Chapter Eight
I wait a week. It’s less of a choice and more that it’s the earliest I can get out of the citadel, what with Card summoning me to the castle every day on top of my usual workload.
There’s always something else to plan for the wedding—now less than a month away—and he always wants my opinion.
There’s the decor, ranging from the flowers that he’s given me full control over, to the table decorations, napkins, ribbons, and abundance of formal tableware that I have no experience with; the handpicked guest list that includes royals I’ve never heard of who need specific seating arrangements (I don’t understand how Card expects me to be able to offer insight on that); the orchestra arrangement, what instruments they’ll play, where they’ll sit; and the food, which actually hasn’t been that frustrating to help out with.
I’m more than happy to sample different flavors of wedding cake, and there’s plenty left over for me to fill a basket the morning I plan to visit Will.
It sends a thrill down my spine to use “Will” and not “Willoh.”
Will.
I wake up extra early so I can get ready before Card can send one of the guards to my door, and even though I’m yawning the whole time, I’m out of the house before Mum comes down for breakfast. She doesn’t have a shift at the tearoom today, so she can take care of any customers, like she does all the other times I need to leave for the day.
I hope the short note I left for her suffices.
Although my curse doesn’t allow me to speak lies, there are no restrictions when it comes to writing, which I suppose makes sense after Will confirmed that the curse is wrapped around my voice box.
My hands don’t freeze up like my throat does, but whenever I’ve tested it out, gestured or written something untrue, it always gives me this nagging, burrowing guilt in my stomach.
So instead of making something up, I simply wrote that I’d be out all day and left it at that. No details.
Dawn is a haze of pastels and sleepy shuffles as the citadel wakes around me.
I pass the bakery, inhaling the smell of fresh bread from the dimly lit kitchen, and smile.
The bouquet I’d had Marcie deliver from the baker’s son had been a success.
I’d caught wind that Drew, the recipient of the bouquet, had stormed right into the bakery, flowers in hand, and gone on a rant, saying that he assumed they were already dating and that Rane was a complete idiot for thinking otherwise.
The rant had lasted until Rane interrupted him with a kiss. Gods, I love my job.
When I leave the citadel, I glance back at the formidable stone walls and armored guards posted at the northern gate. Hmm, I guess if I were Pigeon and I’d only ever lived in a small village surrounded by trees, that sight would be pretty intimidating.
I continue into the forest though nerves start to nibble at my insides.
I’ve been desperate to do this all week, but now that I’m on my way, I wonder if this is a good idea.
I know I can get past the wards, but would Will feel comfortable with me turning up without warning?
The barrier is there for a reason, and he said he liked privacy… .
In the clearing, the cottage is as beautiful as ever, and now that we’re in the middle of the morning, the wildflowers are open and swaying.
Bees and butterflies flit around my knees, and ahead, at the end of the pebbled path, the sun paints half the slatted roof tiles in light.
To the left of the ivy-framed front door, a fluffy white loaf snoozes on the bench in a patch of sunlight.
“Good morning, Gill,” I say to the cat, and scratch between his ears. He raises his head and blinks slowly. “Anyone home today?”
Gill unfurls his paws and has a long, arched-back stretch before deciding he’d like to see what I’m up to. He hops down off the bench and winds himself between my feet.
“Coming too?”
If Will is in a bad mood, having Gill here will hopefully make him less annoyed that I’ve come out of the blue.
I knock on the door and wait. There are a few seconds of silence, and when the door swings open, a woman around my mum’s age stands before me in a stained navy apron over a simple blouse and long skirt.
Her hair is the same warm brown as Will’s, cut short like a pixie, and her eyes—I hold in a gasp.
Perhaps they were hazel once too, but the irises have clouded over to a soft beige like a milky tea, and instead of trying to focus on me, she closes them altogether.
“Hello,” I squeak, gripping my basket in both hands. “I’m sorry to disturb you. I, um…”
“I don’t think we’ve met before,” the woman says, her voice resonant and reassuring. “I assume you’re the one my son let through the wards recently?”
“Yes…”
After all the anticipation, I’m unsure what to do next. This is Will’s mum and really, it should be his choice to let me in on this part of his life. I don’t want to overstep. Gill pads through the open door into the main room and curls up in front of the fireplace. It looks cozy. Inviting.
“Would you like to come in?” Will’s mum asks, pleasantly. “Willoh’s out at the moment, but he should be back shortly.”
“I don’t want to interrupt. I can come back another time if you’re busy.”
“Oh, you’re not interrupting at all,” the woman says, and gestures me in. “I’m Ruth; it’s nice to meet you. Please, come on in. I’ve just brewed a pot of tea.”
I guess I am a little tired after walking all the way here…
“Thank you.”
Ruth closes the door behind me, then I follow her over to the carved wooden table near the kitchen.
To the right, in the organized workshop where Will healed my injuries, the tools on the desk show she’s in the middle of measuring out a selection of dried yarrow—a common cure for bleeding and fevers.
After seeing her eyes, those wax dots on the jars start to make more sense.
“Make yourself comfortable, dear,” she says, and checks on a steaming kettle on the kitchen countertop. I place my basket on a chair and open the lid.
“I brought some flowers,” I tell her, bringing out the bouquet of delicate sweet peas and begonias I’d prepared last night. It’s a classic gift to say thank you for hospitality and to repay a favor—and besides that, it’s one of my favorite blends of pink. “And cake. A lot of cake.”
“How kind. It smells wonderful! I’ll fetch some plates.
If you like, you can choose a vase from over there,” Ruth says, and waves a hand toward a shelf in the workshop area.
I pick a thin glass one to support the fragile stems while Ruth pours out two cups of tea.
Over the strong scent of sweet peas, I catch hints of berry from the teapot.
An excellent pairing for all the different flavors of cake I brought.
“Have a seat,” Ruth says. “You know, Willoh didn’t tell me your name. He only said that he’d let someone new in.”
“Oh. I’m Felicity. You can call me Fliss. Either is fine.”
Ruth’s mouth tightens for the briefest of moments.
“Are those cinquefoils in your hair?”
“Yes,” I say, and Ruth smiles. Almost in relief.
“I thought so. I’m glad you’re here, Fliss.”
She means it. After a lifetime of noticing people’s tells, Ruth’s facial expressions are as open and honest as a daisy in summer. She feels like a midday sun, a warm breeze, a steady hand to hold. Much, much less prickly than my winter thistle of a mother.
I sit down opposite her, facing the front door, and hug the cup of fruit tea in my hands.
Gill, not wanting to be left out, leaps up onto the table and sniffs at the liquid.
I talk Ruth through the different flavors of cake on offer, that the chocolate in this slice was traded from Lucan, the citrus fruits in this one from Dreah, and even though I assumed her clouded irises to mean she’s fully blind, her eyes focus on each of them with delight—perhaps she’s partially sighted then.
I choose a slice of strawberry cream cake, made from homegrown ingredients in the castle greenhouses.
“I brought these as a thank-you to Will,” I say. “He’s helped me out twice recently.”
Ruth runs her clouded eyes over the flowers in my hair, my dyed-pink ends, and my floaty blouse. She smiles like she knows her son far too well. He did say his mother would kill him for abandoning a princess in need. Apparently I’m just the type.
“I asked him to make a delivery this morning. There’s an elderly woman who lives not too far away that I make preserved sugar cloves for,” she says.
I sit up straighter and find my words flow out.
I tell her how I use cloves in bouquets sometimes, and how I think it’s interesting that its red flower looks like a tiny claw but people like to order them for dignified, classy celebrations.
Ruth raises her eyebrows like she’s impressed and counters with her own medicinal knowledge.
I’d heard that the guards sometimes add it to tea before training, but she teaches me that it can help with digestion and muscle ache too.
There’s something about Ruth that makes me lower my guard.
She knows plants. I can talk to her about flowers and have her actually engage with me on the topic.
“One plant can have so many uses and interpretations,” she says. “We can always look to nature for inspiration, whether it be for a bouquet, a healing herb, or something as simple as a cup of tea.”
“Exactly!” I say, and surprise myself with how fast I react. “My mum says the same thing. She was the one who taught me how to focus my magic and enchant the bouquets for our shop.”
She pauses and sets down her cup.
“You wouldn’t happen to be Lilibeth’s daughter, would you?” Ruth asks, a lightness to her tone. Her milky eyes rest on mine.
“Yes. You know my mum?”
“I do.”
“She’s never mentioned you.” Well, of course not. She never tells me anything.
“We grew up together,” Ruth says.
“What?”