Stray (13 page)

“Drink this,” Aislynn said, giving Linnea a cup of warm, sweetened tea. Then she handed her a cookie, hovering over her until she ate it. When the color was restored to Linnea's cheeks, Aislynn went back to the task of arranging the bouquet of roses. She didn't know what else to do.

“Brigid will be bringing your breakfast shortly,” she said, keeping her voice calm and quiet as she gathered yesterday's wayward petals from the top of the dresser. She knew a proper fairy godmother would report Linnea, but one look at the monarch princess's despondent face and Aislynn knew she could not.

“She is?” Linnea's voice rose hopefully. “Perhaps you could tell the headmistress I'm not feeling well,” she added. “That it's best that I stay in bed today.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” said Aislynn. She knew that if Tahlia were here, she would have gone into the other room and reemerged with pure white sheets. But even if Aislynn had those skills—which she did not—the thought of doing something so against the rules terrified her. She couldn't tell the headmistress and she couldn't fix it. So Aislynn curtsied and left, nearly crashing into Brigid, who had a heavily laden tray in her hands.

“How is she?” Brigid whispered.

Lowering her voice, Aislynn quickly explained the situation. Maybe the other girl would know what to do.

“I'll take care of it,” said Brigid, her face unreadable.

Aislynn thanked her and swallowed her guilt, hoping that she had done the right thing.

It was the first time since her arrival that Aislynn had found cause to visit Madame Moira. She rapped on the heavy wood door.

“Come in.” The headmistress was sitting behind her desk as if on a throne.

“I just wanted to inform you that the monarch princess is not feeling well and has decided to stay in bed for the day.” Aislynn's words tumbled out of her.

Nodding, the headmistress opened a drawer and retrieved a leather-bound book with Linnea's name written across the cover in neat gold letters. “Is there anything else you would like to report, Aislynn?” she asked, her quill posed expectantly over a blank page.

“No, Headmistress,” said Aislynn, eager to leave the dimly lit office.

“I'm afraid I don't believe you,” said Madame Moira after a moment of silence. “The other fairy godmothers reported that the monarch princess was very upset last night.” She sighed. “Perhaps I have not made clear what is it expected of you in these situations.”

Aislynn understood exactly what was expected of her, and she also knew that a proper fairy godmother would tell the headmistress everything. Yet as Aislynn stood there in Madame Moira's gloomy study, she knew that she would never be able to tell the headmistress what she wanted to hear.

“I'm sure you think that your loyalty will be appreciated by the monarch princess—rewarded, even.” Madame Moira leaned forward until her sleeves spread out across the desk like spilled ink. “However, you are only doing her, and yourself, a grave disservice. Indeed, shielding her from the consequences of her occurrences is not only dangerous but selfish.”

Madame Moira stood and turned to the collection of tiny doors that lined the wall behind her. “I once knew of a fairy godmother who kept the secret of her mistress's wicked occurrences from those who could have helped her, mistaking her own greedy need for the princess's affection for true devotion.” She paused, running her fingers along the hinges and locks, seemingly lost in the story.

“When she turned sixteen, the princess married, for she was beautiful and beguiling. Her husband, equally handsome and charming, loved her very much. And the princess loved him. More than she had ever loved her fairy godmother.”

Aislynn noticed that Madame Moira's features had softened and her eyes, previously so flat and cold, had become dewy. Was this story about her? Was she the princess?

“But she was naive and foolish.” Quick as a mousetrap, Madame Moira's face snapped back to its former hardness. “Eventually the prince discovered the fairy godmother's lies and realized the wickedness that lurked inside his bride. When he told the young princess he could not remain married to her, she flew into a rage. Since she had never been chastised or punished, she was unable to control the magic that overpowered her and, in an instant, ruined her life and that of her husband.”

Aislynn could only stare as the headmistress slowly relaxed her fist.

“Let me be clear. If you are not careful, your childish infatuation with the monarch princess will be your downfall. And hers. Make sure you think about that the next time you come to my study. I don't need to be saddled with another failed fairy godmother.” She slammed Linnea's book shut. “You are dismissed.”

Aislynn scurried from the room, thinking of only one thing. It was clear what had happened to the princess in Madame Moira's story. But what had happened to the fairy godmother?

M
adame Moira's story haunted Aislynn throughout the day. Several times she even found herself heading in the direction of the headmistress's study, the truth burning in her throat. But every time she reached the end of the hall, where she should turn left, she would always turn right, taking herself on several tours of the western wing of the castle.

Part of her knew that the headmistress was right, that keeping Linnea's secret was more of a betrayal than an act of kindness. But even knowing that—even knowing that she was putting her ward in great danger—was not enough to loosen her tongue.

How had Tahlia done it? How had she kept Aislynn's secrets and her own guilt at bay? Did she regret not reporting Aislynn's occurrences? Did she feel some blame for the Redirection?

Aislynn passed the library for the seventh time that day, pivoted, and began marching in the direction of the kitchen. She knew that contact with anyone from her former life was strictly forbidden. But surely the Path looked kindly on those who aimed to move forward, even if their steps were not always straight.

Aislynn found Brigid in the pantry, peeling potatoes. “Can I help?” Aislynn asked, watching Brigid remove the skin from a large potato in one long curl.

Eyebrow lifted, Brigid handed over a small knife. “Have you ever peeled potatoes before?” Aislynn shook her head. “Well, try to cut the potato, not your fingers.”

Holding both knife and vegetable delicately, Aislynn managed to detach several thick patches of potato skin. They worked in silence for a few minutes before Aislynn, trying to keep her voice casual, asked, “Linnea doesn't send many letters, does she?”

“No, not many.” A few curls had escaped from Brigid's head scarf and trailed across her forehead. “She occasionally writes to her cousin Gregor and to Prince Westerly, though those letters are sent through Adviser Lennard, of course.”

“Prince Westerly?” It was a name Aislynn had not heard before.

A shadow seemed to flit across Brigid's face, but it passed so quickly that Aislynn wasn't sure she had seen it at all. “If all goes well, he'll find himself sitting on the throne next to the monarch princess. You'll meet him soon enough.” Brigid paused in her peeling and looked up, her eyes clever and bright. “Is there someone you were hoping to send a letter to?”

“You know that wouldn't be allowed,” Aislynn said automatically.

Brigid reached for another potato with a smile. “You should talk to Thackery.” The small hope that had begun to bloom in Aislynn wilted immediately. Thackery would never help her. He wouldn't even speak to her. “He can send your letter in town, and you can have any responses delivered to him there. He goes every week to sell the extra flowers and vegetables.”

“Isn't there anyone else who could help?” asked Aislynn.

“Ford travels when they need the carriage, but you can't depend on that. And none of the rest of us can leave the academy. Madame Moira doesn't want her servants disappearing like they've been doing at other schools. It would be quite the inconvenience for her.”

“Disappearing?” Aislynn thought about Maris for the first time in weeks, and a chill went up her spine.

“There have been some servants . . . unaccounted for.” But Brigid didn't seem very concerned. In fact, she seemed slightly amused.

“Do you think they were taken?”

Brigid chuckled. “You've spoken to Ford, haven't you?”

Aislynn ducked her head sheepishly. “A girl at my academy strayed,” she explained, lowering her voice, “but if people are disappearing . . .”

“Not people, servants.” Brigid stood, scooped the peeled potatoes into her apron, and walked over to the large butcher's block in the corner. “And they aren't being taken, they just don't want to be found.” She began to chop the potatoes, dropping the even slices into a nearby pot. She looked at Aislynn, who was still sitting on the stool. “Is there a reason you don't want to ask Thackery about the letter you don't want to send? He's very trustworthy, and he'd be happy to help.”

“I don't think he would.” Aislynn continued to peel her potato. “He doesn't care much for me. In fact, I think he hates me.”

Brigid's burst of laughter was a surprise. “He doesn't hate you,” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “It's just, well—”

Aislynn waited expectantly for Brigid to continue, confused by her obvious mirth.

“It's this he hates.” Brigid waved her hand at Aislynn's uniform. “He's not particularly fond of fairy godmothers. He wants to like you. He just gets a bit prickly, that's all.” Brigid paused. “Why don't I talk to him? I bet he'll appreciate that you're willing to break the rules.”

“I don't want to break the rules,” Aislynn insisted, but Brigid had already returned to her chopping and didn't seem to hear the lie.

The next morning there was a note addressed to Aislynn on Linnea's tea tray. Catching Brigid's eye, Aislynn was gifted with a quick smile. She shoved the note into her pocket, wishing she could read it right away.

She delivered the tea to Linnea, who seemed eager to forget the events of the previous morning now that her bed linens were back to a pristine white. She even chatted eagerly about the book she was reading while Aislynn untied her hair.

Finally the monarch princess was herded down the stairs and off to breakfast. Bypassing the fairy godmothers' dining room, Aislynn went back upstairs, her curiosity overwhelming her hunger.

Thackery will take your letter. There is ink and parchment in your top drawer
.

Brigid

Aislynn pulled her dresser open. The top drawer resisted as usual, but she found a roll of parchment, a quill pen, and a small bottle of ink sliding around inside.

Placing everything on her bedside table, Aislynn carefully dipped her quill in the ink and wrote,
Dear Tahlia . . 
.

She quickly filled the parchment and found herself wishing she had more. There were so many questions she wanted to ask, mostly about how to be a good fairy godmother to Linnea. She folded the letter carefully, addressed it, and sealed it with her candle. The bell rang. Breakfast was over.

Ignoring her angry stomach, Aislynn made her way downstairs to start the day. She was horribly distracted throughout her first two classes, her leg keeping a frantic rhythm beneath her desk. The bell signaling the beginning of lunch seemed to come at the end of seven seasons, and when Linnea was finally seated in the dining hall, Aislynn wove through the bustling kitchen and out into the brilliant yellow light of the afternoon. Compared to the cold stone of the castle, the summer sun felt wonderful on her face.

She spotted Thackery working in the vegetable garden. His pants were rolled to his knees and his shirt shucked off to the side, the muscles in his back flexing as he thrust his shovel into the soil.

Aislynn stepped closer. On his shoulder—the left one—she could see a plum-sized mark. There was an image inside the circle that she couldn't make out, but she could tell clearly that his skin was raised and puckered, like the brands she had seen on horses.

“Oi!” Thackery snatched his shirt off the fence and quickly threw it on. “Can I help you with something?”

“I . . . I have something for you.” Picking up the hem of her robe, Aislynn made her way to him. The interested look on Thackery's face dimmed when she pulled the parchment from her pocket.

“Brigid said that you could send this letter for me.”

“Did she now?” said Thackery. Aislynn was close enough to see the sweat on his brow as he frowned, and for a moment she thought that she had made a mistake. Had she misread Brigid's note? But he snatched the letter out of her hands and smiled, holding it up to the sky as if he was trying to read it. “I'm going into town tomorrow. I'll make sure it gets to where it's going,” he said. “Who's Tahlia?”

Aislynn hesitated. “My fairy godmother.” She corrected herself. “My former fairy godmother.” Thackery tilted his head, clearly curious. Aislynn rushed to explain herself. “I know I'm not supposed to question my Path, and I'm not, I just . . . I just had a few things that I needed to ask her. It won't happen again . . . it won't happen often, I swear. I know it's very unusual behavior.”