Enchanted (2 page)

“Will you read to me again tomorrow?”

If her ridiculously large smile didn’t scare him off, surely nothing she wrote could. “I would love to.”

“And would you ... be my friend?” he asked tenuously.

The request was charming and humble. “Only if you will be mine in return.”

Grumble’s mouth opened wide into what Sunday took to be a froggy grin. “And ... if I may be so bold, Miss Woodcutter—”

“Please, call me Sunday.”

“Sunday ... do you think you could find it in your heart to ... kiss me?”

She had wondered how long it would take before he got around to asking. A maiden’s kiss was the usual remedy for his particular enchantment. Normally Sunday would have declined without a thought. But he had been so polite, and she was surely the only maiden he would come across for a very long time. It was the least she could do.

His skin was bumpy and slightly damp, but she tried not to think about it. After she kissed him, she straightened up quickly and backed away. She wasn’t sure what to expect. A shower of sparks? Some sort of explosion? Either way, she wanted to stand clear of whatever was involved in turning a frog back into a man.

Sunday waited.

And waited.

Nothing happened.

They stared at each other for a long time afterward.

“I don’t have to come back, you know, in case you were offering just to be courteous.”

“Oh no,” he said quickly. “I look forward to hearing about your sisters. Please, do come back tomorrow.”

“Then I will, after I finish my chores. But I should go now, before it gets dark. Mama will be expecting me to help with dinner.” She stood and brushed what dirt she could off her skirt. “Good night, Grumble.”

“Until tomorrow, Sunday.”

***

“Sunday, where have you been?”

Mama was a woman of few words, and those she was begrudgingly willing to part with could sting enough to make eyes water. She took one look at Sunday’s skirt and answered her own question. “Dawdling in the Wood again. Well, I’m glad you decided to come back before the bugaboos made off with you. I’ll thank you to take that spoon from your brother and get to stirring the pot. He’s been at it long enough.”

“Yes, Mama.” Sunday removed the kerchief from her hair and slid her book into the pocket of her pinafore.

“Thanks, Sunday!” Trix happily handed over the spoon and scampered off to meet Papa, Peter, and Saturday at the edge of the Wood, at the end of their workday, just like he always did.

For all that he was two years her senior, Trix looked and acted like he had stopped aging at twelve. His fey blood kept him from growing at the same rate as his foster siblings—ultimately, he’d outlive them all. His blood was also the reason he was allowed to tend the cows but never milk them. Trix had a way with animals, but milk from his bucket was always sour. And if Trix stirred a pot for too long, the stew would be ... different. The outcome was never the same. The first time, the stew tasted of the finest venison, with seasoned potatoes and wild mushrooms. The second time, it stank of vinegar. Mama never let Trix stir the pot for too long after that. She said the family didn’t have enough food to go gambling it away, no matter how delicious the end result might be. Mama only ever bet on a sure thing.

Sunday worked the spoon absent-mindedly as she dreamt, scraping the bottom after every three turns. Mama checked on the bread in the oven. Friday set the table.

Most of Friday’s dark hair was caught up into a knot, but several curls escaped, much like the halo of iron gray snakes around Mama’s head. Friday had been mending—the straight pins in a row down the length of her sleeve gave her away—and she was wearing one of the patchwork skirts Sunday loved so much. Friday was deft with her needle, her own nameday gift from Fairy Godmother Joy. The fabric stallkeepers at the market gave their rags and remnants to the church in lieu of their tithe, and the church in turn gave them to Friday, along with measurements of any newly orphaned children and what articles of clothing they needed most. In return Friday kept whatever small pieces were left. Eventually, those pieces made up Friday’s multicolored skirts. They were Sunday’s favorite not just because they were so beautiful and lively, but because they were the result of many long hours spent toiling for the love of children her sister might never know.

“Go fetch Wednesday down from the tower,” Mama told Friday as she set down the last fork. “Your father will be home any second.”

Papa walked in the door as if on command, followed by a very weary Peter and a flushed and bright-eyed Saturday. Sunday imagined that on the verge of death, her workaholic sister would still be flushed and bright-eyed.

“Evening, my darlin’,” Papa said as he hung his hat. “Fair weather today, so there was work aplenty. Wasn’t much we left undone.”

“Good, good,” Mama said. “Go on, then, wash yourselves for dinner.” Peter was too exhausted to argue. Saturday kissed her father on the cheek and scampered after her brother.

“Hello, my Sunday.” Papa picked her up in his strong arms and spun her around. She hugged him tightly, breathing in his familiar scent of sweat and sap and fresh Wood air. “Any new stories today?”

“I wrote a little,” she told him. “I mean to do more tonight.”

“Words have power. You be careful.”

“Yes, Mama.” She couldn’t ever mention her writing without this admonishment from her mother. Sunday tried not to be disrespectful and roll her eyes. Instead, she concentrated on Papa as he slowly lowered his large body into the chair at the head of the table. “What of your day, Papa? Did you find any new stories to tell?”

He sighed and rubbed his shoulder, which worried Sunday. Storyless days happened, when the weather was foul or the work had been troublesome. Most days, however, he brought her a little something: a tale or a trinket. His eyes would get bright, and there would be mischief and laughter in his voice. For that brief moment, Papa was happy, and he was all hers. Not that anything could dim the happiness that still shone inside her from making a new friend, but a story from Papa would have been the perfect ending to a perfect day.

Papa sat back and rested his hands on the table. He looked at Sunday thoughtfully, for a long time. And then he smiled. Sunday caught it and grinned right back at him, for in that smile was a story.

“We went deep into the Wood today.” He leaned forward to whisper the words to her, as if they were a secret between the two of them. “Deep into the Wood, where the trees are so tall and the leaves are so thick that no sunlight touches the dark ground.”

“Were you scared?” Sunday whispered back.

“A little,” he admitted. “I told Peter and Saturday to stay at the edge of the Wood.”

“You told Saturday to do something and she obeyed?” The only orders Sunday had ever seen her sister obey were Mama’s. Everyone always did what Mama said. Every time.

“Well, no,” admitted Papa. “I gave her a very large task and told her she could join me when she’d finished.”

“Did she finish?”

“Not yet. It was a very, very large task.”

“You are a clever Papa.”

“I am a Papa with much experience keeping his mischievous children out of harm’s way,” he said. “The edge is the safest, but deep in the Wood is where one finds the best trees. The old trees. I never take more than one at a time, and I always wait several moons before I take another one. The lumber from that tree will always fetch the highest price. It will be the most beautiful, and it will last forever. No mortal fire can burn Elder Wood.”

“Did you take an Elder Wood tree today?”

“I did. I asked the gods’ permission and begged the tree’s forgiveness before I forced it to give its life. And since no one was around, I did not yell ‘timber’ before its fall.”

Sunday gasped. Anyone who had ever lived near the Wood knew the importance of yelling to announce a treefall. Silence had dangerous consequences.

“The tree came down with a spectacular crash! And when the Wood became silent again, I heard a yelping.”

“Did you hurt someone?” She was afraid to know the answer. It was clear that Mama wasn’t worried; she continued to busy herself in the kitchen as if she hadn’t heard a word of Papa’s tale.

“Very nearly. It took me a long time to get to the other side of the tree. When I did, I found a leprechaun hopping around.”

“A leprechaun? Wasn’t that lucky,” Sunday remarked skeptically.

“Luckier for him! He was still alive to be hopping around,” Papa said. “Trapped by his beard, he was, and mighty put out about it, too.” Sunday laughed.

“I hope you asked for his gold,” Mama’s voice echoed from inside the oven as she retrieved the bread.

“Of course I did, woman! What kind of man do you take me for?”

“A fool, most days,” Mama murmured. She wiped her hands on her apron and picked up a knife to cut the loaf. “Go on, finish your story.”

“Thank you, wife.” Papa leaned forward again and took up his storytelling tone once more. “The leprechaun pleaded with me to set him free.”

“And did you?”

“I asked for his gold first.” Papa glanced at Mama, but she did not show that she had heard his comment. “He promised it all to me. Told me if I used my ax to chop him free he would lead me to it.” Mama clucked her tongue. She was listening. “Of course I didn’t believe him,” Papa said loudly. “I said I wanted proof. He told me he had three gold coins in his pocket. He would give them to me as a down payment, so if he ran away, I wouldn’t be left with nothing for my trouble.”

“And you took the gold?”

“I did indeed. Three solid pieces of bright gold, they were. I put them in my pocket.” He patted his hip. “Then I cut the leprechaun free. And do you know what he did?”

“What?”

“He complained! Cheeky little bugger. Said I had made a wreck of his charming beard and that it would never grow back the same! I pointed out that I was a woodsman, not a barber. The vain imp! Should have been grateful just to be alive!” Sunday giggled helplessly at the thought of burly Papa as a hairdresser. “He would have none of it. Told me that since I had ruined his good looks I didn’t deserve any of his gold. He wiggled his nose and vanished right there in front of my eyes.”

“But you still had the three gold pieces?”

“I did indeed, so I don’t feel cheated in the slightest. I brought them home for you.” Sunday’s heart leapt for joy as he reached into his pocket. Whatever treasure Papa had brought would certainly go to the family, but it meant the world that he made a show of giving it to her. Mama acted as if she weren’t paying any attention, but she had stopped cutting the bread mid-slice.

“I’m afraid they’re a little worse for the wear.” Papa opened his hand and dropped the contents onto the table.

“Bah!” Mama scoffed when she saw. “Fool’s gold and fairy stones. Such has been this family’s lot in life. I should have known.”

Sunday’s treasure was three small stones. One was smooth and deep ocean blue run with lines of stark white, one was splotchy green like moss trapped in pale amber, and one was sharp-edged and milky pink. Fool’s gold or not, these stones were hers to keep, a thousand times more valuable to her than any gold ever could be. Inside these stones Papa’s story would live forever; Sunday would remember the tale every time she saw them. It was just as she’d hoped: the perfect end to a perfect day.

“They’re beautiful,” Sunday said over the shiny stones.

“They’re yours if you want them.”

Sunday threw herself into Papa’s arms and hugged him again.

Mama set the platter of bread firmly on the table beside them. “Enough nonsense now. Sunday, mind the stew. Jack, bank the fire and call your children. It’s time for supper.”

M
Y SISTERS AND
I are the products of a woman with as little creativity as her mother before her, and so our naming was as clever in its simplicity as it was damning in its curses. Second born to my mother were the twins, thus securing a female majority in the household that was never again in jeopardy. Monday was indeed fair of face, but Tuesday was the dancer.

Stories describe Tuesday as a slip of a young girl, a moth at the flame, a reed in the wind, a vision of constant movement whose grace the stars and sunsets envied. Ever the Life of the Party, Tuesday garnered invitations for every occasion from Royal Balls to County Fairs (from which Monday always returned home as the belle).

Mama enjoyed the popularity but, true to form, complained about travel expenses and the cost of keeping her active daughter in shoes,
which she reputedly remarked was more than enough for
twelve
dancing princesses. It seemed a godsend when an elfin shoemaker gave Tuesday a pair of scarlet slippers that would never wear out. Mama had her doubts, but she hoped he was right. And so he was,for Tuesday could not dance those shoes to death.

They danced her to death instead.

Tuesday died less than a year post-Jack (my family’s history is broken up into pre—or post—Jack Junior events). There was immense sadness in the wake of her passing, but no one mourned more than Monday. Worse yet, Monday’s grief apparently amplified her fair beauty. She held her tongue to keep others’from wagging, but her silence only added to the intrigue. Songs called her the most beautiful woman in the land. Monday hated every minute. She ventured outside only to walk the many miles to the cemetery on the hill and place flowers on her twin’s grave. Every Tuesday she went, rain or shine, sleet or snow, despite our parents’ wishes.

One sickly green morning, heedless of the weather as she always was, Monday was caught in a storm sent from the bowels of Hell itself. Tossed in the merciless wind, pelted by walls of rain, and battered by fists of ice, Monday lost her way in the Wood and found herself at the doorstep of a hunting cabin. Inside were two princes on holiday—one dark and one fair—who had chosen to celebrate the storm as most men choose to celebrate everything.

As they toasted each other for the umpteenth time, the fair prince congratulated himself on his recent success at finding the perfect wife. He had given the girl a test, and she had spun three rooms full of straw into gold for him! The dark prince, upon hearing the tale, drunkenly announced that his wife would be so beautiful, so delicate, that she
would not be able to sleep comfortably with a pea under the mattresses. And then Monday arrived—a bedraggled, tempest-tossed wretch on the stoop, begging asylum. They begrudgingly offered her a room and slipped a pea under the mattress there. The next morning, when my lovely sister greeted her hosts with a rash of fresh bruises, the dark prince fell to his knees and asked for her hand in marriage.