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Merrigan was hungry enough, she wanted to take all the bread and cheese and apple he offered her, but what if there was some majjian watching? She wanted to gain a few sympathy points. She refused the apple, telling him a growing boy needed something in his belly. What he had offered her was more than enough. Even though it wasn't. Then she told him what the frog had told her.
"Oh, I believe it." The baker's daughter looked in all directions, as if she feared the false blacksmith would come upon them at any moment. "No one likes him. The entire village knows how he treats you and your brothers, but what can they do? If he's your uncle, he has authority over you and the forge."
"We can tell the magistrate and the judge and the king's soldiers, when we go to the fair," the boy said. His brave little smile made Merrigan's heart ache, just for a moment.
Why was it always the brave and honorable and hopeful who got hurt the worst in this world?
The girl promised she would tell her father, and he would warn other leading men in the village, and they would do something. The one-eyed man would not claim his new slaves. She hugged Merrigan and hurried away. The youngest boy thanked her again, quite gravely, and insisted she take his apple before he ran off to tell his brothers.
Merrigan decided now might be a wise time to get up and leave. No matter how careful the good boys and girls were, they always told the wrong person what they knew, and who had been helping them. Something about that man made Merrigan quite sure he would hurt her if he knew what she had done. That really wasn't fair, she silently complained, as she hurried down the road. After all, she had only passed on what the frog said.
How desperately she wanted to stay around and watch the feathers fly. Just imagining the ruckus that would soon enfold the village occupied Merrigan's thoughts for at least an hour. She chuckled and hurried along the road, grateful that all the walking she had to do had restored her youthful vigor and endurance. Not that she thought she would need to dance until dawn any time soon. She considered lingering in the general area to find out what happened to the blacksmith. As a child, she had found it entertaining to eavesdrop on the nobles of her father's court, or ambassadors, or ministers in the council, and then stir up trouble by leaving notes, revealing what everyone's rivals or enemies had said or planned.
"Why not?" she muttered, after glancing over her shoulder for at least the twentieth time since hurrying away from the village.
Merrigan stopped and looked back the way she had come. Did she really want to go back? One village looked pretty much like another, which was depressing enough in itself. She needed to move on from small villages and towns and find decent-sized cities. Some place large and sophisticated enough that when she mentioned Avylyn and Carlion, people actually knew what she was talking about. She needed to find an ambassador or diplomat with the intelligence to believe her, and help her get home. Once she returned to Avylyn, surely her father could find someone with enough magic to break Clara's curse. What use was it being the most powerful king in Armorica if he couldn't get a curse lifted?
Still, wouldn't the leading men of this village feel some obligation of honor and arrange to get her to the nearest city? She had helped defenseless boys escape slavery, hadn't she?
"They owe me. Four brothers with hammers against one nasty, loud-mouthed uncle who might not even be their uncle? They should have stood up for themselves long ago. Their father died under mysterious circumstances. Shouldn't someone have been suspicious about the convenient timing? Idiots like that don't deserve any help. Especially from someone like me, who certainly needs far more help." With a snort and a sharp nod for punctuation, Merrigan set off down the road, back the way she came.
Dizziness washed over her. For several unpleasant moments, she felt as if she had been turned toes-over-nose. The sunlit road around her vanished in a haze of gray, with silvery sparkles at the edges. The bread and cheese she had eaten turned into hard lumps that bounced around in her stomach.
Drat and double drat!
Too late, Merrigan remembered Clara's confounding and contradictory words.
She went to her knees in the grassy verge along the side of the road. Merrigan knelt there, gasping, until the ground steadied underneath her. When she raised her head, the oaks that had lined the road had changed to pines. The sunshine of early afternoon had faded to evening, with low-slanting rays and that bluish tint in the air that always promised a refreshing chill. Or at least, a refreshing chill when there was a palace to retreat to, and servants who brought warm shawls without being told.
Merrigan struggled to her feet and took several steps up the road. A much nicer road than the one she had been on two minutes ago. No deep ruts from wagons traveling in rainy weather, churning up mud. This road had large quantities of gravel ground into it, creating a sturdy surface. Amazing how much she had learned about road construction just from trudging down one road or cow path or trail or mislabeled king's highway after another.
It just isn't fair!
The momentary urge to weep made Merrigan realize how thirsty she was. She fumbled in the bag that bobbed and bumped against her bony hip with every step and pulled out the apple the boy had given her. The sweet-tart juice filled her mouth and she paused, stunned to discover she had a full set of teeth. All the gaps and loose teeth that threatened to snap if she bit into anything harder than week-old bread—fixed. For all she knew, Merrigan had her own good, firm, white teeth back.
"Well, what do I make of this?" she murmured, after chewing the mouthful of apple and thoroughly enjoying it. In fact, she hadn't enjoyed a fresh, firm, juicy apple in far longer than she could remember. The problem with Leffisand's rebellious magical apple tree had quite put her off apples. What had she been missing? "Is this a reward, or just another nasty trick?"
Merrigan gnawed on the puzzle of what had happened, why, and the implications for her as she trudged down the road. After all, evening was coming and she had no intention of spending the night in this unknown forest with nothing but the remains of this apple, the extra clothes in her bag, and her walking stick. She had to find a town. Surely this visibly better road meant a good-size town of some wealth or standing had to be nearby.
This had better not be just another aspect of her totally undeserved punishment. Did Clara honestly think she, Merrigan, Queen of Carlion, would be grateful to have her own teeth back? Or consider being able to eat an apple a reward? Who would be so foolish and gullible to think that dropping her on an unknown road was helping her? Perhaps some foolishly honorable kingdom-less prince would consider the change an improvement, but not Merrigan, Queen of Carlion. Reward? Hah!
She fumed over the unfairness of her situation as she moved from one town to another in the days that followed, always trying to find one larger and more aware of the kingdoms of the world. Why did she have to depend on the kindness of the little people for food, for a bed by the fire on rainy nights, for a ride in their cart? She was a queen—surely justice decreed that wealthy merchants and town officials should be sent to help her along the way. Didn't the leaders of the community deserve a chance to be rewarded for helping her? Why didn't majjian folk hereabouts give them a chance to better themselves by helping Queen Merrigan?
No, it was entirely unfair that enchantresses and faeries always sided with the undeserving. The too-sweet-for-her-own-good twit who couldn't recognize that people were trying to steal the magic key left to her by her dying mother. Or in the case of an impoverished-but-noble young man, the map to a hidden kingdom where a princess lived under an enchantment, just waiting for a good-but-simple youth to break the spell.
How, with all the odds stacked against them, could any of those sugar-coated, cockeyed optimists continue to help old ladies and drowning puppies and enchanters in disguise who needed a pure soul to fetch some magical item? Merrigan just didn't understand. To make matters worse, several times she turned away with a loaf of fresh bread or climbed down out of a farm wagon and saw some majjian swooping down to reward whoever had just helped her. It wasn't fair. Couldn't they see her, standing there bold as life, desperately in need of help?
Finally, she had to have an answer. Certainly four moons of living under Clara's entirely unfair curse had earned her a few answers? Especially with winter approaching. Her chance came when a boy gave her a ride on a decrepit old donkey and helped her down at the intersection of five roads. The nearest town was called Smilpotz. He apologized profusely and explained that the man who had taken the mill that belonged to his family for ten generations had convinced the local judge to forbid him to come any closer to town than the crossroads.
The boy gave Merrigan a loaf of bread, three copper coins, and the names of several people in town who would help her for his sake. He wished her well. She thanked him—it was only polite, after all—and headed down the gravel-packed road wide enough for three carts. At the point where it turned to enter the trees, she glanced back, and saw him heading back the way he had come.
She wondered why, despite her habit of trying not to think about anyone she had left behind. Most especially not someone who had all the earmarks of downtrodden-and-deserving like this boy, on the brink of manhood.
Merrigan's next step faltered. She understood. He had retraced his steps for the last two miles to give her a ride to Smilpotz. His decrepit little donkey certainly hadn't needed her negligible weight on its back. From the deflated condition of his food sack and the lack of jingle when he gave her the coins, the boy certainly hadn't been able to spare either food or money, yet he had given them to her. What was wrong with him?
She froze as a faerie appeared, not thirty steps away. At least, she assumed the coldly handsome man with a face carved from black diamonds, with sapphires for eyes and silver for hair, was one of the Fae. He watched the young former-miller take the time to check his donkey, adjusting the few sacks tied to its back. The boy pulled out a bowl and spilled water from a water skin into the bowl, then held it for the decrepit creature to drink.
"He could have offered me some of that water," Merrigan muttered.
The Fae turned and stared at her, freezing her with the blue fire in his eyes. She shivered, feeling as if her crone disguise had been stripped away. He could see her, Merrigan of Avylyn. Even more chilling, she had the distinct impression he didn't like what he saw.
Then the Fae smiled, bright and glacial-cold. Merrigan cried out. She tried to, but the sound caught in her throat. He turned into her. The crone she was now. He called out with a creaky, frail voice, and hobbled down the road after the boy. Her voice didn't sound that bad, did it? Oh, the injustice!
The imposter commended the boy for being willing to help people, even though the mill that had belonged to his family for so long had been stolen by a cheat with false documents and a lying judge in his back pocket. The imposter then consoled him for endangering the health of his donkey, who was lame in one leg and shouldn't have taken even the weight of a shriveled old woman.
"I could have told you one leg was off, just from the bumpy ride," Merrigan muttered. Stunned that she could speak now, she tried to move. No luck. All she could do was watch and listen. She was probably invisible, too.
Oddly, she felt a tiny flicker of some discomfort that wasn't related to the ache in her bottom from sitting on the bony spine.
Still, I could have walked this far on my own. It's not like I couldn't make it. Who did he think he was, making an old woman ride that awful, knobby old thing? Maybe trying to win a reward?
As much as she tried to make herself believe that, Merrigan couldn't. The young man had been entirely too kind, too considerate of her, to be faking it. She knew from long experience how to tell the difference between true gentility and false manners. The ones who stooped down to help a threadbare old woman, with expansive gestures and loud voices, only did so when they had an audience. The food they gave her, even if it was higher quality, didn't taste nearly as good as the simple fare shared by someone who couldn't afford to share.
Strange. Why hadn't she noticed that before? Maybe she was losing her mind, under the weight of this dratted curse.
Merrigan's grumbles halted when the look-alike resumed his otherworldly, cold good looks. His chuckle was entirely too warm and pleasant to be real, when the miller's son dropped to his knees, stunned with wonder. At least the boy had the sense to be frightened. He might not be quite as much an imbecile as others who didn't deserve magical help. However, when the boy stood up, wearing fine clothes, and climbed onto the donkey that had been turned into a massive white stallion, that was the last straw.
"Excuse me?" Freed from magic once the boy rode away, Merrigan stumbled forward, through a berry bush. "What about helping someone who really needs it? Or do you have some awful grudge against old women?" She stomped down the road toward the Fae, who simply stood there, hands clasped behind his back, getting a little taller with every step she took. By the time she reached him, his head was even with the treetops. "Maybe our time has passed, and we don't have a right to help? Don't trust to appearances—isn't that something you're always—"
"I know exactly who you are, Merrigan of Avylyn," the Fae said, his voice deep enough to shake the ground.
"Don't I need help too?"
"You need even more help than that good-hearted young lad, but there's the pump principle involved here." His smile was a glacial smirk. "You probably don't know what a pump is, do you?"
"Of course I know," she snapped. "I've had to pump my own water when I'm thirsty. The rudeness of some people, filling troughs and buckets for themselves, but when I step up and need some water, suddenly I'm invisible."
"No, you're just as visible as all your servants ever were. Your fellow travelers are in a hurry, and since they're used to having to fend for themselves, they think everyone else can do the same. Have you ever heard of asking—not ordering, but asking?"
Merrigan knew better than to snarl that she was a queen, she shouldn't have to ask, she shouldn't even have to order. People should just be on the alert, watching for her slightest need. She didn't look like a queen, after all. She didn't sound like a queen.
"I ask plenty of times." Her hands shook just at the memory. The memories of the times she had to lower herself to beg for a piece of bread, for some cheese, scalded her soul.
"At least now you know you have a soul," the Fae man said.
She trembled. The cold running through her had nothing to do with her usual fury when some majjian saw into her thoughts.
"Back to what I was saying." He chuckled and bent down so his eyes were even with hers. They burned bright. "The pump principle. It's called priming the pump. When a pump has sat idle for some time, you must put water in before you can get water out. All your life, you've been taking from the pump. You're as dry as some pumps that haven't given water in years." He stood up, his smile even colder. "You're a smart girl, Merrigan. So smart, you've been very stupid. Think about it. What would Nanny Starling say about the predicament you've gotten yourself into?"
"Nanny—How dare you!" She shuddered hard enough she nearly went to her knees.
"Think about what you just heard." He gestured down the road to the spot where he had rewarded the miller's son.
Then he vanished in a haze like hoarfrost that fell down on the road and dusted Merrigan's black dress with white. She shivered. Any other time, she might have welcomed the chill. Black clothes were hot, and it was an unusually warm, pleasant fall day.
"Pumps," she muttered. For a moment, she wished the boy had offered her a ride on his big, strong horse, but she had too much sense to take a chance on a beast that had been magically transformed. "Just where am I supposed to find a pump? And where am I to find water to prime the pump if the pump is dry?"
She shuddered and looked down the direction the miller's son had gone, then slowly turned to look at the intersection of five roads where she stood. The stone pillars standing between the roads indicated the towns each road led to, and how far away they were. The boy had to leave the closest town, Smilpotz. If he had told her his name, she couldn't remember. Smilpotz was just beyond the woods, according to the markers chiseled into the stone pillar. The town where his ancestors had run the mill that now belonged to a cheater with a dishonest judge in his back pocket.
"I know what it's like to be cheated out of what belongs to me," Merrigan muttered. "Will it make you happy if I do something about it?" she said, just a little louder, to the now-vanished Fae. That didn't mean he was gone. Someone who meddled in the lives of others likely remained nearby to see what she did with his unwanted advice.
If she had learned anything from Leffisand's mistakes, it was that majjian folk had to be treated with far more respect than her peers. Much as she admired Leffisand and understood why he took such pains to protect the treasures of Carlion, she had to admit that her late husband had made rather large blunders. For instance, the Gifting of his great-uncle. He should have ingratiated himself with the old healer, and played on their family connection. The doddering, idealistic fool should never have Gifted his healing magic to that milk-and-water, goody-goody farmer princess.
"Enough." Merrigan shook herself for good measure. Wasting time nattering over things she couldn't change and people she couldn't bring to justice only drained her.
Very well, she would go to the town that had cheated the miller's son and set the balances right. Maybe that would please the Fae and earn some help in the future. Maybe all she had to do was help someone, to earn a champion who would perform some magical quest to rescue her. She tried to ignore that totally unreasonable sense of guilt at not knowing the miller lad's name.
Merrigan straightened her shoulders as much as she could and set off down the road to Smilpotz. At least there was enough gravel packed into the road that the mud wasn't too awful, and she had shoes she didn't mind getting muddy. Not like they were satin slippers, or her favorite dancing shoes with the blue crystals. Leffisand had said it was like she danced on water when the light glistened on them. He would be horrified to see her walk through the mud in those particular slippers.
Then again, if he were here, she wouldn't be in this mess.
"Leffisand," she said with a sigh, as she trudged down the road. "For such a clever man, you were rather an idiot, weren't you?"
An odd twinge threatened a headache. Honesty compelled her to admit the true idiot ... was her. If she had just held her ground and not depended on so many panicky lies, she wouldn't have had to run to Clara for help. What fools ever got the idea that a woman who stared into pools of water could give them useful advice?
"You made this mess, Merrigan," she said as she reached the crest of the small hill and could see down the slope to the decent-sized town of Smilpotz. "Now it's up to you to fix it."
~~~~~
JUDGE BRIMBLE'S LARGE, recent inheritance was the talk of Smilpotz. Merrigan sat on the steps of the bakery, enjoying a freshly baked roll and a lovely, cold cup of milk, and listened to the gossips who had gathered on the steps of the apothecary next door. The people discussing the same subject on the steps of the millinery across the street were even louder. Being turned into an old woman had taught her the joys of being nearly invisible, and the wealth of information that came from listening to people who talked far too freely for their own good. Merrigan had observed that some people proved the reliability of their information or opinions by raising their volume. She wasn't sure if she should be comforted or worried that it was the same among peasants as it was among courtiers.
The louder voices across the street informed her that Judge Brimble wasn't happy with the tailor who ran the best of the two fabric shops in town. His apprentice had gone home to tend to his dying father, so it was just the tailor, his wife and daughter to handle all the orders. The mayor's daughter was getting married in a fortnight, and the tailor was halfway through a large order of clothes for the bride, and for the wedding party. No matter how much the judge offered to pay him, he couldn't put aside the order because then he wouldn't finish on time.
The gossipy old women on the steps of the apothecary changed their chatter, in competition with the millinery gossips. The judge was far too talented at making people miserable if he didn't get what he wanted. He had already hinted the tailor's young daughter was just the sort of confection he liked. After money, fine clothes, and food, of course. Brimble would find some way to threaten the tailor's family until they either turned over their daughter to placate his injured pride or abandoned the wedding clothes.
"Poor child," one silver-haired, hawk-nosed old gossip said with a sigh. "Someone should do something. Judge Brimble is getting too big for his britches. In more than one sense!"
That set off a chorus of giggles among them.
Merrigan gritted her teeth. When she was younger, she had lost several serving maids to the predations of nasty old courtiers who insisted on having sweet young serving maids for their wives. Even worse, her father never believed her when she insisted the girls were going into dangerous situations. He always accused her of being selfish, and five serving maids just to attend to her needs were far too many.
The foul-tempered wives with delusions of grandeur always seemed to drive the serving girls away in no time at all. Then to make matters worse, they generated false stories that the girls had fallen in love and left to get married and settle down in the country. When Merrigan tried to find the girls, certain they needed rescuing, those vicious old nobles started rumors that the girls had actually gone into their employ to escape serving her.
Well, here was one serving girl Merrigan could rescue. Technically, the tailor's daughter wasn't a serving girl, and hadn't fallen into danger yet. It was just a matter of time. Merrigan wondered if she could remember that spell Nanny Tulip had taught her, for enchanting collars so they choked their wearers at the appropriate time. She had learned that spell after her mother died and after Nanny Starling fled in disgrace, and her own sisters and brothers grew critical and ignored her. Nanny Tulip had taught her about minor magics and how a princess deserved to be treated. She helped her wreak small bits of revenge on anyone who slighted her or treated her as if she didn't have a brain in her head.
Unfortunately, Merrigan hadn't used the spell in years. She hadn't needed to, after she married Leffisand, because his courtiers knew how to give her proper respect.
In that moment, the whisper of a plan seeded itself in her mind. She chuckled, positive it would be deliciously clever and properly nasty, as the old lecher deserved. He had to be the judge who had helped cheat the miller's son.
"Are you finished, Granny?" The baker's assistant bent down to Merrigan where she sat on the steps. "Would you like more?"
"No, thank you. It was lovely." Merrigan didn't mind giving a compliment to the rosy-cheeked boy. She had seen him take the bun from the long tray fresh from the oven, when his master told him to help her as she walked into the bakery. Such kindness touched her heart. Maybe when she got her looks and her kingdom back, she would send someone with a gold coin to reward them.
That would certainly make liars of the people who called her an ungrateful brat.
She got up off the steps and made her way to the tailor's little house at the far end of the main street of Smilpotz. Her steps were slow, in contrast with her racing thoughts.
Her mother had taught her to sew, as an entirely proper occupation for a princess. She enjoyed sewing. As a child, Merrigan had loved taking scraps of cloth and bits of braid and beads, and turning them into gowns for her dolls. She had also enjoyed the admiration and envy of the other girls her age among the nobility in the court of Avylyn. Sewing in her mother's garden had been among the happiest parts of her childhood. She hadn't been that happy in many years.
Merrigan stopped in the middle of the street, startled by the single tear that trickled hot down her cheek. She blotted it with the back of her fingerless black glove and muffled a sigh.
Nanny Tulip, however, believed sewing wasn't a proper occupation for a princess. Except when used in magical pursuits, such as the choking collar. Merrigan could never reconcile the conflict between her mother's teaching and her beloved nanny's. Well, Nanny Tulip would certainly approve of the plan that slowly clarified in her mind. She had been a stickler for propriety. Judge Brimble was abusing his power. A mayor and a wedding certainly trumped a fat old lecher's desire for a new wardrobe.
"Can I help you, Mistress?" Master Twilby, the tailor, rose from his chair behind the long worktable in the front room of the house and shop as she stepped up to the open door.
"Would you have some work for these old fingers?" Merrigan held out her spindly hand, proud that it didn't shake. "I don't need much, just a blanket, some bread, and a roof over my head."
"Sorry, but even though we could use some help, it wouldn't be for long. The boy who works for me is due back in ten days."
"Oh, that would suit me perfectly. I just need a place to rest my feet, catch my breath, so to say."
"Can you sew seams?"
Merrigan most definitely did not want to sew boring seams. What she wanted was the fancy work, the ruffles and embroidery and stiff collars—especially the collars. However, she needed to get her foot in the door. Then Master Twilby would see the common sense of handing over the fancy work to her, and leave the drudgery to his daughter and apprentice. It would be easy. Peasants were so simple-minded and so easily led.
"Faster than the dawn, and straight and tight. So tight it'd take you a fortnight to rip one out," she added, tipping her head at that slight angle guaranteed to convince him she was adorable, if not slightly daft.
For some reason, everyone assumed the slightly not-right-in-the-head were trustworthy and good-hearted. Merrigan couldn't see it herself. She was positive most people only pretended to be daft to avoid doing an honest day's work, or to perform some deception. As she did now.
Master Twilby would thank her someday, when he learned the truth.
She imagined him kneeling before her, shaking in terror when he realized he had hired Queen Merrigan of Carlion to sew seams. He would profess undying gratitude for her help in protecting his daughter from that lecherous Judge Brimble. It made such a pleasant mental picture, Merrigan almost missed the quick, low discussion between Master and Mistress Twilby when the lady of the house came in from the kitchen. She had the impression the wife was far more willing to hire the old woman. Perhaps just because she was an old woman who needed work.
Just for that, Merrigan took extra pains with the test job they gave her. Let them doubt her ability to do anything she set her mind to. Master Twilby's smile and slow nod of approval, as he inspected the vest she had put together in good order, generated a warmth in Merrigan's chest she hadn't felt in a long time. Actually, she couldn't really remember the last time she had felt it.
By dinnertime, she and Mistress Twilby had done the main seams on the matching vests for the mayor and his two sons and future son-in-law. He was a minor nobleman in Carnpotz, a major city twice the size of Smilpotz. Merrigan thought the brocade for the vests entirely suitable for a wedding. The mayor's daughter had good taste. Merrigan was grateful for the subdued color scheme. After all, she didn't want to suffer eye strain the entire time she labored in the tailor shop. She intended to be given Judge Brimble's wardrobe order, as soon as Master Twilby realized he could now handle both jobs.
Mistress Twilby became almost chatty, as they put away the vests to make dinner. Merrigan faced a moment of dread. She wouldn't have to cook, would she? She had never learned, and had no interest in learning. It seemed so utterly messy, and rather alchemical. Cooking made her think of enchanters working in dark, damp dungeons, throwing together potions. Spells were fine, but potions and all the cutting and mixing and the smells and vapors made her uneasy. She would prefer to avoid magic of any kind for the rest of her life, thank you very much. After this curse on her was broken, of course.
To her relief, Mistress Twilby asked her to set the table while she and Fern, her daughter, took care of the final preparations. Merrigan learned that Mistress Twilby had assembled their dinner that morning, putting everything into an enormous cast iron pot and then sliding it into the oven to cook all day. It was a simple matter of pouring mugs of cider for everyone, cutting bread, and dishing up an amazingly delicious, hearty stew.
Perhaps there were some benefits to taking gainful employment. Hot food and sitting with the family. Welcomed by them. Included in their chatter, even if it was of plebian things like the town gossip and sewing the mayor's daughter's wardrobe. All of it was rather ... surprisingly ... pleasant.
After dinner, the sewing continued. She didn't really mind. The kitchen was warm and well-lit and Mistress Twilby provided hot tea with plenty of honey. Master Twilby praised the straightness and tightness of her seams, and asked if she would be so kind as to teach Fern the trick of it, now that the girl was old enough to move on from piecing and pinning. Merrigan didn't mind teaching her at all. In fact, it was quite easy to be gracious.
The odd, tight feeling in her chest did give Merrigan pause. She couldn't quite understand the wet warmth in her eyes, either.
"I hope you don't mind, Mistress Mara," Master Twilby said, as he came back into the kitchen with a thick, ragged-edged book, the cover so worn she couldn't read the title. "We do enjoy some reading in the evening, especially after a good day's work and getting back onto schedule, thanks to your opportune arrival."
"Of course not. I assume this is some volume of edifying homilies?" Merrigan frowned when a giggle escaped Fern. What had she missed? The snotty little thing wasn't mocking her, was she? Such a deceptive child. Just a moment ago, Merrigan had been sure she was the sweetest, most attentive child she had ever met.
"Fern," Mistress Twilby scolded softly. To Merrigan's amazement and slight irritation, she chuckled, then reached over to pat her arm. "In some sense the stories my husband reads could be considered educational. There's always a chance of running into someone with magic, or who has been enchanted. Though the chances aren't as strong as they were in my grandfather's day. But yes, the tales could be considered educational."
"I don't care if they're educational," Fern announced with a sharp nod of her head. Then she astonished Merrigan by snuggling up against her on the long, padded bench by the stove where the three women sat. "They're fun. You like stories about magic spells and heroes and maidens trapped in durance vile? Don't you?"
"I—I—" Merrigan swallowed hard, confused by that odd, twisting, warm sensation in her chest. "I adore such stories, actually."
Granted, she had adored them more when Nanny Tulip and Leffisand hadn't been teaching her the truth behind the mask of glamour in tales of majjian folk.
To her delight, the first story Master Twilby read was one she hadn't heard before. Honestly, the lack of common sense of some Fae—blessing the goody-goody sister so every time she spoke, flowers and jewels fell from her lips? That was a blessing? And for what—for being polite and giving an old woman a drink of water? Didn't the silly child owe such kind actions to the elderly as a matter of course? Then, the stupidity of the mother, to send her more ambitious child to the well, with orders to be nice to the next old lady. So what happened when the Fae returned, this time dressed as a queen? The girl was put out because she wasn't the old lady who would bless her with an utterly inconvenient and messy gift.
Who in their right mind would consider that a gift? The girl would have to spend the rest of her life with a trough or a feedbag affixed under her mouth, to catch whatever fell out. Graces help her if she were a chatterbox! Imagine the mess during polite dinner conversation, and then the hazards to people around her on the street or during social events. Pity the people who stepped on the jewels she didn't catch. Then of course, the Fae didn't recognize that the other daughter was confused because the encounter didn't go as expected. She wasn't ready to face nobility, which Merrigan imagined could be a most unbalancing experience. The Fae proved just how temperamental her kind were, when she cursed the second girl to drop toads from her lips whenever she spoke.
Education, indeed! Merrigan wondered if such tales were more for the education of the parents than the children. If they could warn their daughters and sons to act with more common sense when they went into the woods, or stay out of the woods altogether, the world would be a calmer, more sensible place. When she was queen again, she would see if something could be done about that. If magic and majjians couldn't be controlled, perhaps all magic should simply be eradicated.
That thought gave her an odd shiver. It felt close to something she had overheard in an argument, long ago. Some insistence that magic was being wasted, and people shouldn't be allowed to fling it about as they wished. Magic needed regulation, or it would entirely run out. Had Nanny Tulip said something similar?
A distant rapping on the front door startled Master Twilby, two minutes into the second story. He stood, nearly dropping the book. Mistress Twilby went entirely still, except for her fingers, which curled and crushed the vest she had been hemming. Master Twilby hurried out of the kitchen. Only Fern seemed unconcerned.
"Who would come at this time of night?" She hopped off the padded bench and stepped over to the stove where the pot of tea kept warm. "Would you like more tea, Mistress Mara?"
"Thank you, child, that would be lovely." Merrigan reflected that it was easy to be gracious to a sweet girl with lovely manners. With the proper clothes, her hair in a more becoming fashion, she would make an enchanting little handmaiden. Merrigan sighed as she held out the large earthenware cup to be filled. By the time she regained her kingdom, Fern might be married, with children, and no longer a delightful, pretty little creature.
Fern paused in putting the teapot back on the stove. She frowned, glancing toward the door into the tailor shop at the front of the house. "Who is Father talking to?"
"Little pitchers have big ears," Mistress Twilby murmured, her hands shaking. She never looked up from her sewing, as if suddenly her life depended on finishing the hem.