The Sweetest Spell (22 page)

The one-eyed man didn’t talk much during the journey, except to remind me numerous times that he was still planning on killing me. “Thanks for the advance notice,” I grumbled. “Very considerate of you.”

A chain still wound around our ankles, linking us together. Fortunately, the third member of our entourage sat between us—a human shield of sorts. The boy was a dirt-scratcher who’d lost his family in the flood. His hair was lighter than Emmeline’s and streaked with copper strands, but still red enough to mark him from the Flatlands. I’d managed to get a few sentences from him. After the flood he’d left the Flatlands on foot, foraging for mushrooms and roots. Too young to fend for himself, he’d been arrested for stealing smoked pig’s feet from a butcher. He cried the first day of our journey, then settled into quiet submission.

The one-eyed man, however, seethed like a caged bull. Listening to his threats was unpleasant enough, but looking at him was worse. Steady seepage from the hollow socket coated the lashes of
his missing eye, gluing the lid shut. I tried to be friendly. I had enough on my mind without having to worry about being strangled in my sleep. “So, what brought you to this cage?” I asked, forcing a chipper tone to my words.

“Murder,” he said. The response didn’t surprise me, though I’d hoped it might be something tame like pickpocketing or littering. I didn’t really want to know who he’d killed. And asking might piss him off. The dirt-scratcher boy pressed closer to me. Poor kid. Just like Emmeline, he’d been cast into a world he didn’t know. And now he was chained to a murderer. And poor me. I’d started off trying to rescue a girl and now I was headed for hard labor in the deadly mineral fields.

Fortunately, my rib was fully healed and the knife wound had also healed. Days ago, I’d worked a blade beneath the stitches, pulling them free. But I couldn’t pull free from the feeling of helplessness that descended over me. So I tried to distract myself with conversation. Asking about the Flatlands, I gradually coaxed the boy from his silence. “When the soldiers came, they took all the unmarried men to the mineral fields to fight in a war. They took my older brother. And now they’re taking me. I don’t know how to fight.”

The way he rolled some of his letters brought Emmeline’s voice to mind. “You won’t have to fight,” I told him. “There’s no war.”

“But the soldiers said—”

“They lied to you. We haven’t been at war since my greatgrandfather’s generation. They took your people to work in the mineral fields, not to fight.”

“I know how to work,” he said with a relieved grin. “If we only have to work, then maybe I’ll see my brother again.”

“I hope so,” I said, patting his bony shoulder. “Work is definitely better than war. And how bad can it be? We’ll dig a bit, get some gold, dig a bit more.” I didn’t use the word “slave.” Nor did I mention our impending death if we stayed in that poisonous place. Instead, I ventured into the subject that consumed me. “Do you come from the same village as Emmeline?” The boy shrugged. “She has a curled foot and walks with a limp.”

“Oh, her. She lives in Root,” he said. “I live in Seed. But everyone knows her. She’s the unnatural girl. That’s what people say. She has black magic.”

“Why do they say that?”

“Because she was cast aside and she didn’t die.”

The one-eyed man turned his head toward us, the oozing hole glistening in the daylight. He sat quietly, listening.

“What do you mean she was cast aside?” I asked.

“When a babe is unwanted, it’s left at the edge of the forest to die. My younger brother was unwanted because he was born too early. He died in the forest like he was supposed to.”

“Wolves,” the one-eyed man grumbled.

“Sometimes it’s a spirit who takes the babe away,” the boy said. It was the first time he’d spoken to our murdering companion. “Forest spirits eat human flesh.”

I grimaced. Forest spirit or predator, it was a horrid way to die. “How did Emmeline survive?”

“Some cows saved her,” the boy said. “That’s why everyone calls her unnatural. She talks to cows. And they talk to her.”

The images flashed in my mind—the riverbank, Emmeline’s
half-drowned body, our missing cow standing over her as if guarding her from the vultures. Then there’d been the cows with their noses pressed against my bedroom window as if checking on Emmeline’s recovery. And I’d never forget the moment when the cow who’d found her moseyed from the field to greet her and she’d thanked it. Could she have more magic in her besides the magic of chocolate? Why hadn’t there been more time to talk to her? More time to get to know her?

I asked more questions about the Flatlands and its people. But our conversation was not appreciated by everyone. “Shut up!” the one-eyed man bellowed. As he stomped his foot, the chain tightened, burning my ankles. The boy pressed close to me again. “Or I’ll shut you up!”

Enough said.

I tossed the churning bucket and its chocolaty contents into a pond, hiding the evidence that the Milkmaid herself had traveled this way. Griffin unhitched the horses, leaving the baroness’s carriage on the path. He lifted me onto one of the horses, then mounted the other. Twice since my journey downriver I’d sat on a horse’s back, but each time there’d been someone with me. First when Owen brought me to his house, but that ride I didn’t remember. Then with Peddler. I shuddered, recalling his bony arms wrapped around my waist and his sour breath on my neck.

“What’s the problem?” Griffin asked. “Why are you just sitting there?”

“I can’t ride like this,” I complained. Because of my long dress, I had to sit with my legs draping over one side of the horse.

“Try.” He slapped my horse’s flank.

“I’m going to fall off!” I yelled, holding tight to the reins as the horse picked up speed and headed into the field. Griffin shouted
instructions. But each gallop jostled me and I nearly slid off. How was I supposed to hang on? I yanked the reins until the horse stopped. “It’s impossible to ride this way.”

Pulling up alongside, Griffin glowered from beneath the rim of his knit hat. “It’s not impossible. You’re not trying.”

“I am trying.” But how pathetic was I? I couldn’t run. I couldn’t ride. Angry at myself, I lashed out. “If you’re so smart, you try to ride in this dress!”

“Then take off the stupid dress,” he said.

“What? You want me to ride in my underclothes?” He raised his eyebrows. “Forget that.”

Eventually I got the feel for it, but only at a slow pace. Griffin didn’t want to go back to the road so we cut across pastures, getting directions to the nearest village from a farmer. Griffin fumed with impatience, constantly looking over his shoulder and hollering at me to go faster. When we reached the village, I hid in the forest while he rode off to play the part of the soldier. It wasn’t long before he returned with a bag full of stuff. “These are boy’s clothes,” he said, shoving the bag at me. “They should fit. Then you can ride like me.”

I changed behind a tree. The shirt and vest fit fine. I’d never worn pants before. No girl in the Flatlands ever wore pants. My legs felt so light. “These are great,” I said. It was easier to hide my limp under a skirt, but I didn’t care about that. The freedom was wonderful. I spun around. “What do you think? Do I look like a boy?”

He reached into the bag and pulled out a knit hat. “Better get rid of that bonnet.”

“Oh. Right.”

While I tucked my hair into the hat, Griffin changed out of the soldier’s clothing. He told me it was too dangerous to keep playing the part since everyone in Fishport now knew I was traveling with a soldier. “We can pretend we’re brothers,” I said when he’d finished.

“You still look like a girl,” he said, staring at my bottom.

We hid our old clothing, including the soldier’s sword and scabbard, beneath some shrubs deep in the forest. I felt terrible leaving Lara’s dress behind. It was such a beautiful dress, meant to help her forget her disease. But it had served me well and for a brief moment I felt a sense of gratitude to Peddler. I tied the cloak he’d given me around my shoulders.

“Let’s get out of here,” Griffin said.

We rode the rest of the day, stopping occasionally to talk to other travelers. The road was called the Merchant’s Highway and would lead us straight to Londwin City. The town ahead was called Lime. My face was plastered everywhere. WANTED: THE MILKMAID. Without the soldier’s uniform, I wasn’t sure how we were going to get food and a place to sleep. Griffin had only one coin—the same one he’d taken from the dead soldier. But Griffin could easily turn on the charm when he needed to. Even with the tight knit cap covering what remained of his hair, he was incredibly handsome. So once he’d spent the coin, a smile got us a loaf of bread from a baker’s daughter. A kiss got us a ham shank from a butcher’s wife. I’m not sure what got us the jug of ale, but the tavern girl was grinning like an idiot. Flirtation was Griffin’s skill, no doubt about it. I admired his ability. It came so easily to him. He was the opposite of me. I’d never flirted in my life.

We ate our feast just outside the town wall. Small fires flickered down the Merchant’s Highway as travelers set up their camps for the night.

“Why you?” Griffin asked, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

I’d asked myself the same question over and over. Only one answer had ever come to mind. “Why not me?”

He could have listed all the reasons. But he didn’t. “Can you do anything else magical?” he asked, looking into my eyes. I’d had ample opportunity to stare into those mossy green eyes on this journey. I’d seen fear, anger, even resentment in them. But at that moment I saw something new—admiration. “Can you cast other spells?”

“If I could cast spells, do you think I’d have this foot?” I shook my right foot, which I’d kept hidden in its boot during our entire time together.

He grabbed the last of the ham. After a long chew, he asked, “Does your foot hurt?”

“Aye,” I said. “Almost all the time.”

He chewed some more, then leaned against a tree trunk. “Do you ever think about what might have been?”

This question took me by surprise and my face went hot.
All of the time
would have been the honest answer. “It doesn’t matter. What might have been doesn’t matter.”

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about what might have been,” Griffin said. “If the soldiers hadn’t come to Root, I’d be married. If the river hadn’t flooded, I’d be living in my cottage with my new wife.”

“Aye, you would.” I reached under my knit cap and scratched my scalp. If only I could free my hair, just for a moment. All of Missus
Oak’s hard work washing and brushing had gone to waste. My hair was once again a wild, knotted mess. “Who would it be?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t have my heart set on anyone in particular.”

“Really?”

“I wanted to wait, actually. But Mother insisted. I know they were all in love with me, but I didn’t feel that way about any of them.” He stared at me. “You know, I never really looked at you. I never noticed …” His sudden serious expression made me uncomfortable. His gaze traveled over my body.

I shifted my weight. “Did you know that no one else in Anglund has a husband market? It’s another reason why they hate us. They think buying a husband is primitive.”

“They can call us primitive all they want,” he said with a sudden burst of anger. “But at least we don’t enslave people. I hate them right back.”

I felt Griffin’s anger. They’d taken him against his will, just as Peddler had taken me. “Not everyone hates us,” I said quietly.

“Oh really?” He pushed his knit cap off his forehead. “And who doesn’t hate us dirt-scratchers?”

“Well, the Oak family. They helped me, didn’t they?”

“That’s one family in the whole of Anglund. That means nothing.” He stretched out his legs. “This Owen, the one who read you the book. Is he their son?”

I glanced away.

“Look, Emmeline, you can ignore my questions all you want, but I’m not an idiot. I heard the way you said his name in your
sleep. You’ve got your sights set on this fellow, don’t you?” I looked down at my boots. “Put that idea out of your head right now, Emmeline Thistle. You hear what I’m telling you? Dirt-scratchers marry dirt-scratchers.”

“Stop calling us that,” I snapped. “That’s their word for us. And it’s ugly.”

He slowly nodded. “You’re right. But it’s true what I’m saying. Flatlanders should marry Flatlanders. That’s the way it’s always been.”

“Have you forgotten that no one back home would have married me?”

“Well, maybe not the
old
you.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I told him. “Owen’s dead.”

Griffin offered no soothing words, but I expected none. Instead, he tossed the ham bone aside and stood. Then, rubbing his chin, he spoke calmly. “If you want to get married, you should bid on me at the next husband market.”

I cringed, expecting him to burst out laughing at his joke. But there’d been no hint of humor or sarcasm in his words.

He looked down at me. “I’m serious, Emmeline. If you keep making chocolate, you’re going to be the richest girl in the Flatlands. You’ll be able to bid the most coin. That will make my parents very happy.”

“Your parents? But they despise me. Your father yells at me every time the cows wander to my house.”

He stuck his hands into his pockets. “So?”

“So?” I scrambled to my feet. “Maybe you haven’t noticed,
Griffin, but your sister throws rocks at me, and you, well, you were never nice to me, either.”

“Aye, but now you’re going to be rich.” He smiled. “You’d be foolish not to bid on me. Every girl wants to bid on me. I’m the handsomest man in all the Flatlands. Maybe in all of Anglund.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Think about it. With your chocolate and my good looks, we could launch our own empire. Forget about King Elmer. We don’t need him.”

“But we do need him. He’s got our people, remember?”

“Oh. Right.” His chest deflated. Then he pulled his hat back down his forehead.

I thought my life couldn’t get any more amazing. Now something else unbelievable had happened. For a brief moment, Griffin Boar had imagined me as his wife. I couldn’t help the satisfied smirk that spread across my face. He glared at me. “By the way,” he grumbled, “you reek.”