That Particular Hog
I rap on the door of the cottage before I push it open, just to give my parents the briefest warning, although there’s really no way to prepare them for the fact that I’m about to bring another half-Folk prince inside.
Mum stops in the middle of her pacing and rushes toward me, arms outstretched. She embraces me, rain and cloak and all, and I hear a sob. “Hester! Are you—is he—” She straightens and stares at Lucas. “And who is this?”
“All is well,” I assure her. I cross the room to Dad and drop a kiss, and some rain, on his forehead. “This is Lucas.” He bows to my parents.
“ The Lucas?” Mum says. “The one who sent all the cheese?”
“I knew he must fancy you,” Dad says.
Lucas looks at me with a raised eyebrow. We’d said many things on our ride here, but really, there was too much to say; it was impossible to warn him about everything .
“But where’s the other one?” Mum asks again.
“I really don’t know.” I strip my cloak off and hang it from a peg. “ Or care. I’m still angry at him.” Lucas follows my example, hanging his overcoat next to mine.
Mum rushes to make tea, and I push Lucas into a chair near the fire. He submits with a lopsided smile. When we’re all suitably comfortable and equipped with tea, I sink to the floor next to Lucas, settle myself on a hoghide, and relate what happened with Hugh at the chapel. Dad’s face is soft and proud by the time I’m done.
“Well done, my girl,” he says.
Mum strips off her ward charm with an annoyed huff and tosses it in the fire. “You mean to say he’s not a changeling?”
Lucas clears his throat. He’d told me this part while we drove. “My mother is one of the Folk. I only discovered as much a day ago.” His fingers play nervously with his teacup.
“And you always seemed so normal,” I say, patting his knee. “Just think, you could have been compelling your council to approve your pet policies all along!”
“That’s why my parents have been quiet about it,” Lucas says. “My mother laid aside the, er, less palatable actions of her kin when she married my father. But they were afraid of public perception and accusations of coercion.”
“Naturally,” Dad says. Mum perches on the bed next to him. He strokes her hand. “And you, yourself, were unaware?”
“Only Hugh knew. He inherited more of a bent to … that side,” Lucas says. I rest my head on his knee. He’s obviously still uncomfortable with the revelation. “I would have been ignorant still, except I got a glimpse of some of Hugh’s … oddities .”
“He normally had his rooms all glamoured,” I supply. Lucas explained it to me already. “But when he came here, he couldn’t keep it hidden.”
“And you followed him here to warn us, Your Highness?” Dad’s voice is mild, but there’s a twinkle in his eye. “Or did you have other intentions?”
Lucas coughs. “I have a—a proposition for your family.” He walks across the room and withdraws a large packet of papers from his coat.
Mum raises her eyebrows.
“How did you fit all of those in one pocket?” I ask. That’s the sort of coat I need. My cloak’s pockets are irritatingly small.
“Will you let His Highness speak?” Mum scolds.
Lucas coughs again and shuffles through his stack as he retakes his seat. “While researching the economics of Ramsfeldshire, I was struck by the overwhelmingly negative fiscal outcomes, despite what should be a thriving region based on geography and trade opportunities.” I yawn, and his gaze slides to me, one corner of his mouth twitching. “Am I boring you, Miss Flanders?” He sips at his tea.
“Very much. I’d prefer if you just spit it out. Not the tea, I mean.”
Lucas splutters.
“Speak more respectfully to His Highness, Hester!” Mum scolds.
“I don’t think he wants me to.” I lean back on my hands, digging my fingers into the woolly hoghide.
Lucas splutters again and sets his teacup down. “I am rather—rather fond of your daughter’s manner of speaking, Mistress Flanders.” He turns to the next page in his sheet before peering down at me. “If I may continue?”
“You may,” I say graciously.
“Miss Flanders has previously described to me the local values of independence and self-reliance, but based on revenue reports from comparative locations—don’t yawn, Hester, I’m getting to it—I believe that one way to augment the overall fecundity of the region— would you pay attention, Hester—I’m trying to propose to you!”
I freeze mid-yawn. “I wasn’t making fun of you,” I protest. “Even though I only know half those words. I just didn’t sleep last night, what with Hugh here— not like that!”
“Strange way to propose,” Dad murmurs gently.
Lucas ruffles his papers, pink-cheeked. “A closer affiliation with a native of Ramsfeldshire might give me enough influence to encourage the values of mutual aid and neighborly assistance, to soothe some of the long-standing fears regarding the immutably malicious nature of the Folk, and to bolster the already-held traditions of diligence and resilience.”
“So many long words,” I say, stifling another yawn behind my hand.
“If you get me a book on botany,” Lucas says, “I’ll get you a lexicon.”
“Are you trying to say that I’d be better politics than whatever princess you were supposed to be courting?”
He clears his throat. “That’s precisely what I am saying, Miss Flanders.”
“Plus, my bride-price will be more affordable, I suppose.”
“That’s on page five,” Lucas agrees. “My father appreciated that point especially.”
“When I asked Hester’s mother to marry me ,” Dad says mildly, looking at the ceiling, “ I told her I loved her.”
Lucas flushes. “ That is pages six through twelve.”
“Oh, read that part.” Mum leans forward. “I’d like to hear.”
“Your ideas are nice enough,” Dad says. He shifts onto an elbow, and Mum props him up with a cushion. “What I want to know is if you’ve both prepared for the difficult parts of life. Not just the difficulties of being political figures—my girl, you will have to learn to bite your tongue far more often if you want to be a credit to a noble husband—”
“I like her tongue,” Lucas says.
“Is that page six?” Mum winks.
“ Mum! ” I hide my burning face in my hands.
Dad shakes his head at the three of us. “I mean the real hard things,” he says quietly. “When you have to bury a child, or many? When your spouse is lying on a bed and may never get up again? Will you still be happy with your choice?”
“I’d take care of Lucas,” I say softly.
Dad looks at me, gently probing. “But would you let him care for you?”
Lucas reaches down and lays his hand on my shoulder. After a moment, I cover it with my own and turn my face up to his. Any questions or fears I had dissolve when I meet his eyes.
“Perhaps,” I say, heart racing, “you would like to help me with the chores. I’m sure you’d enjoy meeting Prince Inglebert.”
“I thought I was—oh, you mean the one who bit you?” Lucas asks.
“He hasn’t bitten me in years.”
“He bit me just last week,” Mum says.
“His monthly quota should be fulfilled, then. Come.” I uncurl myself from my seat on the floor, wincing at the numbness in my left toes. Lucas offers a hand to pull me up.
Did he really just propose marriage, or did I fall asleep after the last week of fretful nights? Is this all a very odd dream?
If it is, at least it’s a nice dream, and I don’t want to wake up. I could get used to the way his fingers feel in mine.
Dad smiles at me when we walk to the door to re-garb ourselves in cloak and overcoat. I know he’s given me his blessing to say yes if I choose.
The rain has stopped, and wide sunbeams push through gaps in the clouds. Raindrops still cling to the long blades of grass along the path to the hog pasture, and they sparkle in the light.
“Well,” I say, clasping my hands in front of my skirt, “here are the hogs.”
Lucas leans against the low stone wall. “They look very nice.”
I stand next to him. We stare at the herd of snuffling creatures.
“I didn’t do a very good job of proposing, I’m afraid.” Lucas looks at me ruefully. “I’m not a romantic man, Hester.”
“ Did you ever propose? Or just read a treatise on revenue augmentation, whatever that means?”
Lucas chuckles and gazes out over the field of rooting hogs. “I mostly wrote that for my father. He’s always meant for me to use my marriage for the country’s sake.” Hungry Murt shuffles over to us and grunts at Lucas. “But I thought it might sway your parents, too, if they’re anything as stubborn as their daughter. ”
“Stubborn! Whatever could you mean?” I flutter my lashes, probably the picture of innocence.
“I mean that if I came here and said, I’d like to help you move to the capital, they’d never accept it. But if they think it’s a sort of bargain, or a dowry …” He trails off and shrugs a shoulder. “It was the best I could come up with.”
I swallow. “Very kind of you, Your Highness.” I bite my lower lip and keep my eyes trained over the pasture. “And that’s all, then?”
Lucas coughs. “Just one more thing. I think I fell in love with you at the Commoners Ball, when you asked if you could try the gasolier—or it may have been the moment you told me your parents could not afford a first name.”
I scoff. “Preposterous. You thought I was some sort of scoundrel trying to seduce Hugh.”
“Perhaps I love you because you’re a scoundrel.” I hear the smile in his voice. My heart flutters.
“ I’m not the one who’s half-Folk.” I sniff. “Do you really love me?”
“I really love you, Miss Hester Flanders.” He shifts so he’s facing me, leaning a hip against the pasture wall. His hands slip around mine. “Let me ask you again, properly: will you marry me?”
I look at our hands. “I’m not sure I’d be a very good princess. I’d demand cheese with every meal—or at least once per day—and I would insist on a herd of woolly hogs being housed in the stables—and I would make you read penny dreadfuls every night before bed—and I am very bad at dancing.”
“I agree to your terms,” Lucas says promptly, but I frown.
“No terms, Lucas! If you—if you really want—I mean—”
The breeze ruffles his hair. A lone bird chirrups from the stone fence. “No terms, and no bargains between us,” he agrees. “A heart freely given and freely received.”
I bite my lip, which makes Lucas look at my mouth, which makes me flush all the way to my toes.
“Well, Hester?” he asks. His hands are very gentle, and I do not resist as he tugs me toward him until we’re standing so close that I have to tilt my head to look into his warm eyes.
“Of course I want to marry you. No one else has ever made me feel so—so safe, and so warm, and so understood, and I think I’m very much in love with you! Now help me water these hogs!”
I am afraid the hogs have to wait longer for their water, for Lucas does not obey my summons immediately; somehow, his hands are cupping my cheeks, and his lips are alternating between kisses and whispered endearments, and it is very enjoyable for a few minutes.
Until I yelp, “Prince Inglebert! Would you stop?”
Lucas pulls back, confusion on his face. I twist away from the wall we were leaning against and swat Prince Inglebert—the hog—on the snout. He’s got a mouthful of red calico, and I think a chunk of my flesh, too.
“May I make a request, dearest?” Lucas murmurs.
“Yes?” I rub my sore thigh.
“Let’s not take that particular hog with us.”