closer, and I reluctantly cross the room toward him until he can take my hands in his—“We are to be married.”
“We are to be what ?” I fairly shriek, snatching my hands away and scooting back toward the door. Double gasps sound from my parents.
“Married,” he repeats.
“That is the—the silliest thing I have ever heard!” And really, I’ve heard a lot of silly things !
Hugh’s smile grows. “How can you act so surprised? I’ve courted you for ages!”
“It wasn’t proper courting, and you know it! And I don’t even like you! And you are a—”
“A what?”
“A prince,” I say, even though everyone in the room must have known I was about to say changeling .
Hugh laughs. “And you shall be a princess! I swore it the night we met.” His eyes darken, and he digs his fingers into his chest.
“Did you,” I echo blankly. That would be something more than a crown, indeed!
“And since Luke refused you—”
I gulp.
“—the burden is on me. I suppose we shall be very happy together.”
“Shall we,” I echo again.
“I was quite drunk.” The firelight catches on Hugh’s golden hair as he leans forward. “Don’t worry—I’ve repented of my hasty words many times since! It will probably not happen again.”
Mum’s eyes are almost as big as the stew pot, and she presses both hands over her gaping mouth. Hugh grins sharply at her. “Did you hear that? Your daughter is to be a princess. I congratulate you.”
“No,” Dad says from his bed on the other side of the fireplace. “You can’t have her.”
Hugh’s eyebrows inch up into his hairline. “Are you planning to stop me?”
“There must be some other way to fulfill your—your promise,” Mum says shakily.
I step closer, my hands balled into fists at my side. “If you’re not really Fitzhugh, you’re not a prince at all, are you? So marrying me can’t make me a princess,” I say.
“What an idea!” Hugh looks back at me. The firelight dancing on his face makes his eyes gleam wickedly—or perhaps that’s just his nature. “Why would you think I’m not really Fitzhugh? ”
I swallow and choose my words carefully. “I know you’re a changeling.” Well, I suppose I could have been a tad less blunt, but it’s out now, anyhow.
“Do you indeed? How charming.” Hugh settles himself more firmly in his chair. “I shall still marry you.”
“I don’t want to be your wife,” I hiss. “I won’t marry you. If you want to keep your word, you’ll have to find another way.”
“I can think of many ways to keep my word.” Hugh smiles again, but it’s a deadly and dangerous look, and I shudder. I hear a rustle from Dad, but he doesn’t speak. “I said I would make you a princess of Chesbury, Miss Smith, and I shall. I simply thought marriage would be the most pleasant. But if you don’t like that”—Hugh shows all his teeth—“I could have some of my brethren, if you will, kill the king and crown your father. Or I could haul you off and give you to one of the Princes of the Folk—Bluebeard, for instance, is always looking for a new bride. His never seem to last very long.”
“You can’t—you can’t do that!” Mum interjects. She moves from her spot by the stove to hover over Dad protectively.
“If you married me to Bluebeard, I wouldn’t be a princess of Chesbury,” I point out.
Hugh stands and stretches. Is he taller than he used to be? “You’d prefer I kill my father?” There’s a wild desperation in his dark eyes.
“Of course not,” I say. “He has nothing to do with this.”
“An interesting assumption!” He grimaces and holds out a hand. “We’re wasting time. I saw a chapel in one of these little villages. Shall we be married?”
“No,” I say shortly, the strain in my chest pulling me so strongly that I nearly tumble into him. “You may make a picture for me. I’m sure you can draw a princess well enough.”
Hugh throws his head back and laughs. “A picture! Trying to be clever! How very Folksy of you!” He tilts his head to one side. “You know you’re not all human yourself, don’t you?”
I gawp. “What do you mean?”
“There is some Folk in you.” He wiggles his fingers again, but I resist this time. “I can smell it.”
“You can’t smell Folk,” I protest.
“Let me kiss you, and I can even tell you how many generations ago it entered the bloodline.”
“You can’t diagnose heritage through kissing !” Plus, ew .
A choked squawk comes from Dad’s corner.
“I can’t lie, you remember. But I could kiss your lovely Mum, if you’d rather,” Hugh offers. “I smell it stronger in her.”
I stand, open-mouthed, for a long moment. I’m not sure if I’m more offended by the accusation, or by Hugh’s malicious glee. What an annoying man!
“You don’t,” I say helplessly. “You can’t .” This conversation is not going at all how I expected. Folk take the day I attended that ball!
Or, well, it seems they have.
Hugh blanches and hisses suddenly, his hand snaking out to press against his heart. I feel it, too—a sudden tightening of whatever promise binds us. If I don’t find a way to break it very soon, it will be too late. Someone will die. I don’t know who, and I don’t want to find out.
“Marry me, Hester.” His voice is commanding, and I flinch at the strange sound of any appellation but Miss Smith.
“You can’t compel me,” I say. “You don’t know my full name.”
Hugh shrugs and turns to Dad. “Tell me her name—all of it—or I will—er, I will kill your wife.”
Mum gasps and claps a hand to her mouth, shrinking into Dad’s side. Dad looks at me with anguish.
“I’ll tell you myself,” I spit. “It’s very weak of you to try to bully my parents, Hugh!” My palms are clammy, heart fluttering. He wouldn’t really —would he?
“I already made a promise! It has to be the old man!” Hugh snarls.
“Her name is—is Hester Clarinda Starling Flanders,” Dad says in a shaky voice.
Hugh relaxes a bit. “Good. I’ve never actually killed anyone, you know. I’d hate to start now. ”
“What happened to the real prince?” I blurt.
Hugh tips his head to the side. “I think I’m tired of answering questions, Hester Clarinda Starling Flanders. Now, we really must be married. I will marry you.” He pauses, a frown passing over his face. “I’d rather not compel you. It would be more pleasant if you’d just come along.”
I grit my teeth, looking from Mum and Dad to Hugh, who somehow appears both smug and desperate.
“What—what will you do with her after you’re married?” Mum asks, ghostly pale.
Hugh shrugs. “I suppose we’ll be married until I grow tired of it.” He glances back at me. “I do bore rather easily.”
“I know.” I press my lips into a thin line. “I won’t take it personally.”
Hugh tries to laugh, but it’s a pitiful, crazed sound. He beckons me again. “Come, Miss Smith! Come to the chapel with me! You may be our witnesses, if you like,” he adds to my parents.
There must be another way—there must !—but I can’t think of it, and I don’t trust Hugh to not do something stupid. Whatever of his nature he restrained in Wellington-upon-Chesbury, he can’t suppress it here; everything about him seems sharper, more dangerous, wilder, more Folksy. I must get him away from my parents.
“I’ll go to the chapel with you,” I say carefully, and his eyes brighten. “But not until morning. I know you don’t want to be out in this rain.”
“Very well, Miss Smith,” Hugh says, settling back on his chair and stretching. “In the morning. For now,” he sniffs the air, “you can feed me some of that soup.”