Enchanted (3 page)

We owe our current livelihood to Monday. Her bride gift was a tower at the edge of the Wood that had no door
—

“No door?” Grumble croaked.

“It has only one high window, on the uppermost floor. The property had been handed down in some royal female line for generations, but it was never used, since there was no practical way of getting inside it,” said Sunday. “If it was ever part of a castle, the rest has long since crumbled. Not that we cared; at the time we were crawling over ourselves like rats in our little cottage. So Papa knocked a door in the tower and built the rest of our house around its base. We call it the ‘towerhouse.’”

“What once was a ‘dower house.’ Very clever.”

Sunday groaned. “Yes, I think Papa came up with that one. Unfortunately, it looks nothing like a castle. More like ... a shoe.” Oh, the years of school-age ridicule that had borne.

“A shoe.”

The way he said the word made Sunday giggle. Her cheeks ached; no friend before had made her laugh as much as Grumble. It was nice to be so happy, even for a few hours. “Between Tuesday’s fate and our house, shoes are a recurring theme in my life.”

“And what of your other sisters?”

Having come to the end of what she’d written about Monday, Sunday folded her journal across her stomach and stretched out in a patch of fading sunlight before answering his question. “Wednesday is the poet, all prosaic and lyrical.”

“‘Wednesday’s child is full of woe,’ ” quoted Grumble. Of all things he might have forgotten, that childish nonsense rhyme about the days of the week wasn’t one of them.

“I might suggest other things she’s full of,” said Sunday, trying to find a comfortable position on the moss-covered ground. The last frost of winter had come and gone, so they’d planted beans for hours that morning. Beans were always the first to go into the garden. The afternoon sun was warm on her weary bones, and the conversation with Grumble was easy and comfortable. No one else made Sunday feel quite so peaceful. She wished she could stay like this forever.

“Thursday ran off with the Pirate King when she was a little older than me, but she still sends us letters and gifts from time to time. She always knows when we’ll be needing something. A package from Thursday is always a bit of an event at our house.”

“‘Thursday’s child has far to go.’ ” Grumble hopped back into the well to rewet his drying skin. “Is Friday ‘loving and giving,’ then?” he asked when he returned.

“Friday is the best of us all. She spends most of her days at the church helping orphans and the elderly. At night she makes clothes for them after she’s finished with the household mending. She performs miracles with cloth that should have worn out long ago; I often wonder what she could do if she had whatever material she wanted at her disposal. There are few who would not envy Friday’s talent.”

Grumble noticed what she had left unsaid. “And you are one of those few.”

It was strange to have someone who listened to her so intently, who
cared
about her. Sunday liked the attention so much that it scared her a little. “If there is anything of Friday’s I would wish to have, it would be her heart. Every task that Friday performs is done with love: pure, unconditional love with no malice, no strings attached.”

“I find it very hard to believe you lack such compassion.”

“I’m just as selfish as anyone else.”

Thankfully, Grumble did not press her further. “And Saturday? Is she indeed a hard worker?”

“She works hard at being a pain in the neck, most days.” The comment coaxed a chuckling burp from Grumble. “Saturday is best when she’s kept busy. She goes into the Wood every morning and helps Papa and Peter with the cutting like a sturdy workhorse, but I think she takes after Thursday more than everyone realizes. I see it sometimes, that glint of a daydream in her eye. And mischief. Gods help us all if she’s ever left idle.”

“Which brings us to you, the doomed one.”

The laugh that burst from Sunday’s lips surprised her. It was a curious thing, having one’s words thrown back like that. “‘Blithe and bonny and good and gay.’ Who could ever live up to that? It’s not in any way realistic. I don’t want to be happy and good and dull. I want to be
interesting.”

“I assure you, my bonny friend, you are very interesting. And you are a writer, like your sister before you?”

“Well, I’m not quite so melancholy gravy as Wednesday, Our Lady of Perpetual Shadow ... but yes, a little. In my own way.”

“You have a gift for words,” said Grumble.

“A curse, more like. But perhaps it’s good that I write only about the past. Mama says I spend too much time in little fantasy worlds and not enough in this one.”

“If you did not indulge in fantasies, how else would you know if you were living an interesting life?”

“Thank you. I fully intend to argue that point with Mama next time she brings it up.” Sunday looked at the sky. “Which, if not tonight, will be tomorrow morning at the earliest. I will report back to you, Sir Frog.”

Either the gasping half-croaks that Grumble let out were a froggy laugh, or he was dying. Or both. “I can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed a conversation more, my lady. But as I can’t remember much of anything, it’s possible that’s not saying much.”

“I will take it as a compliment.”

“Please do.” He blew out his bright yellow throat and then sighed. “Would that I were a man, Sunday. If I met you tomorrow, I would probably propose.”

Lulled into comfort, Sunday answered from her heart before she had time to consult her brain. “If you met me tomorrow, I’d probably say yes.” She sat up immediately. The pool of sunlight had faded and the twilight breeze was cool on her skin. “I should be getting back home before I am missed.”

He didn’t acknowledge her reply, but she could tell it had made him happy. She was feeling a little happy herself. “Will you come again tomorrow?” Grumble asked. “Please?”

“I will try.” Her heart fluttered in her chest, and she was sure her face was red again. She ran her fingers through her hair, dislodging bits of twigs and grass and hiding her bashfulness from her new friend, yesterday a stranger and today so much more. The bond forming between them was strong and fast; her emotions seemed entirely too powerful for something that could never happen.

Was she falling in love with this frog? Did she even know what love was? Would that she had ever been courted by a man so that she might know if her feelings were true or fleeting. She wished that she had the power to turn Grumble back into a man so that she might discover for herself.

“Sunday?”

She ceased her tidying and forced her silly brain to stop its chatter. “Yes?”

“Will you kiss me before you go?”

It was as if he’d heard her thoughts. She wanted to try again, though it hadn’t worked yesterday; there was no reason to suppose it would work today. Sunday felt terrible. But Grumble’s little heart seemed to hold more hope than most people had in a lifetime. Why couldn’t she summon that optimism so easily? At least magic would answer the question of whether her love (or whatever this was she felt) was true ... She pulled her tidied hair from her face and leaned down to kiss his back once again.

Once again, nothing happened. Once again, she wasn’t sure how to feel.

“Good night, Grumble.”

“Good night, my Sunday.”

***

Darkness hugged the world in hazy twilight, and Sunday’s mind cartwheeled with silly thoughts, so her sister easily half scared the life right out of her. Perched atop the garden’s rock wall, Saturday leapt out of the shadows like a huge wildcat. Sunday shrieked, and then narrowed her eyes at Saturday’s anything-but-innocent smile. Sometimes she could be worse than Trix.

And odd. Saturday never had time for her lazy dreamer sister after a hard day’s work. Sunday might have expected Mama at the gate, wooden spoon in hand to rap her on the knuckles for being late. Wednesday often wandered the garden at dusk, having stared at the sky so long she’d forgotten whether she was really in this world or another (it could go either way with Wednesday). All things considered, meeting Saturday meant there was a story somewhere, so Sunday was all ears.

“You missed them, Sunday! They were both so handsome, and they wore daggers in their boots, and they finished each other’s sentences, which was a little odd, because one of them had the strangest accent. But odd in a good way, you know? A very good way.” She said “very” as if the word might stretch all the way to the moon.

As usual, Saturday was starting her story in the wrong place. Sunday would have scolded her, but her sister’s enthusiasm was terribly contagious. “Who?” Sunday asked, half because she knew Saturday wanted her to and half because she really wanted to know. “Who was here? Who did I miss?”

“Their names were Crow and Magpie. Magpie had the funny accent. Or was it Crow? Anyway, they’ve come and gone now and you’ve missed them, but they left us a trunk from Thursday.” She took Sunday’s hand and dragged her up the walk to the door. “We had to wait for you, and you’ve dawdled a painfully long time. So hurry!”

A full head taller than Sunday already and rippling with muscles beneath her boy’s clothes, Saturday constantly underestimated her own brute strength. Sunday followed her just fast enough to keep her shoulder from being ripped out of its socket. Thursday never forgot a birthday or anniversary or nameday, but sending cards and presents at regular intervals wouldn’t have left her and her husband any time for actual pirating and would put them under constant threat of various authorities. So now and again, at random intervals, a trunk or crate would arrive, teeming with gifts.

Sunday regretted missing the illustrious Crow and Magpie. She would have to ask someone about them later, but whom? Saturday would take forever, purposefully and annoyingly, but Sunday would pry information out of her eventually. Mama would no doubt describe them as dirty rotten scoundrels with eyes on the silver. Wednesday would put together an eloquent string of seemingly unconnected adjectives that one day, months later, would make perfect sense. Papa might do them justice if he wasn’t too tired after the festivities.

Saturday burst through the door, dragging Sunday in her wake. All heads turned except Friday’s; she was on her knees before the enormous trunk, her patchwork skirts a rainbow pool around her. Trix sat cross-legged on the lid; if anyone was going to open it, he would know about it first. Mama and Wednesday were perched on the couch. Peter slumped beside them, his heavy-lidded eyes trying their best to stay open. Papa stabbed the logs in the hearth with a poker, urging a bit more warmth out of them. Fresh, burning wood always reminded Sunday of Papa.

“Welcome home, little one. Hour got away from you while conversing with fairies again?”

Saturday came to an abrupt halt, and Sunday got a face full of cotton shirt. She shoved her giant sister forward. “They do have the best stories to tell,” Sunday said to her father.

Papa put his hand over his heart. “Better than mine? You wound me! Now, shall we see what booty my daughter the Pirate Queen has sent us?” Trix hopped off the trunk. Papa turned the latch and threw the lid back with a crash that startled Peter awake. Friday gasped and covered her mouth with her hands.

Folded inside the trunk was the most frighteningly exquisite material Sunday had ever seen. It shimmered in the firelight like silver fairy wings. “I can’t touch it,” Friday whispered. “It’s too beautiful.”

Papa patted her on the head. “Give yourself a moment, darlin’.” He reached over her to retrieve the folded parchment that lay atop the mesmerizing cloth. While he read Thursday’s letter aloud, Sunday closed her eyes and pictured her feisty, fiery sister there in the room with them.

“Dear beloved family,

I hope my treasure box finds you all well—Crow and Magpie will report to me if they see otherwise. Or if they don’t see some of you at all, since I suspect Sunday will have been wandering the Wood all day, as she always does once spring warms the ground enough.

This letter will make more sense if you’ve already seen your gifts, so go ahead and upend the trunk. Papa can finish reading once you’ve hit bottom. Yes, Friday, the fabric is for you, but if you don’t touch it, how are you ever going to be able to make anything with it?”

Papa smiled, folded the letter, and put it in his pocket. Even oceans and continents away, Thursday knew her family all too well. Friday wiped her palms on her skirt and gingerly lifted the silver fairy fabric out of the trunk. Beneath that bolt was a scarlet one, then one of dusky rose. By the time she uncovered the layer of iridescent blue-gray, her eyes were brimming with tears.

“All my sisters will have dresses,” Friday proclaimed. “The most beautiful dresses in the world!”

“Can’t I have trousers instead?” whined Saturday.

“Dresses designed for damsels divine,” Wednesday said dreamily.

“Woodcutters’ daughters have no need for fancy dresses,” Mama muttered.

“I want the silver one,” called Sunday.

“There’s got to be something else in that chest!” All the women in the room glared at Trix save Saturday, who crouched behind him, urging him on. Friday stuck out her tongue and lifted out a damask-covered box that had her name on a scrap of paper pinned to the top. She gasped as she opened this, too. “A proper seamstress’s kit!”

Having had enough of what would ultimately become laundry, Trix shoved Friday out of the way and dove headfirst into the trunk. Papa stopped chuckling long enough to say, “Careful, son.” As usual, it was too late.

“A bow!” Trix cried triumphantly. “And arrows! She’s sent along some arrows for you too, Peter, but no bow. Too bad.”

“A proper man-sized bow for Peter wouldn’t have fit inside that trunk.” Papa liftedTrix out of the chest with one strong arm. “You’ve had your treasures now, boy. Let your sisters have theirs.”

“I will thank you to shoot those arrows outside,” Mama said sternly. Trix was already trying on his quiver and prancing about trying to draw the bowstring.