Edrik was already there when Blythe arrived at the bridge, making him wonder how long the other boy had been waiting. Since Molly had dismissed Blythe earlier than planned, he expected to be the one waiting.
“I wasn’t waiting too long—maybe ten minutes,” Edrik said. “I didn’t want to go home and then go out again, so I told Mr. Woodham to go on without me, which took a bit of doing, I’m afraid.”
“Your tutor, you mean?” When Edrik nodded, Blythe suppressed a grin. “I’m guessing he suspected that you were planning to undermine all that hard work he’s put into your gentlemanly development.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it. Papa meant well when he hired Mr. Woodham, but at that point, the damage has already been done, and I was on my way to turning out just like my brother and sisters.” Edrik was about to lead Blythe away when he stopped all of a sudden. “No, wait. I forgot.”
He moved off to the side of the bridge and stooped to pick up a small canvas bag. Blythe didn’t even notice its presence, considering where his mind lay, and he mentally laughed at himself for being such a dolt in the realm of boys’ romance. When Edrik returned, he was smiling sheepishly.
“I went to Mrs. Brainswell’s bakery and bought you something sweet. I hope it’s not too much of an imposition.”
Blythe took the bag and saw that it contained a small pastry box. He looked up at Edrik, unable to come up with something to say. “You did, didn’t you?” He paused, hesitating, and then let out a soft breath. “Consider us even with this, then.” He raised himself up on his toes to kiss Edrik on the cheek. “There. And thank you.”
Edrik’s grin looked comical, and Blythe guessed that the other boy was simply caught off-guard, just as Blythe was earlier.
“I was afraid that I made a terrible choice, going to that bakery for something to give you, but I prefer to look at it as a way of subverting her will.” Edrik sniggered.
“What would she do if she were to discover that one of her exclusive offerings was being enjoyed by the person she’d practically chased out of her business?”
“A wicked part of me wishes that you stole whatever it is you have now if you really want to subvert her, but I wouldn’t want anyone to do that, especially for me.”
“I’m not as big a rebel as I think I am.”
Blythe laughed. “I’m happy with what you are now, really.”
He took Edrik’s hand and led him away in the direction of the shady and quiet footpath that ran parallel to the river.
The two walked along the path, taking a random direction. Blythe didn’t care a jot, having been given the rest of the afternoon to himself. They could wander off to the next county and beyond, and he’d be perfectly fine with it. He was too enthralled and in quite a bit of shock still, and he kept stealing glances at Edrik as a way of reassuring himself that the moment was truly real.
“What’s the matter?” Edrik piped up after another moment’s silence. He looked at Blythe, amused. “Looking for awful flaws? I’m afraid I’m born plain. I can’t even boast anything unique or odd anywhere.”
Blythe laughed, blushing. “I never cared about that. I was just wondering—uh—”
Edrik nodded and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Wondering why I like you, you mean?”
“I know, I know. I shouldn’t worry about that, and I keep bothering you with it, but I can’t help it.”
“Do you like me?”
Blythe’s embarrassment spiraled as he nodded, meeting Edrik’s steady and earnest gaze. “I do, yes.”
“Can you explain why? Like you said, we’re not equals in situation. I’m nowhere near the handsomest boy in Upchurch.”
Blythe had to laugh, and he shrugged. “I suppose you got me there,” he said, dropping his gaze to his shoes and feeling the warmth and gentle pressure of Edrik’s hand in his more keenly. “I can’t explain attraction. It’s such a strange thing, and I’ve never experienced anything like this before.”
“You’ve never liked anyone until now? Really?” When Blythe shook his head, Edrik heaved a sigh of relief. “I must be the luckiest person alive, then.”
What a flatterer, Blythe thought, grinning. “What about you?” Blythe paused, making a face at himself. “Oh, lord, what am I saying? Of course I’m not your first. I’m sure there’ve been others before.”
“Others!” Edrik echoed before dissolving into light, bubbly laughter. “I’m only seventeen, Blythe. I’m really not as well-traveled as you think. I never even went to school. Mr. Woodham is it for me. I’ve been to assemblies and ballrooms and picnics, but I’ve no experience in steady, close quarters with the same group of boys year in and year out.”
Blythe stared at him. “No? Really? But—”
“My upbringing’s what most would call unconventional or even scandalous. Papa raised everyone himself, with Mama dying in childbirth with me.” Edrik gave Blythe’s hand another gentle squeeze. “Mama was just as much an artist as Papa, though, and she’d made him swear to bring everyone up as he—as someone with keener sensibilities than most others—saw fit, not constrained by petty rules. My brother and sisters had governesses through the years, but by and large, we were all taught quite radical views, which we’ve all embraced.”
“What, their governesses agreed to that?”
“Not all the time. A couple resigned from their posts because my sisters were too ‘godless’ in their opinion, but Papa eventually found one who had a streak of the rebel in her.” Edrik smiled wistfully as he stared ahead. “I think I only spent a year being taught by Miss Spratt before she passed on. Lord, I miss her.”
Blythe shrugged. “You still enjoy the services of a tutor. Mr. Woodham might be just as much a snot as your cousins, but he seems to be a good fellow.”
Edrik chuckled. “Bless you for the reminder. I hope he doesn’t get wind of this conversation.”
“Ha! I doubt if he’d want to readily converse with me. Anyway, I interrupted you.”
“Well, Papa expected us to grow up and determine our own paths, and he’d even said that if we chose to reject his world of liberal philosophies, he’d welcome it. I suppose you should know that Papa was groomed to enter the church, but he was obviously the radical in his family. We’re still amazed that he wasn’t cut off for pursuing art, of all things. I mean, you know—sensuality and excess and everything the church preaches against.” Edrik glanced at the sky and squinted at the brilliance above them. “Grandpapa wasn’t pleased with his choice of wives since Mama was just as bad as Papa was, but he couldn’t do anything about it. In the end, he’d said that it wasn’t his place to dictate a grown man’s life, and we knew deep down he loved Papa and couldn’t bring himself to make him unhappy.”
“That’s nice,” Blythe said, smiling. “My grandparents were both gone even before I was born, so I never knew them.”
“I’m sure they’d be proud of you.”
They fell silent for a moment, with Blythe absorbing what he’d heard so far. Thank God no one else was strolling along the same footpath and interrupting their private time, or he’d surely be seen looking rather stupid and slack-jawed as his brain worked furiously.
“I’m rather surprised to see Mr. Woodham staying put,” he said at length.
“I’ll admit I am, too,” Edrik replied with a quiet laugh. “Lord, he’s made it quite plain, though, that my—uh—lack of discipline or direction galls him since he can’t seem to ‘cure’ me of those.”
“Do your sisters shock him, too?” Blythe sure hoped so.
“You’ve no idea! The way he looks at Edith, Corliss, and Guendolen—one would think that he’d been sentenced to an eternity in the company of witches. My sisters know, of course, and they take too much delight in shocking him even more.”
Blythe laughed along, falling silent for a moment and enjoying the slow, idle walk. “I’d like to get to know your family,” he said, the self-consciousness returning, though not in that awful, crippling way.
“You will. Cranston and Edith have been asking about you, in fact. ‘So when will you be inviting your new friend to dine with us?’” Edrik changed his voice to mimic his sister’s. “I told them to wait, seeing as how everything depends on whether or not you accept me.”
“That’s quite a bit of pressure to put on me,” Blythe said, coloring again. “Considering how little we know about each other and all…”
“There’s no pressure as far as time goes. I like you enough to want to spend as many hours as I can in your company, getting to know you better.”
Blythe stopped and looked at him, thrilled and yet mystified. “That’s what we’re doing right now. I know, I’m telling you what’s obvious, but I feel a bit compelled to say it. It’s my way of getting used to this sort of thing, I suppose.”
“I’m sorry if I shocked you.”
“No, no—I think—I really should stop fretting too much over this.”
Edrik grinned. “You’ve no idea how relieved I am.” He nodded at the bag in Blythe’s hand. “Now are you going to share that or keep it to yourself? I’ve never talked this much in anyone’s company other than my family—no, not even my cousins. And I’m hungry now for some sponge pudding.”
Blythe had to ponder that for a moment, much to Edrik’s delight. At length he agreed to share, though he demanded the right to dictate portions, which Edrik readily accepted—with much theatrical head-shaking and sighing.
They claimed a spot on the riverbank, and there they spent the rest of their time together watching the quiet flow of the water and the occasional white swans that took advantage of the currents. Blythe could barely remember much else about Mrs. Brainswell’s sponge pudding (with treacle!) other than it was good. He thought about giving Molly a portion of it to sample, so she could determine its ingredients, but he enjoyed Edrik’s company so much that he decided against it in the end, having fed the other boy half of the small cake. The sacrifice was well worth it. Edrik demonstrated his gratitude with a long, deep kiss, from which Blythe emerged later sporting blades of grass in his hair and clothes.
* * * *
Bertie had gone off to enjoy the rest of his day with friends and some excellent ale, which meant that Molly was the only around to hear about Jack Wicket’s remarkable sale.
“He’s such an idiot! I can’t believe he’d actually make good his threat of exchanging his cow for magic beans!”
Blythe rambled on and on as he swept the floor after helping Molly wash the dishes. Molly, in the meantime, didn’t seem to have much to say about that. All Blythe got out of her was a quiet “Mm-hmm” or “Indeed” before falling silent as she prepared vegetables for that evening’s supper. Blythe just shrugged it off. Molly was understandably tired, and besides, she’d always thought of Jack as a lazy good-for-nothing. What Blythe was telling her added nothing to what she already knew about the boy’s character.
“I’ll have to go find him tomorrow and kick him. I only hope he’s still alive.” Blythe grimaced. “I can’t imagine what his mama would do to him after finding out what happened today.” He wouldn’t be surprised if she damned well flayed her son alive and buried him in salt.
After he’d done sweeping, he went to the pail of water next to the table and washed his hands. “What would you like me to do next?” he asked, wiping himself dry.
“Hmm? Oh—here. Help me cut up vegetables. You know, the usual thing,” Molly replied, her manner distracted. She pointed at a bowl of carrots she’d just peeled. “Cut them into large pieces.”
Blythe returned to the table with a knife and a cutting board and was soon lost in his work, his mind wandering back to his time spent in Edrik’s company. When his imagination began to move toward the kiss, he squirmed a little as his face flared up. Stealing a few glances in Molly’s direction, he saw that his sister wasn’t paying him any attention, her mind obviously bent on her own thoughts as she peeled vegetables with a frown. Blythe also noticed that she looked rather pale.
“Is there something wrong?” he asked.
“Wrong? No, why?”
“Well—you’re very distracted. And you look a bit ill.”
Molly smiled wanly. “I’m just tired, dear. It’s been a very busy few weeks for me what with your bread sales and market day. And all the usual chores I have to do on top of those—I’m afraid I’m starting to feel the strain.”
Blythe nodded. “In that case, perhaps we can skip one day—like Sunday, for instance. I’m sure everyone can make do with one less day of dealing with me on their doorstep.”
Molly seemed to pale even more. “Absolutely not,” she replied a little too sharply. “No, I don’t care how tired I am. We’ll continue what we’ve been doing.”
“Are you sure? Since we’ve been doing quite well on market day, I thought—”
“You thought wrong, Blythe. Fatigue’s never an excuse. I refuse to use it as such.” Molly nodded at the bowl of freshly peeled vegetables. “Now go on and finish up, so I can start cooking. We’ve got a lot of baking still ahead of us.”
With a start, Blythe realized that she hadn’t even started on the following day’s bread loaves. “Huh,” he muttered as he cut up vegetables. Molly must really be exhausted to have lagged on that.
* * * *
Sunday morning bread sales were good—surprisingly so. Blythe’s baskets were emptied of their contents, and his little leather pouch hanging from his belt felt heavy. He couldn’t wait to tell Molly about his good luck because she needed it. She’d retired the previous evening looking drawn but grim, and Blythe worried about whether or not she was coming down with a fever.
He took a detour on his way home, redirecting his steps toward Jack’s home. Since it was close to midday, he knew it was safe to visit, with Mrs. Wicket already out and doing laundry work.
The cottage seemed to look back at him with the same baleful, sullen gaze that Jack always had. Blythe regarded the structure with a shake of his head, wondering if a house’s owners could somehow transfer their personalities and moods to their domiciles. By some form of domestic magic, perhaps? Maybe what had been said about fairies dwelling in houses was true. Invisible supernatural creatures or forces could very well work in such a way as to infuse a structure with its owners’ essences, whatever they might be.
Bythe walked up the weed-choked path to the door and knocked. The door looked as though it had been fashioned from long dead and decaying wood that Blythe forced himself to soften his knocking for fear of breaking the decrepit thing to pieces.
The door was eventually opened, and a stupidly grinning Jack stood there, blinking and swaying on his feet. “Well met, stranger!” he gurgled, waving a hand.
Blythe regarded him blankly. “You’re drunk, aren’t you?”
“Me? Nooooooo. Why should I be?”
“What happened?”
Jack shrugged, made a face, and gestured vaguely with his free hand since he still clung to the door. “Don’t know,” he said, belching. “I sold Sarah, you know.”
“Yes, Jack, I know.”
Jack blinked again, and he frowned. “You do? Who told you that?”
“I saw the man walk away with your cow when I went looking for you.”
Jack sagged against the door, now looking distraught, his face flushed. “Sarah—my poor cow! She’s never done anything to deserve being sold like that.” He raised a finger. “I made him swear, though, to treat my poor cow right. And he said he will. Where he comes from, he told me, cows are protected and cared for. Apparently milk gives magicians strength—or brain power—or something. Maybe good cheese.”
Blythe scowled at him. “For what price did you sell her?”
“Oh, come on, Mama, you’ve already asked me that! How many times do I have to tell you?”
“I’m not your mama, but that’s neither here nor there,” Blythe retorted. “I can’t believe you sold her for magic beans. What were you thinking?”
Jack pinched his eyes shut, grimacing, as he waved Blythe off like a pesky fly. “Oh, go away, Midwinter! I’ve had enough of that rubbish from my mother!”
Blythe snorted. “I don’t even know why she bothers nagging your ears off when you obviously lack any common sense to understand anything.”
Jack just mimicked Blythe, contorting his face while mouthing Blythe’s words.
“So what’re you going to do now that you’ve wasted an entire cow for so-called magic beans?”
“I threw the damned beans in the back, you boy-harpy! Mama practically tore my head off yesterday and ordered me to throw the beans out before she left for work this morning! Now go away! I don’t need you here, pretending to be my conscience!”
Jack stepped back and slammed the door in Blythe’s face before Blythe could get another word out.
“You made your own bed, Jack Wicket,” he said, shrugging, as he turned away to head home. Fortunately for him, the empty baskets and heavy leather coin pouch reminded him of better things, and he hurried back to his cottage, eager to share his account of excellent sales with his sister.