Another wave of customers swept over the table, much to Blythe’s relief. He saw the look on Molly’s face—an all-too-familiar look of curiosity that always preceded a torturous series of questions—after Edrik and his siblings left, three cakes richer and three cakes’ worth of money poorer. It certainly didn’t help that Mrs. Pugsley was also present all that time, and she’d witnessed everything as well. God only knew what gossipy things now crowded her head. He’d just started to knock his brain about for quick, evasive answers to possible questions when customers started arriving again.
“Oh!” he said, grinning and pointing emphatically at a warty old man who’d just hobbled up to the stall, eyeing the cakes with drool dangling from his sagging lip. “Look, Molly—more people! Isn’t that wonderful?”
He only had enough time to see Molly blink in surprise, a question about Edrik obviously hanging in the air, unasked, before he threw himself eagerly—or more like desperately—into the fray. For the next several moments, Blythe had completely turned himself into a remarkable seller—greeting, smiling, exchanging pleasantries, enticing and cajoling. It was all his sister could do to join him in convincing people to part with their money.
They were so busy for the next several moments that Blythe never realized Bertie had finally returned, bringing an armful of sweet things to complete their shared feast with Mrs. Pugsley.
“Lord, what happened?” Bertie asked, wide-eyed and flushed, after the last customer left.
“I think we’re well on our way to being rich,” Blythe said, dragging a sleeve across his forehead. His face and back felt damp even in the shade, but it was a pretty warm day, and hurrying back and forth to replenish their dwindling stock was now taking its toll.
Molly just fanned herself, laughing incredulously.
“We can’t build our hopes up too high,” she said. “Today’s been wonderful, but we don’t know how next Saturday will be.” She fixed Blythe with a steady gaze. “See what happens when you apply yourself? You were absolutely wonderful.” She paused, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “It was as if you were inspired.”
Blythe colored. “I’d like to rest a bit and eat some of Mrs. Pugsley’s food.”
The sly look remained. “Go ahead, love. You earned it.”
Blythe gratefully went back to the cart, where Molly had kept the food. There were less than ten cakes left, and it was midday. He was sure that they’d be closing their table much sooner than everyone else. He helped himself to some boiled meat and vegetables and settled himself in the cart, his back against one side, his legs stretched out before him.
Memories of his earlier encounter with Edrik Vicary filled his mind, and he reveled in those moments as he played them again and again. Blythe remained confused and shocked at being singled out by such a boy. The Vicary family was obviously wealthy, well-traveled, well-educated, and blessed with everything the Midwinter family could only dream of. Edrik could have anything he wanted—anything that he surely deserved, given his advantages.
And yet, for some perverse reason, he’d decided to make an acquaintance with a boy who had nothing in comparison. A nobody.
Blythe chewed his food slowly as he puzzled over human nature. In the end, though, he decided that reaching out to underprivileged people was just something that rich and rebellious artists were inclined to do. Edrik had said something about inspiration and the strange and unpredictable methods his siblings often used for their art. Perhaps getting to know Blythe was nothing more than another eccentric attempt at inspiration.
Blythe shrugged. “That makes sense,” he muttered as he picked his teeth with his tongue. “He did say that he wanted to write a book someday.”
The sound of hurried footsteps and grass crunching put an end to his thoughts. He turned and saw a sweat-drenched and red-faced Jack moving quickly past parked wagons and piles of baskets and other containers toward him.
“Good lord, you’re hard to find,” Jack said as he stumbled to a halt, panting and leaning a hand against the cart.
“What on earth’s wrong now?”
“Mama’s driving me mad. I had to get away from her till she calms down.”
Blythe sighed. “Is this about that tree-chopping thing that you still won’t do? What happened?”
“She’s been nagging me to sell the blasted cow—the only cow we have, for God’s sake!”
“And what’s wrong with that? I thought you told me that you don’t get much milk from her—or something. Like she’s barren or whatever you call that condition when cows don’t give much milk, if at all.”
Jack grimaced as he wiped his face with his sleeves—right arm and then the left. “I’m sure Sarah can give us enough milk to live on if either of us knew the proper way of raising a damned cow. I barely know how to milk her, let along understand how best to care for her. Thank God for old Mr. Kettle.”
Apparently he and his mother had been depending on the charitable services of an old dairy farmer who was also a longtime family friend. The man would come around twice a day, feed and milk the cow, and take three-quarters of the milk with him as compensation since he received nothing by way of money for his pains. From what Jack had heard, the farmer seemed to be thriving quite well with that extra milk, selling it or making cheese that he’d sell at the market, all in addition to his own modest offerings from his very modest farm.
Blythe blinked as he listened. “And why didn’t you ask him to teach you how to milk your own cow?”
“Are you joking? Why would I want to do that? I saw how hard it is. I’m not going to waste my time squeezing an animal’s udder twice a day and making my arms and fingers lock up from exhaustion, when I could be doing something else. He knows what he’s doing. I’m happy taking a quarter of the milk Sarah gives as long as I don’t have to take over the job.”
“All right, then. Why do you have a cow in the first place?”
“Mama thought it was a clever idea to own one last year. And we both have a soft spot for livestock. Especially orphaned cows.” Jack paused, shrugging. “Well, I didn’t agree with her plans, but I’ve always wanted a pet. Sarah would’ve been the closest I’ll come to owning a dog.”
Blythe couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “And I suppose you used to depend on your mama to learn how to milk a cow properly.”
“She does too much laundry-work for other people. She didn’t have time.”
“You had time, you oaf!”
“I wanted a pet, not a job!”
Blythe set his soiled dishes aside, shaking his head. “You’re hopeless,” he said, earning himself a grunt. “So what are you going to do now? You can’t avoid this forever. I mean—what else can you do besides run away from home?”
Jack scowled, shoving his hands in his pockets and kicking at the ground. “I’d run off with Sarah, but she’s a pretty lazy cow.”
“She learned from you, obviously.”
“Oh, shut up.” Jack sighed and looked around him. “I don’t want to sell that cow. And I don’t want to stay poor forever. I hate my life.”
Blythe scooted over to the rear of the cart, letting his legs dangle off the edge as he surveyed the busy and colorful scenes around them.
“Jack, I think it’s time for you to admit that waiting for good fortune to happen is the most useless thing you can do.” Blythe paused as he carefully chose his next words. “There’s no help for it. You have to find a job.”
The look of utter horror and disbelief on Jack’s face, Blythe had to admit, was priceless.
“And you call yourself my best friend?”
Blythe shrugged in answer, a bit baffled over his lecturing, considering his ambivalence toward his own situation. Perhaps it was nothing more than human nature to hammer someone with a sermon as though he were quite an expert on that subject—firm on his opinion and clear in his mind. Whatever the reason, what came out of his mouth felt natural and easy, though he couldn’t help but wonder if all he was doing was echo someone else’s—Molly’s, for instance—views on the matter.
Jack made a particularly nasty face at him. “I thought you hate selling bread loaves—called it girl’s work or something.”
“But I’m still doing it because it’s important to my family. You know, money and all that.”
“See, I don’t understand that. Why spend all those hours doing something you hate just to have money?”
“In my case, I’m too young to find work that’s better suited to me.” Blythe didn’t really believe that, but repeating balderdash that someone else came up with was a great deal easier than cudgeling his brain for his own reasoned argument. That said, it also felt rather hollow.
Clearly Jack didn’t believe this, given the emphatic eye-rolling he did in answer. Both boys fell silent for a moment, with Blythe stretching and yawning like a contented cat, while Jack sighed and looked bored as he sauntered about and watched the activity around them with restless disdain.
“When can you take a break? I want to see the new magic trees from Mr. Blackdash’s stall. I heard they’re rather demonic because they can talk, and you can teach them, too. What I’d give to own one and teach it to curse at the rest of the miserable world day in and day out.”
Blythe shook his head. “I’ll have to ask Molly.” He hopped off the cart and then paused, frowning. “Talking trees? That’s brilliant! I’d get one, teach it to frighten Bertie into keeping all his bad air inside in the middle of the night. Or maybe train the tree into convincing my brother to get out of bed and go outside to do his business, not poison me indoors.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m sure, and I’ve a feeling I really shouldn’t ask,” Jack replied, looking both dubious and alarmed.
It was a quiet moment, and Molly allowed Blythe to stretch his legs and enjoy some more free time in Jack’s company—though not without regarding an unfazed Jack with narrow-eyed disapproval.
* * * *
The talking trees were beyond amusing, and Blythe desperately wanted one within seconds of laying eyes on those remarkable things. Since he didn’t own a pet, a talking tree he could train would work as a good enough alternative. Mr. Blackdash, a very affable old man, was known in that corner of the county as a master of Nature Magic. His spells turned plants, water, earth, stone, and air into the most amazing creatures—all meant to entertain or, in the case of the talking trees and dancing rocks, be owned as novelty keepsakes. And as it was with the other magicians reduced to hawking their wares (and skills) at the market, Mr. Blackdash was also an excellent storyteller.
After marveling at his talking trees—which were, at that moment, saucy potted saplings—Blythe and Jack crept behind the fellow’s stall and engaged him in light conversation. It was a spontaneous, idle move on Blythe’s part, largely because he needed to forget about all the baffling thoughts he’d been having regarding work and wealth, now made even murkier by Edrik Vicary’s sudden presence in his life.
As for Jack Wicket, the boy agreed to Blythe’s unexpected proposal only because Jack was Jack, and he didn’t care to go back home to face an irate mother. So in between answering people’s questions about his remarkable trees, Mr. Blackdash entertained his young guests with stories of his ancestors’ adventures that were alternately successes and failures but ultimately were fuel for wisdom from which magician descendants would learn.
Blythe listened with child-like fascination, vaguely aware of how much he missed his parents, who used to entertain their children with incredible stories like Mr. Blackdash’s in a desperate hope of making the little ones forget their hunger. Blythe didn’t miss the illness and lack of food, but he missed his parents’ determination to better their lives.
“Is that all you see, dearest?” was his mother’s favorite line, and she often used it whenever Blythe wept in frustration over his terrible health or lack of toys. It was a gentle reminder of what they had—what little they had, that is—and how much luckier they were than other families out there. It was also her way of making him look beyond the obvious and the physical to something else that transcended his limited scope. Blythe found it easy to do that while his parents were alive and there to ground his perspective, but with them gone, he often felt lost and afloat, even with Molly and Bertie there to guide him. More often than not, he was sure that even his sister and brother were quite lost, themselves, despite their age and their experience.
By the time Blythe needed to rejoin his siblings, his earlier confusion seemed to have deepened. Reminders of his parents’ struggles only made him resentful of his family’s poverty, particularly during the earlier years. They were doing much better now, though, thanks to Molly’s work ethic and Bertie’s own modest success in his wood-carving work. That said, Blythe couldn’t ignore the fact that they could do much better—indeed, deserved much more than what they now had, considering all the sacrifices and hard work they’d been putting in with very little gains. And the fact that he still didn’t know how he could best contribute to their fortune only served to dig the knife further.
With a pang, Blythe thought about Edrik Vicary. The privilege and the resulting ease with which he and his siblings went about their days—surely, Blythe argued, it was easy for them to take on frivolous and idle pursuits like art because they didn’t have to slave away for every penny.
He glanced down and regarded his “finery” with growing embarrassment. What “finery” he owned looked more like cheap imitations of the real things. Not only were some of his best clothes ill-fitting, they were also made of poor material and were sewn with not much skill at best. He winced. What on earth kind of picture did he make to Edrik Vicary and his brother and sister?
“Like a pretentious little peasant who’s trying desperately to ape his betters,” he grumbled, scowling.
Beside him, Jack—apparently inspired by Mr. Blackdash’s stories, rambled on and on about all the things he planned to do with his wealth once it fell into his hands. Blythe half-listened to his friend and half indulged in self-pity. He wondered why good, honest people seemed to be doomed to struggle in poverty while the chosen few, either by hard work or accident of birth, enjoyed so much good fortune regardless of their character.
“Well—I suppose I should go home,” Jack said when they reached Molly’s table. A couple of people were there, talking to Bertie about the health benefits of their cakes. Molly, in the meantime, was sitting on the stool against the tree, enjoying some of Mrs. Pugsley’s food.
“So what’re you going to do?”
Jack shrugged, looking helpless. “I don’t know. I’m running out of reasons to delay things, and Mama’s getting more and more impatient with me.”
“Lord, anyone with the patience of a saint is sure to lose his mind when living with you,” Blythe said, earning himself a sharp jab in the arm.
“Shut up, Midwinter. No one understands where I’m coming from.”
“Oh, really? You’re pretty easy to read, Wicket. You just don’t want to work.”
Jack flailed, hissing. “Because my values are different from everyone else’s! Good God, how many times do I need to club your thick brain with that? And do I have to remind you of what you did, refusing the magic beans in a fair trade?”
So typical of Jack to aim low when cornered like that, but Blythe knew better than to take the bait. That said, he couldn’t help but mimic Jack’s facial expressions and wild gestures in a mocking theatrical show, and he was rewarded with a string of curses. “Good luck keeping Sarah,” he said at length after his laughter—which Jack didn’t share—died down. “Maybe your mama will allow you to buy a talking tree for a pet to compensate for your loss.”
Jack made a face. “A talking tree for a pet isn’t the same as a live animal, fool. I’d rather have both.” With a grunt and a doomed light in his eyes, Jack left for home, his stiff posture and bowed head indicating immense dread of the inevitable.
Blythe took his place at the cake table, feeling relief at the sight of only a few cakes remaining. He was about to celebrate Molly’s success when an unwanted reminder clouded the moment.
Molly’s new approach to packaging the cakes was likely instrumental in gaining attention. Unfortunately, what opportunities there were for higher profits were ultimately compromised because of Molly’s insistence at keeping the price the same.
Blythe sighed, deflated. “I hope that fellow with the magic beans would show up again,” he murmured, scanning the crowd eagerly. “I’m willing to make a trade.”
Unfortunately for him, the old man never appeared, and Blythe wanted to kick himself for not taking advantage of the strange offer when it was first made. “Fool,” he whispered, sighing dejectedly. “You deserve to stay poor.”