“Blythe Midwinter, you’re not going to sell a single thing hiding in the shadows and feeding the horse.”
“He’s hungry, Molly. I’m amazed you never even considered this poor animal’s welfare after all that trouble dragging your cakes to the market.”
Molly glared at him, hands on her hips. “He’s beyond hungry at this point. He’s well on his way to being fed to death. And we hired that horse! Don’t hurt him, for God’s sake!”
Blythe paused, glancing down at the basket of apples and carrots he held. He grimaced upon realizing that he’d lost count of the number of apples he’d fed the horse, who didn’t appear to mind much being spoiled rotten by a boy who was utterly terrified of making a new friend. His hands were also both slimy and sticky, and he clucked, turning to set the basket back on the cart. Walking away a little, he approached a small pail of water and washed his hands in it. Mrs. Pugsley had brought it with her, claiming that in her line of work, she needed to wash her hands as often as possible after handling money given to her by those with disgusting skin sores. Were those things catching? Blythe didn’t know, and he pondered as he stared at his wet hands. At length he shrugged. If his hands were to suddenly explode with puss-filled lesions or whatnot, he knew what to attribute those to.
“Blythe!” Molly called out. “That’s for Mrs. Pugsley!”
“I know. It’s too late now. Just try not to shake my hands or something.”
He sighed heavily as he walked back to the cake table, wiping his hands petulantly against his jacket when his sister turned around to greet customers. The great tree whose shelter Mrs. Pugsley had long claimed for her stall was a mercifully big one. From where he’d momentarily stood, Blythe could only see one end of each table and fleeting glimpses of his siblings and Mrs. Pugsley as they moved about. The horse and cart provided even more protection from the general public, and Blythe wished that he were ill enough to be allowed home or, at the very least, take refuge in the cart—all day if he could. Unfortunately he was healthy—or more like healthier than he’d ever been.
Unnecessary attention. Blythe sighed again at the thought. Why did he have to put up with such a thing? What was it about him that would rouse a complete stranger’s interest enough to ask for him at the market, of all places? Blythe frowned as he picked his way past the tree’s monstrous roots. Come to think of it, he’d found himself drawn to that boy as well, and he’d yet to make sense of his interest.
Being fifteen was proving to be a terrible idea. He stopped dead and blinked, the fog lifting as he gazed around him. He’d taken his assigned place in between Molly on his left and Bertie on his right without even realizing it. The cakes—now all nicely wrapped and drawing admiring attention from customers—sat in neat rows before him, with several spaces indicating sales. There appeared to be more people milling around their table, if not slowing down or pausing in their tracks to examine them first and then the cakes. Some asked Molly and Bertie questions about their now legendary qualities involving gastric distress.
Well, more people than he’d seen the last time they were there, that is.
“Oh, I never saw you last Saturday! What a pity!”
“Better late than never, as they say.”
“I’ve heard about your miraculous cakes, and I simply had to see them for myself. Do you have any that’s unwrapped?”
“Are we allowed to sample a piece, my dear?”
“Your cake didn’t last two hours in my mistress’s household. She now demands two.”
“I say—I haven’t moved my bowels in four days. I think I’ll need one of these. Are your cakes only available on market days? It’d be a blessing if I could ensure a regular week, not just the weekends.”
“Have a care, Miss Midwinter. My gouty old master declared that the woman who cures him of his digestive troubles will be his next wife after the current one dies. I suppose that means you.”
“My dear boy, does your brother have a sweetheart?”
Overwhelmed (and shocked) by what seemed to be an endless crowd at their table, Blythe momentarily forgot his nervousness and was now flittering about, assisting both his siblings in selling the cakes. He also hurried back and forth from the table to the cart, bringing more cakes to the front to fill in empty spots.
After several minutes of this, Blythe slowly settled into a busy but contented state, in which he discovered and savored the role of the youngest, invisible brother. Being the mute assistant was something he could do all day if he needed. Free from mortifying and patronizing attention from customers, he was able to fulfill his role with a good deal of speed and efficiency, which, in turn, kept the flow of customers to a nice, steady pace.
The energy of the moment fed his mind, and he went about his task with unnatural good humor considering his ridiculous attire. He even bandied jokes with both Molly and Bertie, the latter also showing much improvement in his attitude.
The crowd eventually thinned, and Blythe didn’t need to run back and forth. He stood at his usual spot, greeting or thanking people with a smile or an embarrassed shrug whenever someone complimented him for something.
“I do believe we’re done with the first wave,” Molly said, laughing and flushed and looking positively dazed. “Lord, I never expected this.”
“I’m shocked,” Bertie said, mirroring her look of stunned amazement. “Molly, I say we celebrate.”
“Not until after we’re home,” Molly replied. “But a nice little feast would be a welcome treat. Something to complement Mrs. Pugsley’s fare.”
Bertie’s shoulders sagged at the injunction against spirits while at work, but his humor remained intact. “I’ll see what I can find.”
Their table was now free of customers, allowing Bertie to flee. Molly, for her part, moved to join Mrs. Pugsley at her table, which still had a small group of people looking over her potions. Blythe didn’t know just how busy Mrs. Pugsley had been in the past hour, but he hoped she enjoyed some good sales as a reward for everything she’d done for them, and he felt a pleasant warmth spread over him at this surge of generosity. While the two women chatted with each other and with customers, Blythe busied himself with bringing out more cakes and rearranging their display. The frenzy’s energy waned, and he relaxed, finding the mindless ease of his current task surprisingly helpful in settling him down.
“Are these cakes as miraculous as everyone claims?”
Blythe glanced up and nearly swallowed his tongue. The boy—whoever the devil he was—stood before him, regarding Blythe with keen interest and a mischievous little smile. He was alone—for the moment, perhaps—but he appeared to be quite comfortable being on his own despite his youth. It was a clear indication of his privilege; his amazing confidence and easy openness spoke of an excellent education and breeding.
Up close, the boy appeared to be a great deal more attractive despite what most discerning people would refer to as his regular features. Mrs. Pugsley, Blythe realized, was correct in her summation of this young man’s attractions. In truth, there was nothing remarkable about his face. Light brown hair worn short and neat, clear complexion, gray eyes that were neither expressively large nor slyly narrow, a straight nose, and mouth that was neither full nor thin, and an unremarkable chin. He was a head taller than Blythe—then again, the rest of the world was at least a head taller than Blythe.
For all the regularities, however, this boy rose well above everyone Blythe knew by virtue of his manners and the intelligence that seemed to emanate from him. He was dressed tastefully, his privilege quite obvious without being ostentatious and vulgar.
Faced with such a young man, Blythe wanted to shrink into himself and slink away. He didn’t answer immediately and moved a couple of cakes around as a desperate means of delaying the inevitable. He eventually managed to pull his tongue back from his throat.
“Um—I really can’t tell you,” he said, forcing his gaze up to meet the other boy’s. “Would you be interested in buying one—uh, sir?” He grimaced when he realized his blunder, which was immediate.
“Sir?” the other boy replied, his smile broadening to a grin. “I’m seventeen. I hope I don’t look too old.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. But I don’t know how to address you.”
“By my name. I’m Edrik Vicary. A pleasure to meet you finally.” Edrik stuck out a hand, and Blythe couldn’t help but stare helplessly at it for one crippling moment. Edrik didn’t wear gloves, and his hand looked as immaculate as any gentleman’s. The very thought of wrapping that hand with Blythe’s coarse and bony one made Blythe’s blood run cold.
But politeness couldn’t—shouldn’t—be ignored. Blythe gingerly took Edrik’s hand, inwardly wincing at the touch, and offered him a weak smile in return. “Blythe Midwinter—likewise.”
He quickly let go of Edrik’s hand and hid his inside his jacket pocket, painful self-consciousness gnawing a hole in his belly. It certainly didn’t help that he found himself torn between shame, wonder, and admiration for a boy who was his superior in every way.
“Blythe.” Edrik paused, mulling over the name, his gaze not wavering. “It means ‘merry’.”
“Yes, well—Mama and Papa were enjoying a bit of a merry time when I was conceived, I suppose.” Blythe pinched his mouth into a tight line as he squirmed. How long did meetings like this last, anyway?
“I, uh, wanted to see if you were all right. The near-accident a few days ago, I mean.” Edrik’s easy smile had faded into a look of mild concern, which would’ve been flattering if Blythe weren’t so mortified.
“Oh, that—yes, I’m all right, thank you. I lost my cap and some bread that I couldn’t sell, but my sister was very understanding and refused to sack me.”
Mentioning Molly suddenly reminded Blythe of his companions. Bertie was still missing, and when he turned to look for Molly, he found his sister and Mrs. Pugsley still standing behind the other table, though both women were now watching him and Edrik, eyebrows raised high.
“That’s my sister and our friend, Mrs. Pugsley,” he said, jerking his head in their direction. “They enjoy gossiping.”
Edrik turned to them and smiled, touching his hat. Yes, he actually wore a hat, not a cap. “They’re not talking right now,” he said, coloring a little when he looked back at Blythe.
“No, but they will be soon enough.” Blythe gave Molly a last look of warning, which only made her raise her brows even higher. He looked back at Edrik. “So—are you interested in buying one of these cakes, Mr. Vicary?”
A momentary shadow clouded Edrik’s face, and, looking a bit deflated, murmured, “I suppose Mr. Vicary would suffice.” A second later, he was once again smiling and exuding easy confidence. “I don’t have control of my money at the moment, but my sister and brother should be wandering here any time soon. I’m sure I can persuade them to part with some coin.”
Blythe nodded, still squirming and uncomfortable. “I hope you don’t find me rude, but what are you and your brother and sister doing here? Shouldn’t your servants be the ones walking around the market and bargaining with vendors? You’re getting your clothes dirty just standing there.”
Not to mention his hands, Blythe appended silently, now hoping more than ever that he didn’t contract any disgusting skin diseases from washing his hands in Mrs. Pugsley’s pail and infect poor Edrik unwittingly.
Edrik shrugged. “My family—uh—I come from a family of artists, and everyone has his way of expressing his distaste of the day-to-day strictures of society.”
Blythe frowned. “The what?”
“My brother and oldest sister love wandering through markets in different towns, talking to locals and travelers and finding inspiration in being with people outside their social sphere. My two other sisters disguise themselves often and go off randomly to the more remote corners of the countryside. Sometimes they explore ruins or simply sit on a mountainside, absorbing the view and finding their own inspiration that way.”
“Why the disguise?”
Edrik paused for a moment, thinking. “How do they put it? Something about going outside themselves as a way of freeing their minds of their unnatural limits and exposing themselves to influences they can’t control.” He grinned again, the blush creeping back up his face. “I think that was what they said. Whatever it was, they were always very serious about their art and their methods.”
“And you?” Blythe asked, his self-consciousness gone as he listened in growing wonder. “Are you artistic as well?”
Edrik laughed. “I’m afraid the artistic magic didn’t quite reach me. Oh, I can fully appreciate art and beauty, but I’m not blessed with either the temperament or the talent. I’d rather savor poetry and fiction and watercolors than create them.”
Blythe regarded him dubiously. “No? Huh—you seem to be artistic to me, though I really don’t quite understand what that means. I mean—” He broke off and made a few vague gestures with his hands. “Lord, I can’t think of the right words to say.”
Edrik shrugged carelessly, his eyes sparkling. “All right, I’ll confess that I’d like to be able to write a book someday, though it’s also possible that that’s not where my path lies. I’ve yet to figure out where I want to go, and, bless Papa, he’s not pushing me too much on this matter. For the time being, it’s all about the schoolroom and endless hours spent with my tutor.”
“I saw him last Saturday—your tutor, I mean. I saw both of you at the Magicians’ Corner, watching that magic puppet theatre thing. I’m shocked your tutor agreed to go there. He didn’t look pleased with it,” Blythe said, suppressing his laughter. He stole one more glance in Molly’s direction and found his sister and Mrs. Pugsley still watching them with their brows still raised high. What on earth was wrong with those two? Hadn’t they ever seen two boys talk to each other earnestly before?
“I think it’s the affliction of all tutors—a low opinion of magical arts.”
“At least you enjoyed yourself. When you were watching, that is.”
“I saw you there, too.” Edrik paused, his grin softening to a fond little smile. He looked at Blythe more intently than ever. “I think I watched you more than the puppet show.”
Blythe’s squirming turned frantic. “You missed a good deal, then. It was a pretty interesting show—not at all like the more common ones we’re so used to.”
“Did I? I don’t care, anyway.”
Blythe coughed. “You should. If you’d like to be an artist type like your family, you ought to pay closer attention to things like that. You know, inspiration and so on.”
“I had plenty.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I saw you smile while watching the show. You looked like you were lost in this wonderful world that no one else could see. Your smile was a little wistful, a little sad, but also hopeful. I can’t say much else but that I thought you looked beautiful.”
“Ah, Edrik! There you are!”
“Oh, here they come now. Don’t be alarmed; it’s only my brother and oldest sister.”
Blythe gave a start and turned in time to watch a young man and woman sauntering toward the table. They were dressed plainly, their clothes looking faded and well-worn. The woman had even thrown a cloak and hood around her shoulders, and that was just as faded as her gown, with dust and dried mud all over. Both newcomers exuded the same easy confidence and intelligence as Edrik, which also included a careless disregard of social rules. In the latter bit, though, they were a great deal more rebellious than the boy, seeing as how Edrik still dressed as one from his class would. An old, soiled canvas bag that probably contained artists’ materials hung across the young man’s body, and for one mad moment, Blythe wondered if he’d someday be allowed to look through their sketches. His conversation with Edrik had stirred his curiosity like nothing ever had insofar as art went, and despite his mortification, he also felt a bit lighter after learning about Edrik’s lack of artistic talent or ambition because it mirrored his own. In his case, though, his lack of clear or set goals was of a lesser quality; he couldn’t boast anything artistic or even educational. As far as he was concerned, it was all physical labor suited to his station.
“Edith, could you buy one of these cakes? We can have it for tea.” Edrik indicated the cakes with a nod. “I heard it’s quite delicious—not to mention good for one’s health.” He gave Blythe an impish little smile.
Edith regarded the cakes in curious silence and then tugged at her brother’s arm. “What do you think, Cranston? One cake? Two? Papa should let me have a plate in the workroom when I paint later.”
At this moment, Molly appeared, greeting the Vicary siblings and immediately engaging them in conversation. She was certainly on her way to convincing them to leave with three cakes—with Edrik’s help, of course.
Blythe could only step aside and watch the proceedings, his brain effectively shut down after his conversation with Edrik. He stole glances in Edrik’s direction every so often, but he was now ignored with Edrik being drawn easily into the conversation. Blythe didn’t know how long it took before they left with their purchases, but he vaguely remembered Edrik glancing back over his shoulder and bidding him goodbye with a nod of his head.