As Old As Time: A Twisted Tale (Twisted Tale, A) (5 page)

She rested her head on her hands, watching the wedding party quickly disperse as the winds picked up. LeFou tried to grab a bunting as it whipped around branches and chairs like an eel. The villagers would all be gone in a few minutes, but she wished she could head down sooner, somehow sneak around them, to be inside when the storm finally hit. Maybe she could try going down to the east side of the house, through the rose garden….

She sighed, turning to look at the pretty pink-and-white dots that mottled the scenery just out of view of the wedding party.
They
were the main reason her father was reluctant to leave their little house in the country. Part of him still believed there was a chance that someday his wife would come back, to her roses and her husband and her daughter. If only he just kept tending the bushes and keeping the flowers pretty and healthy, maybe she would be tempted to return.

If they left, how would she find them?

But despite the automatic watering contraption Maurice had built for the garden, the roses that were usually so healthy—blooming even in deepest winter—were beginning to look a little brown and peaked.

Belle grumpily got up. She barely remembered her mother. She had the best father in the world. That was all she needed.

She took one last look at the horizon, bidding the storm and the lands beyond farewell—when she saw a strange commotion on the road.

It was Phillipe, galloping out of control toward the house, still attached to the cart.

And her father wasn’t on it.

Maurice and Rosalind immediately began their happily-ever-afters. They moved to a snug little third-floor apartment in the castle district, right in the middle of the most fashionable and bustling neighborhood. A tiny garden out back sufficed for most of Rosalind’s immediate magical needs, and Maurice worked out a deal with Alaric to continue using the kiln yard despite his no longer living there.

For the first year the apartment was crammed with work and parties, late-night academic discussions with friends and loud drinking songs, days and nights of research, roses, and metal. Then, when the newlyweds’ lives calmed down a little, their place became a serene and peaceful retreat from the world.

It was just high and removed enough to be unnoticeable from the street, and surprisingly quiet for the part of town it was in. Rarely did a random person follow the narrow, shaded alley to the back of the building and clamber up the old wooden steps to the third floor—and friends knew how to step around or otherwise disengage Maurice’s clever, and loud, alarm system.

Which was why he was surprised and unprepared the day the alarms went off.

Pots clashed, broken bits of ceramic broke further, and a horn powered by an old accordion-like bellow blasted away the sleepy late afternoon hush in the garden and sent creatures and moths flying.

“See? Told you it would come in handy,” Maurice called over his shoulder to Rosalind as he went to see who it was. He had ideas about the door, too—installing a sort of periscope or monocular that would allow the inhabitant to see who was outside without, say, letting the cold winter air in.

Yes…something with a reflector inside a tube, maybe….

He opened the door and was surprised to see a young boy standing there, shocked and startled, his hand hovering in the air.

“Hello,” Maurice said amiably. “Did my alarm system frighten you?”

The boy said nothing.

“Because I am trying to decide whether it should be silent to those who approach, so I may better surprise them, or if it should be loud to frighten them off before any mischief can be achieved. What do
you
think? Can you—oh!”

Maurice suddenly noticed what was in the boy’s hand. It was a piece of charcoal. He followed the direction of the hand to the lintel and saw the beginnings of a poorly written, rather rude word scratched out there.

“What,” the inventor asked, at first more confused than angry, “is the meaning of this?”

“It’s said that a great and terrible witch lives here!” the boy shouted, scared and defiant. There was a nasty look in his little piggy eyes.

“Oh.” Maurice was by nature a generous and charitable person—travelers and dreamers and tinkerers by needs must be. But he remembered the man who had tried to threaten Rosalind the day he first saw her. And the bruised, beaten-up boy the day she had asked him to marry her. “Ah…so…So what?”

“SHE TURNED A MAN INTO A PIG!”
the boy cried.

“No, she just turned his nose into a pig’s nose. And he was very rude.
And
she turned it back, by the way. He’s just fine.”

“DEVIL WORSHIPPER!”
the boy spat, and turned and ran away.

With a sigh Maurice went back inside and closed the door, locking it, something he rarely did.

His lovely wife was reclined in a rocker, glowing but tired, using the end of her pinky to make a stirring motion and thereby encourage the spoon across the room to put honey in her tea and mix it in.

“Darling,” he said, sitting down on the stool next to her, “I think we’re in for some trouble….Some strange young lad was making a mess above our door…swearing all up and down about magic, it seems—”

“Oh, those ignorant peasants,” Rosalind growled tiredly, putting a hand to her head. “I grow so tired of them. They’re everywhere now. Some are vicious brutes, too. I thought it would just simmer down after that whole incident with the girl….”

“That happened long before I came here and it still doesn’t seem like it’s simmering down. I don’t think that boy knew how to write. I think someone made him learn that one rather nasty phrase.”

“Is he still here? Where is he?” Rosalind demanded, color beginning to flush her cheeks as she forced herself to sit up.

Maurice made shushing noises and took her hand. “Don’t grow excited. It’s not good for you
or
the baby. It’s over now.”

Rosalind took his hand and squeezed it and kissed it, then put it on her belly.

“You’re
sure
it’s a girl?” he whispered.

“As sure as anything,” Rosalind said with a wan smile. “An enchantress knows these sorts of things. Don’t forget—when you go out this afternoon, stop by Vashti’s. I want her for my midwife. She was my aunt’s, and my aunt just loved her.”

“Absolutely, dear.
Anything
for you and my baby daughter.”

But the midwife wasn’t to be found.

When Maurice stopped by her house the door was open, hanging there like an ill omen.

“Hello?” Maurice called out tentatively.

After a few moments and no answer, he let himself in—keeping one hand casually on his knife.

“Vashti? Hello? It’s Maurice, Rosalind’s husband….”

The midwife was old but in good health. In the back of his mind Maurice feared finding her on the floor with a broken hip or worse, but he suspected that was not the case. Here and there things looked out of order in the tiny house: one chair of three was pushed far aside, a single crock lay broken on the floor. And on the table lay half a baguette, a nice piece of cheese, and some grapes. Dinner, untouched.

“Hello?”

The inventor fretted. It didn’t look like a robbery—nothing was stolen, not even her fine woolen blankets. It was like she had just…vanished.

After a few more minutes of looking around, he left and asked her neighbors about her whereabouts, but no one knew where she had gone. Or even that she
had
gone.

Or, he gathered as he watched some sets of shifting eyes, they didn’t
want
to know.

He decided to see if any of Rosalind’s other friends had heard from Vashti—perhaps there had been some sort of emergency, a birth gone wrong, that she had been summoned away to.

But as he walked through the town Maurice noticed other doors that had nasty graffiti smeared on them, sometimes in charcoal and occasionally in something that looked very much like blood.

If the friends he sought were home, they ushered Maurice in off the streets quickly—or made a big deal of talking to him loudly where others could hear, about nothing in particular, emphasizing again and again how nice it was to have such a normal friend who wasn’t one of
les charmantes.

None of them knew where Vashti was. No one even knew she was missing.

With a confused and heavy heart, Maurice decided before he went home empty-handed that he would at least fortify himself at the tavern with a drink and a chat with his friends.

There was a sign on the door.

UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT. NO DOGS, ITALIANS, OR CHARMANTES.

Maurice hesitated, unsure what to do. But habit took over his feet, and he found himself continuing in.

The place seemed darker. Small groups spoke in loud, lively tones, but it sounded forced. A new and sour-looking young woman made a big pretense of wiping down the bar with an already filthy rag.

Frédéric and Alaric were in their usual seats. The doctor had never moved in with the groomsman, even after Maurice had moved out; there were some differences of station that were insurmountable beyond drinking at a bar together. Yet they had still managed to stay friends. Both brightened upon seeing Maurice.

“Where is Josepha?” he asked in a low voice, indicating the barmaid with a tilt of his head.

“She was…bought out,” Alaric said distastefully. “Not of her own free will. Told to move to a more…accepting part of town.”

“She was paid,” Frédéric noted. But he regarded his cordial glass with a skeptical eye, obviously unconvinced of its cleanliness.

“Where did she go? Has she set up elsewhere yet? We should go see her….”

“No one has seen her since…this happened,” Alaric said. “Some suspect foul play.”

“Or she has merely seen which way the wind is blowing, taken her fee, and left town,” Frédéric suggested.

Alaric rolled his eyes.

“This is getting out of hand.” Maurice said. “All of it! This…
boy
…wrote some very nasty things on our door. Lots of doors, it looks like. And my wife is dead set upon this Vashti woman for her midwife, and she’s nowhere to be found. And no one will talk about her. I have a terrible feeling about it. What is going on around here?”

Alaric sighed and played with his cup. “Things are growing worse between…
regular
people—”

“
Les naturels,”
Frédéric interrupted primly—“and
les charmantes.
”

Alaric gave him a black look, then continued. “I’ve never seen it this bad. It’s out of control. Idiots are hassling anyone even the slightest bit unusual—from a self-declared goodwife peddling love potions, to Babbo, who sings to himself and makes those little toys out of twigs and moss. They are badgering them, pestering them—and, occasionally, beating the tar out of them.”

“Things are
not
out of control,” Frédéric said with the patience of someone who had been arguing the same thing with a friend for a long time. “
Anymore.
That is precisely the point. Normal people are trying to keep control of things, to keep things safe. And they are not hassling anyone who is innocent.”

“Innocent of what?” Maurice demanded. “Magic? Since when is that a crime?”

“It’s a crime against nature.”

“But you yourself are…”

“Tainted!” Frédéric hissed. “Yes, I know!
Keep your voice down!
”

Maurice slammed his fist on the bar, exasperated.

“But…but what about Vashti? Rosalind will be terribly upset if I don’t procure her for the birth. Where did she go?”

“She probably left after finding pig’s blood smeared all over her door,” the groomsman said moodily. “
Les charmantes
are leaving…disappearing out of the last safe haven for the fey and magical left in this world.”

“I would suggest that your wife choose another for her imminent birth, and seek her no more,” Frédéric suggested crisply. “Find a good
doctor,
perhaps.”

Maurice ignored him. “But surely the king and queen…I mean…well, the whole
point
of this place is that it’s safe, and different, and…”

“The king and queen are doing nothing about it,” Alaric said with a sigh. “Just like they are doing nothing about the salt scarcity and the trade embargo with Guerende. Perhaps they feel threatened, ever since they lost a couple of guards to errant spells. Or maybe they’re lazy and just don’t care. I’m not really sure
what
they do up in their towers all day. Guess I’ll find out. They certainly don’t take their precious stallions out enough for exercise.” He brightened suddenly. “Which reminds me! I have great news! Drinks are on me tonight, old friend!”

“What’s the occasion?” Maurice asked, cautiously hopeful for something to offset the gloom of the day.

Frédéric gave a thin smile. “You are looking at the new Master of the Royal Stables. Bow, as is only appropriate—but do not breathe in, for the aura of horse is hard to avoid.”

“And it’s all thanks to this chap here,” Alaric said, toasting his drink rather sloshily at the doctor. “He put in a good word for me to the king himself!”

Maurice smiled and shook Alaric’s hand formally but heartily.

“Marvelous news, Alaric! You’re moving up in the world!”