The Sweetest Spell (7 page)

Our shop, Oak and Son’s Milk, Cheese, and Butter, sat at the corner of the main square, next to the clockmaker’s shop and right across from the town hall where our tax-collector lived. When the clock tower struck noon, a line always formed outside our shop. But this line wasn’t made up of the bonneted ladies, wives of the merchants and tradesmen. It was their cooks and maidservants, people like Nan, who bought the fresh milk, butter, and cheese for
the households. As I neared the surgeon’s, the clock’s hand struck eleven. Looked like we’d be late opening the doors today.

I rode through the square, around the golden fountain, and dismounted outside the surgeon’s—Surgeon and Apothecary for Matters Pertaining to Both Sexes. Father had given unconditional instructions. “Do not tell the surgeon that she’s a dirt-scratcher or he might not come.” But the concern stretched beyond the surgeon. If word spread around town, which tended to happen faster than a fox circling a chicken coop, there’d be a whole mess of judgment thrust our way and that wouldn’t be good for business.

As I tied the horse to a post, someone called my name. Bartholomew Raisin scurried across the square, his thick thighs making a swooshing sound as they rubbed together. Bartholomew’s business was the promotion and management of the local barefist fights. We stood toe to toe as he looked up at me. That was Bartholomew’s way—to get right in your face when talking. “Got news for you.”

“It’ll have to wait,” I said.

“It can’t wait. I got news.” Bartholomew nodded eagerly. He shuffled from side to side. His fingers twitched as if the news was eating him from the inside out.

“I got something to do,” I said, turning away and heading for the surgeon’s door. Bartholomew had made a lot of coin from the fights over the years, and he doled out a meager percentage to the fighters. He was a rat bastard.

The scent of chopped herbs freshened the stuffy air of the surgeon’s shop. The surgeon’s assistant stood in the back, mixing
green paste. Frightful instruments for cutting, piercing, probing, and stitching hung on the back wall. My heart kicked up its pace as I looked around. I’d face an opponent’s fists in the circle any day, but the surgeon’s hands, well, I tried to stay away from them.

A stranger lay on a table, moaning, his eyes shut tight. A traveling knapsack sat on the floor. The surgeon, a tall, thin man with a flat nose and a head of wiry black hair, leaned over his patient, tying the ends of thread that he’d sewn through the patient’s finger. “Hello, Owen,” he said, glancing up briefly. “What brings you here? Have your fists loosened a tooth or blackened an eye?”

“No, it’s not like that,” I said.

The surgeon tugged on the thread, then severed the ends with a knife. “You’re done,” he told the man, who slowly opened his eyes and sat up. “Keep the finger dry or it won’t heal.”

The man looked at his swollen finger. The surgeon’s assistant held out a silver platter, onto which the man set a coin. Then he grabbed his knapsack and staggered from the shop. As he did, Bartholomew Raisin stuck his sweaty head inside. “You done yet?” he asked me. “Cause I still got news. News doesn’t just disappear.”

“I’m busy,” I grumbled. “Wait outside.”

“You’re not sick, are you?” Bartholomew asked. “You can fight, can’t you?”

“I said wait
outside
.” I shut the door in Bartholomew’s face. It was no one’s business why I’d come to the surgeon’s.

As the surgeon wiped his hands on his stained apron, I pictured
the girl’s naked legs. There was no time to waste. “One of the milkmaids gashed her leg and it’s corrupted. Mother needs your help right away.”

“Corrupted?” The surgeon picked something out from under his fingernail. “How corrupted?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “I didn’t get a good look. But Mother says it’s bad. She wants you right away.”

The assistant had already begun to collect the surgeon’s things, which he arranged in a small wooden case. “I’ll head straight over,” the surgeon said. Then he winked at me. “Don’t want you losing one of your pretty milkmaids.”

As I followed the surgeon outside, Bartholomew Raisin jumped in front of me like an overgrown frog. “Where are you going?” he asked.

“Got to get home and load the wagon. It’s almost time to open the shop.”

“Hold up there. You’ll listen to me, Owen Oak. You got to hear this. It concerns you.”

As the surgeon climbed into his wagon and headed down the street, I folded my arms and looked down into Bartholomew’s puffy eyes. There’d be no getting rid of him. He’d follow me around like a tail. “I’m listening.”

Bartholomew smiled. “You remember the guy with the missing eye, the one you fought? The win that got you that pretty prize?” He pointed to my belt.

“Course I remember. It was only last night. I didn’t get punched in the head.”

“He said he was leaving, right? You remember him saying he was leaving?”

“Yeah. He said he was just passing through.”

Bartholomew rubbed his hands together. “Well, he never did leave. He’s still here and he wants to fight you again. Surgeon stitched up his forehead good and tight and he says he’s ready. Tonight.”

“Tonight?” Surprised by this news, I took a long breath. I’d hit the one-eyed man hard. He was a big lout, a laborer of some kind so his thick arms were used to lifting and hauling, not throwing swift punches. My hand still ached. “I already fought him,” I said, heading for my horse. “It’s done.”

“But I’m collecting the wagers,” Bartholomew said, keeping close to my heels. His pockets jiggled, heavy with coin.

“I never agreed to the fight. The wagers aren’t my problem.” I untied Father’s horse.

“Listen to me, Owen Oak.” Bartholomew grabbed the reins. “The wagers are mostly
against
you.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Why would they be against me? I beat him. I won.”

“Sure, you beat him. You won. But he’s bigger than you. And he’s mad this time. Real mad. He’s not the kind to take to losing.” Bartholomew held his tongue for a moment, watching while I considered this news. Then, knowing exactly how to goad his best fighter, Bartholomew stood on tiptoe and said, “He says it was luck that brought your victory. Said you don’t deserve that belt. Said you need to be taught a lesson.”

I clenched my jaw. Father had told me not to fight until spring had passed so as not to bring more sorrow to my mother. Spring days might have been blessed by gentle sunshine, but they were also tainted by the memory of a daughter’s death.

“You’ll fight him, won’t you?” Bartholomew asked. “You can’t let him say you won because of luck. You can’t let him say you don’t deserve that belt. You’ll fight him? Tonight?”

Even knowing that Bartholomew only wanted to make a profit, I couldn’t ignore the challenge. “Yeah,” I said. “I’ll fight him.”

I worked the shop all afternoon. Mother never joined me, staying home to tend to the dirt-scratcher girl. Between filling crocks with butter and jugs with milk, I wondered how the girl was doing. But honestly, I thought more about the upcoming fight. It didn’t help that Bartholomew kept stopping by, reminding me of the event, his irises pulsating with greed. I wanted to get it over with, wanted to defend my reputation. I’d avoid any hits to my face and Mother would be none the wiser.

So right after closing, I stood barefoot on the dirt floor. My vest, shirt, and boots lay outside the fight circle. But I kept the snakeskin belt around my britches, a reminder of my previous victory. The circle had been raked and its perimeter marked by a thick line of flour—an expensive boundary, but cost was no issue to Bartholomew Raisin. He offered the best barefist fights in all the Wanderlands. His building had been erected solely for that purpose.

The crowd grew by the minute as men pushed inside the building. No women, though. It wasn’t that women weren’t allowed, but if one should happen to step inside, she would risk irreparable damage to her reputation. But Bartholomew had long ago discovered that many of the merchants’ wives loved to gamble, so he’d visit them and take their wagers in secret.

It was normal for my stomach to tighten just before a fight. No win was guaranteed. A scrawny man could surprise everyone with unexpected strength. A short man could possess an unnerving ability to soar through the air. But landing face-first in the dirt wasn’t something the one-eyed man had expected. And now he was furious enough to demand a rematch even though his forehead was being held together by the surgeon’s stitches.

I stretched my fingers, trying to ignore their bruises. I liked to wait at least a week between fights so my hands could heal from the blows they’d delivered. But this time I’d broken my own rule.

When the one-eyed man stepped into the circle, anger boiled in his good eye. Sweat glistened on his broad, hairy chest. It didn’t worry me that my chest was half the size and hairless. Advantage came not from size or age, but from nimble feet and quick reflexes. The anger worried me though. Fighting an angry man was tricky. Angry men tended to ignore rules, their only intent to inflict pain.

He cracked his knuckles and glared at me. I took a deep breath and scanned the crowd. Bartholomew Raisin was collecting the final wagers. “Owen, Owen,” a few men called. I grinned and nodded at them, trying to push away the doubts about my sore hands. The drummer pounded three times—the signal that the fight would begin.

“You’re gonna lose,” the one-eyed man called from across the circle. His words were slurred. He wobbled, as if about to fall over. Was he drunk? He staggered forward, pointing. “I’m gonna …” He staggered from side to side. “I’m gonna …”

My father had fought in his youth, before marrying my mother. He’d always told me, “Never fight a man who’s clouded by drink. He’s as likely as an assassin to pull a knife on you.”

“I’m not fighting him,” I called. “He’s drunk. I’m not fighting him!”

“What’s this?” Bartholomew asked as the crowd quieted. He hurried into the circle.

“He’s drunk,” I repeated. “I’m not fighting a drunk.”

“Coward,” the one-eyed man said, spittle dribbling on his chin.

“Look at him. He can barely stand up.” I motioned with disgust.

Bartholomew grabbed my arm and whispered in my ear. “Do you know how much coin I’ve collected? Do you know what I stand to lose?”

“I don’t care about your profit.” I pulled my arm from his grip. “I want a fair fight.”

Bartholomew grabbed my belt buckle and pulled me close. “Who cares about a fair fight?” he hissed between clenched teeth. He looked over his shoulder, smiled, and waved at the restless crowd. Then he turned back to me. “You agreed. You accepted the fight. One punch and you’ll knock him right off his stupid drunk feet.”

“Quit talking and fight,” the one-eyed man bellowed. Then he lumbered across the circle, pushed Bartholomew aside, and swung at me. I darted out of the way. The man growled. “Running away,
are ya? Too scared to fight me?” He swung again, a slow awkward punch that I easily sidestepped. This would be no match. On the third swing, the man tripped over his own feet and landed face-first into the crowd. A roar of laughter filled the air.

Humiliation bloomed in the man’s reddening face. Twice he’d ended up on the ground, twice he’d been laughed at. This humiliation would fester and feed his anger. I needed to calm the situation. “Sober up and I’ll fight you tomorrow,” I told him, loud enough so everyone could hear. “You’re a worthy opponent when sober.” I was about to reach out my hand to help him up, but changed my mind. It was too much of a risk. The crowd made way as I left the fight circle.

“Owen!” someone yelled. “Watch out!”

I swung around. The one-eyed man lunged like a bull, his head ramming into my chest. Something cracked and pain shot up my side. I tumbled backward, the man landing on top of me, pinning me to the ground. I couldn’t breathe as he grabbed my throat. Looking into eyes reddened by drink and fury, I tried to pry the man’s fingers loose, knowing it was only moments before my windpipe would snap. As his fingers tightened, an odd sense of calm came over me. This was how I was going to die.

“Help him!”

Voices rose and the crowd rushed into the circle. Onlookers pulled the man off and held him as he flailed and clawed the air. I should have jumped to my feet, should have made my exit. But I couldn’t move. With each shallow breath, pain shot across my chest and down my legs.

“He broke the rules. He attacked when his opponent’s back was turned. Get him outta here,” Bartholomew ordered, and the one-eyed man was dragged from the building. Then Bartholomew leaned over me. “You want me to reschedule the match?” he asked. “We don’t want to miss out on this opportunity. I think we could make double the coin if we reschedule.”

“Shut up,” I snapped. “And get me the damn surgeon.”

As shouts for the surgeon rang across the building, I stared up at the wide timbers that supported the ceiling. It wasn’t the broken rib or the surgeon’s instruments of torture that worried me at that moment. It was the pain my mother would feel when she learned I’d been fighting.

Voices drifted in and out. Light pierced my eyelids, then faded. Sleep kept a tight hold on me, like a cocoon around a caterpillar. Warm. Cozy. Safe.

I opened my eyes.

I’d never slept on anything so soft. The bed was wider than my outstretched arms, and my body melted into the mattress. I slid my hands over the blanket. No moth holes, no itchy fibers. Where had such a smooth blanket come from?

I turned my face toward the light. From the gentle way it streamed through the window, I guessed it was morning. As my eyes adjusted, the outline of the window came into focus, as did the plaster wall, the corner chair, the little table with a vase of honeysuckle.

This was not my room. This was not our cottage.

I sat up. Pain shot down my leg. My lungs burned when I breathed. My head felt heavy, my thoughts as thick as mud. I
raised the blanket and peered beneath. The white nightfrock did not belong to me. Where was my work dress? Someone had stolen my clothes. Who would want a stained dress in exchange for this beautiful frock? I raised the blanket higher and gasped. My boots were gone. My feet, bare.