Blythe rejoined his siblings more confused than his most confused ever state. He was so deep in a muddle that he barely noticed the surprisingly small pile of cakes that still needed to be sold.
“Where on earth have you been?” Molly demanded, red-faced and scowling. “We were overwhelmed with customers for an eternity and could’ve used your help.”
Blythe, a bit miffed for being dragged out of his confusion (which had just begun to feel oddly nice), sighed as he took his place. “An eternity? And you accuse me of exaggerating? Don’t worry. I’m alive. I’m back. I’m ready to suffer more blows to my pride.”
“Good. Look after the cakes. It’s my turn to disappear for a bit. By the way, I don’t know where you’ve been or what you’ve been up to, but you’re so red, I’m inclined to call the doctor.”
Thank goodness she didn’t seem to put much weight on what she’d just said because she claimed her shawl, threw it around her shoulders, and vanished. Blythe, for his part, had let out a startled little gurgle and instantly felt his face with a hand.
“Red?” he spluttered. “What do you mean, red?”
“She probably meant red like my face—like blood plague red,” Bertie said morosely.
Blythe looked at him, suddenly realizing that he had a brother. Sure enough, poor Bertie’s face had turned a sickly shade of red. His hair, perfectly combed earlier, was also unkempt, a sure sign that he’d spent the greater part of the past hour being fawned over by a gaggle of grandmothers who either adored him or wished to clean their hands but didn’t have the proper means to do it. As for his face, Bertie clearly had endured a great deal of pride-battering from younger admirers who saw him in public wearing the most ridiculous ensemble that could be worn at an outdoor market. His posture certainly didn’t help; he stood frozen on the same spot where Blythe had left him, his shoulders tightly drawn up, his head bowed, his hands deeply shoved inside his pockets.
“I must admit I feel quite sorry for you,” Blythe said. “If it’ll help, I can always tell everyone that you’re a flatulent old troll at night. That should keep your endless armies of admirers at bay, and I wouldn’t even be stretching the truth.”
“The frightening thing is that some of them might find a flatulent old troll either a challenge or a charming eccentric.” Bertie paused, frowning, clarity suddenly dawning in his eyes. He turned to Blythe, now looking outraged. “Wait a minute—a flatulent old troll, you say?”
A woman with about five hundred children in tow appeared, saving Blythe from a proper answer. Offering his most winning smile, he stepped forward and greeted their customer while keeping an eye on her children, who swarmed the table and looked as though they were ready to run off with what they could manage to carry in their small, bony arms. Immediately after her came Mr. Ruffle, the supreme master of early morning gossip terror. He’d instantly recognized Blythe—inappropriately fashionable clothes notwithstanding—and decided to chat him up. Again. As though Blythe hadn’t seen him several hours earlier in his usual hellish bread route.
“It’s been some time, hasn’t it, my boy?” Mr. Ruffle all but bellowed in Blythe’s face.
“Yes,” Blythe said, drawing the word out as his brain locked itself in a panic at the thought that he’d nowhere to run and hide. “That would be about six hours ago, I think.”
“Yes, yes, an eternity!” Mr. Ruffle paused to survey the cakes and then thought better of it. Looking up at Blythe again, his toothless mouth curving into a grin, he asked, “Have you heard about that prince in the north somewhere and his tallow-stained shirt and that long-nosed princess and a pack of trolls—” Mr. Ruffle had gotten so excited that his words simply flew out of him, and he was forced to stop in order to breathe.
“Are you sure you’re not interested in a cake, sir?” Blythe asked, a touch desperate. Or at least a touch more desperate now than before.
The old man, still gasping for air, shook his head and waved his hand impatiently.
“No, no, I’m fine,” he said after a moment, his voice tight. “It’s just—three ells long, my boy!”
“What?”
“Three ells long! That’s how long this princess’s nose is! Can you imagine it?”
“No, sir,” Blythe said, grimacing, and he followed that with a muttered, “And I really don’t want to if I want to keep my appetite.”
“Trolls—bah! Always a damned nuisance with royalty!” Mr. Ruffle sniffed when he paused. “Of course, they’re not that much better when it comes to their dealings with the peasantry or the gentry. Oh, what am I saying? Trolls are monstrous things that are a plague to society.”
“Don’t you agree, though, that a nice cake like this would ease the effects of trolls on your blood pressure, sir?” Blythe took up one and held it aloft, hoping it looked so enticing that everyone within a hundred feet would fight each other to the death over it. “My sister’s baking’s known to cure constipation, so it’s not much of a leap to expect it to help your health in other ways.”
“Eh? I don’t need anything for constipation. I’ve been regular since my first day on this earth.”
Blythe set the cake down and raised a hand, silencing the old man. “Will you excuse me for a moment, sir?” When Mr. Ruffle nodded, he sidled up to Bertie and gave him a nudge with his elbow. “Bertie,” he whispered, “can you get rid of him?”
Bertie just gave him a narrowed sidelong glance. “I find this to be sweet justice after you called me a flatulent old troll. Go back to your spot, imp, and sell some cakes.”
Apparently such was the reward one got for speaking the truth about one’s sibling’s gastric condition, but Blythe knew a losing battle when he saw it, and with a sinking heart, he went back to subject himself to more nonsensical tattling from Mr. Ruffle.
By the time Mr. Ruffle left, not a single cake was sold, but Blythe could boast an intricate knowledge about the workings of magical northern kingdoms, not the least of which being a pretty gruesome account of a troll getting his comeuppance through the well-aimed horns of a big billygoat. Did trolls populate much of the north? Blythe didn’t know, but all the same, if Mr. Ruffle’s wild stories were all true, he certainly wouldn’t set foot outside England. No proper Englishman would want to soil his shoes on foreign ground, anyway.
Molly returned from her break, and Bertie was let go for the time being. Judging from the child-like pleasure that lit up his face, it was safe to guess that he was set to spend that time in the company of a delightful pint. Blythe fervently hoped that it wouldn’t be more than that; nothing battered wrecked pride more than to be seen half-dragging one’s drunk brother home while inappropriately fashionably dressed.
“Since it’s quiet at the moment, I’m going to buy some carrots and potatoes from Mrs. Luck’s stall. She always has the freshest vegetables—and they last for a remarkably long time,” Molly said after she and Blythe stood and watched passersby in bored silence.
“What if I need to go?” Blythe demanded. “I can’t just stand here and pretend everything’s well in the world while pissing away.”
“You’ll have to cross your legs, Blythe. Now behave, or I won’t buy you your favorite jam.”
“Well—can’t we have something else besides potatoes and carrots?”
“Those keep well, dear. You know I always buy enough for a week, and heaven knows, green things rot sooner than you’d like them to.”
Blythe sighed. Yes, that much was true, judging from those horrific moments in the distant past when he was ordered to get some green vegetables from a container and instead found a bubbling, soggy mass that seemed to speak to him in Satan’s voice. He’d no idea how long those vegetables had stayed in their containers, but he suspected that Molly had simply forgotten they existed, allowing them to melt or whatever it was green vegetables did when neglected for too long a time.
The downside to his experience, of course, was to be stuck with potatoes and carrots that made up half of their meals, the second half divided between meat and bread, with bread taking up about two-thirds of that portion. Surely, he thought, there must be a vegetable out there that would last a full week and that would enhance their dining experience even if only by a little bit.
“Can we then get different kinds of potatoes? Or carrots in different shades of orange? Do they come in yellow or violet?”
Molly just laughed and tousled his hair before she sailed out without answering him. Perhaps she was stumped, Blythe thought, sighing. Then he shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. There wasn’t much he could do, anyway, with Molly being the one who knew the intricacies of cooking and recipes and vegetables she needed to cobble a decent meal together with. For his part, Blythe figured that having multi-colored carrots and potatoes would be a step up in his meal experience.
The lull continued for a few more minutes, and Blythe had to kick off his shoes because they were simply destroying his feet. At least there was some thick grass underfoot that helped ease the soreness, and he paced back and forth like a caged but ultimately happy animal, sighing in relief at the feel of a soft cushion under him.
For better or for worse, an old man shuffled up to the table, forcing Blythe to take his place once more. At the very least, though, he felt a great deal more relaxed, and he decided that he could help this customer with more sincere pleasure. The stranger looked as though he’d just emerged from a longish trip through the devil’s bowels. He was gray-skinned and haggard, his entire person nothing more than leathery skin hanging loosely off sharp bones. His eyes matched his unfortunate complexion, his eyeballs barely kept in their sockets, and Blythe wondered if he should hold both of his hands up to catch them should they pop out without warning. Then again, he quickly realized, the very notion of holding someone’s eyeballs was both surreal and revolting, and he forced it out of his mind.
The stranger eyed him keenly at first, his long, dirty, and unkempt hair making him look more like a startled troll (those damned trolls again!) than an old man down on his luck.
“Those cakes look like a real delight,” the stranger said after another moment of uncomfortable silence from Blythe’s end. His voice cracked as though he hadn’t spoken in ages.
“They are, yes,” Blythe said. “If you’re constipated, they’re miraculous.”
“I assure you that I’m not, but I’d like to enjoy one.” The old man paused and glanced around him warily. Then he leaned closer and whispered, “Will you sell one to me for five magic beans?”
The most overpowering cloud of rot assailed Blythe’s nostrils, nearly making him faint on the spot. If he thought before that nothing on earth could beat Bertie’s reeking blasts, he now stood immensely corrected. It took every ounce of strength and willpower for him to keep the contents of his stomach from surging upward as he steadied himself.
“What on earth are magic beans?” he grunted, dreading the next wave, which was inevitable when engaged in conversation with the stranger.
“Exactly what I said. They’re beans, and they’re magical.” The old man blinked, looking puzzled. “I don’t see how I can be any clearer than that.”
“Speaking of clear, I’d love my air to be just that,” Blythe murmured, teetering. He quickly rallied all the same. “I can’t accept anything but money, sir, or my sister will slaughter me. Besides, I don’t think those are really magic beans.”
The stranger didn’t appear fazed. “My boy, I guarantee their nature. Aren’t you curious to see what awaits you in the clouds?”
Blythe shrugged. “Clouds do nothing but piss on us at the worst times. Why would I want to see what they hide?”
“What about adventures beyond your wildest dreams? Wealth? Gold?”
“That sounds ridiculous. The only adventure up there,” Blythe retorted as he pointed at the sky, “is God drinking too many pints and ruining our day as a result.”
The old man blinked again. Watching his paper-thin eyelids attempt to move over his eyeballs was unnervingly fascinating. “I don’t think that’s the case.”
“It’s all rubbish,” Blythe replied with a tired sigh. What on earth was it with old men and wild stories? And why did he draw so many of them to himself like so many flies on a steaming pile of horse droppings? “Besides, I still don’t see the connection between magic beans and clouds.”
“If you plant these in your garden, my boy, they’ll grow overnight and shoot straight into the sky.”
It was Blythe’s turn to blink in confusion. “That’s a damned tall plant.”
“A beanstalk, not just any plant, but yes—it’s a wonderfully tall one, with great surprises waiting at the top for the enterprising boy who isn’t afraid of risks and challenges.” The stranger paused and grinned. “What say you, then? Have you the pluck? The courage?”
“I do, but I also have a sister who’ll skin me alive if she were to find out I exchanged one of her cakes for magic beans.”
The old man was insistent. “Have you the desire to change your path in life?”
Blythe coughed, his eyes watering. Once he calmed, he stammered, “I don’t have the air to help me think clearly. I also need a very important body part that’s in danger of being cut off by a very sensitive older sister.”
“And you’ll simply allow your destiny to walk away from you? Aren’t you tired of being poor and wishing for something much better than this? Why don’t you think about what’s contained in that dark and cold cottage you call your home, Master Blythe?”
“How’d you know my name?”
The old man merely grinned, shrugging. “Think of your dissatisfaction right now, young man. Where would you like to be instead? How would you like your life to be—comfortable? Everyone deserves to be comfortable and safe and well-fed, aren’t I right? You’ve always been poor—why would you like to remain so indefinitely?”
Blythe hesitated as he thought of his life and, yes, his growing dissatisfaction toward the day-to-day struggles he and his siblings had to put up with. He couldn’t see how selling bread and cake would change the Midwinter fortune for the better beyond food and a rare indulgence in clothing. There had to be something better out there, but luck didn’t favor them despite their sacrifices and hard work.
As resentment swirled, something stopped him from doing anything more. From somewhere in the depths of his mind, he heard a quiet voice prod him as well.
Is that all you can see, dearest?
His conscience flared alive at the echoes of his mother’s voice, and guilt overwhelmed him. He felt himself gently steered away from temptation and the lure of great adventures and treasure in the clouds. “I’m perfectly fine where I am right now,” he said at length, dispirited.
“Is that your final answer, my boy?”
“It is, yes. Thank you for your offer, though.”
The stranger stepped back, eyeing Blythe strangely again. But he bowed and said, “Then I thank you for your time, Master Blythe. May good fortune favor you as well as you deserve.”
Before Blythe could think of something to say in answer, the old man vanished. Literally.
“Dear little brother, I appreciate your efforts at keeping flies from ruining my cakes. But there’s no need to take drastic measures for that. Close your mouth, please. You’re drooling all over your best waistcoat and unnerving people,” Molly said, her voice cutting through the thick fog that used to be Blythe’s brain.
* * * *
The Midwinter cottage shook with Molly’s jubilant cries and off-key-singing that evening. Bertie was half-drunk, and Blythe busied himself with a minor architectural adjustment to their humble home. He’d dragged a stool—the sturdiest they had, that is, which really wasn’t saying much—over to the space between his bed and Bertie’s, and he stood on it, closely inspecting the wall with a thoughtful frown.
“All cakes but one!” Molly kept chanting. “We sold all cakes but one!” She danced around the table, waving a ladle above her head. Food cooked in the hearth, filling the cottage with familiar scents of, yes, stew. For all the profits they’d earned that day, none apparently went to an upgrading of their supper, though Blythe was inclined to suspect that it was because Molly wanted to scrimp and save as much as she could.
“Damned brilliant, Molly,” Bertie gurgled from his chair. “Keep the magic going, whatever the devil that means.”
Another benefit to selling at the market was the fact that Bertie had easy access to his favorite drink, and he’d proven to be quite good at ingratiating himself to Molly, who’d spared him some money for some celebratory ale. On top of all that, they’d also taken home a good deal of unsold food items—mostly green vegetables in danger of rotting as well as purple-skinned potatoes from a farmer admirer of Molly’s, who’d insisted on giving them the extras without paying. Those wilting green vegetables went directly into the stew, and it was going to be the only time when they’d be enjoyed. At least the purple-skinned potatoes could be stretched out some more, and Blythe looked forward to seeing unpeeled purple things in his soup or stew in the coming days.
“We’ll continue to share space with Mrs. Pugsley again next Saturday, and I’ll bake more cakes—maybe about seven more, now that all of Upchurch knows they exist. In the meantime, Blythe, you’ll continue your bread-selling, and you’ll remind everyone about the cakes maybe twice a week. Be subtle about it, though, and don’t make it look as though we’re desperate for a sale.”
And so on and so forth. Molly continued to chatter on and on about baking and especially about a new acquaintance she’d made during her break that day—a professional baker, it seemed, who owned her own bakery in town.
“I crossed paths with her while looking at the flower stalls during my break. In fact, she was the one who looked for me, and she was told that she could find me at the market.”
“That sounds a bit unnerving, Molly, someone shadowing you like that,” Bertie slurred.
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous. She’s very harmless and quite a brilliant woman. Being a professional, she said that she keeps up with everyone else in the trade, and I’m sure someone had said something about our cakes last Saturday, and that was how she found out about me.” Molly gasped for air and giggled, tapping her chest.
The woman had expressed interest in Molly’s blossoming career and had even gone so far as to advise her.
“I’d like to think that Mrs. Brainswell will agree to be my mentor. She assured me that she’ll be visiting our table on market day to watch our progress and offer more advice on how to be better,” Molly said, sounding dreamy and breathless. “I can’t believe my luck today. I hope it continues.” And so she continued to talk about castles in the sky, while Bertie slurred his congratulations before stumbling outside to relieve himself.
In the meantime, Blythe barely took note of everything, being too busy hammering one corner of an old blanket on the wall and securing the opposite corner to his father’s old coat rack. When he was done, he stood back to admire his handiwork: a makeshift wall separating his bed from his brother’s, ensuring that Bertie’s obnoxious blasts and their murderous effects would be limited to the offender’s immediate space and no one else’s.