by Bridget Zinn
Little did he know it had already lasted three months. “Yeah, um, that’s true. It’s just a short trip to my sis—I mean, cousin’s house. Delivering the pig, you know, as a gift. To her. Well, really, his kid. I mean, her kid. Right. So anyway, it’s only a few days’ journey and I didn’t plan that well.”
She had spoken to so few people in the past three months that she didn’t really have much practice lying.
“You’re giving Rosie away?” Fred’s green-gold eyes watched the small pig in front of him. “To be a kid’s pet?”
“Yup.”
“I never would have guessed it. She seems so attached to you. Sort of sophisticated for a kid’s pet, too.”
“Sophisticated?”
“Yes, sophisticated. Don’t give me that look. She has a very distinct personality, and it’s most certainly not the rough-and-tumble-with-kids kind.”
“We’ll see.”
“Yes, you will.” Fred squeezed her arm gently.
The long shadows of sunset had disappeared and dusk was settling when Kyra heard water tumbling over rocks up ahead. As they broke through the trees, the shush-shushing of the water grew louder. There was a stream, no more than a sword’s length across, falling over a small rocky ledge to a clear pool below.
“Perfect,” Kyra said, thinking immediately of her laundry.
“For?”
“We should make camp soon, don’t you think?” Kyra asked.
“So I’m going to have the pleasure of your company this evening? I had the idea that you were against socializing with strange men.”
“It’s going to be full-on night soon. It just makes sense to share camp tonight.” Then she realized that a young man like Fred, especially a young man who looked the way Fred did, could take that invitation entirely wrong. “I mean—you know—in a friendly sort of way.”
His eyes crinkled at the corners in amusement. “As opposed to an unfriendly sort of way.”
“Er, yes.”
“Sure.” Fred ran his hands through his perpetually rumpled brown hair, seeming to forget his wound, and flinching. “I suppose we could do that.”
“Well, you don’t have to sound so excited about it.”
“I would be honored to share a fire with you, Kitty. In a friendly sort of way.”
FRED STARTED BUILDING a fire from bits of leaves and twigs in a small clearing. “We’re going to need more wood.”
“I’ll get it!” Kyra said. “I have some, uh, other things to attend to anyway.” No way was she wearing these undergarments one more day when there was a perfectly good stream to do laundry in just down the hill. “I’ll get the wood on my way back.”
“Things to attend to?” Fred looked up, small puffs of smoke rising in front of his face.
“I have some items of clothing I need to clean. Which I’m going to go do. Down at the stream. By myself.”
“Didn’t everything you own get soaked when you took a dive into the river earlier?”
“Getting something wet doesn’t make it clean. You don’t do laundry by dipping it in water and hoping for the best.”
“You don’t?”
Kyra grabbed her pack and set off down the hill.
“You need some help?” He called after her. “I’m really good at dipping things in water and hoping for the best.”
“I’ll be just fine, thank you.”
Fred shrugged and put another twig on the fire.
At the stream, Kyra squirted her Rapid Cleaning potion onto her dirty clothes—and her more practical underthings, simply cut shifts and bottoms made with plain soft cloth. No bows, see-through sections, or embroidered cats. A fine layer of silt from the Iota River had made its way into everything. Gently, Kyra swished the clothes in the water, watching the sediment float off into the clear current.
Swish, swish, swish.
What was she doing camping with a handsome stranger when she should be out hunting down the princess?
Well, she had to eat and sleep, didn’t she? She’d fought goblins, after all. And a greck! And it really would be irresponsible to leave Fred alone so soon after his head injury. Just one night of good food and a warm fire. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?
Kyra wrung out her clothes and went back up the hill. She stopped just short of their campsite and delicately hung each item out to dry on the branches of a couple of tiny pines.
“Kyra?” Fred’s voice came through the trees. “Is that you?”
“Just getting firewood, be right there.”
Several armfuls of wood and degrees of darkness later, Kyra sat across the fire from Fred, slicing potatoes with a camp knife.
Fred, the sleeves of his jacket rolled up, drizzled oil on the trout fillets and sprinkled them with seasoning he’d pulled from his pack. Rosie and Langley were sleeping together under a tree—the big dog curled around the tiny pig, the pig’s muzzle tucked into the dog’s belly.
The sun was completely gone, leaving only bare pink streaks in the sky. Dark outlines of trees surrounded their camp, and at the center was the crackling fire. Kyra never dared to have a fire—it would attract too much attention—but she felt safe having one with Fred. No one was on the lookout for two travelers—just for one decidedly unfriendly woman.
The potatoes were sprinkled with fresh herbs and placed into Fred’s small round cooking pot, which Kyra covered and placed carefully in the center of the coals.
While Fred wrapped the fish in a cooking packet, Kyra picked up his seasoning jar and tried to read the words written on the label by the light of her necklace.
“You won’t be able to read it,” Fred said, without glancing at her. “It’s written in Cryptic Lorienne.”
“And you can read Cryptic Lorienne?”
Fred laid the fish packet beside the pot. “I’ve picked up a thing or two in my travels, though I’ve never seen anything quite like that necklace. Where did you get it?”
Kyra cupped her hands around the glowing stone. “A friend.”
“Thoughtful friend to give you something both beautiful and useful.”
“I guess so.”
“It suits you.”
“That almost sounds like a compliment.”
“I think you’ve underestimated what a nice guy I am. Compliments and dinner—really, Kitty, what woman could resist?”
“Save the compliments. I’m here for the food.”
Kyra smiled to herself and watched the glowing coals.
“What?” she asked when she realized Fred was watching her from the other side of the fire, the light flickering across his face.
“Nothing.” He shook his head. “You seem unusually relaxed.”
“You’ve pretty much only seen me drowning and running from goblins, so you haven’t got all that much to go on.”
“True. But you really seem to enjoy”—he spread his hands wide—“thinking about dinner.”
“Yeah, well, one of my roommates said it was either incredibly freaky genetics or a gift from the gods that I’m not enormously fat. I like food. I like mixing ingredients and discovering how they work together.” Tiny little flames reached around the coals to lick the potato pot.
“You sound like my dad talking about work. He’s always going on about the essential qualities of different perfumes and how they combine.”
“Really?” The charcoaley smell of roasted fish and vegetables was starting to scent the air between them, and the warm glow of the fire had heated Kyra straight through. She felt strangely safe in the patch of firelight inside the dense surrounding of trees.
Fred shrugged. “Family business. Unfortunately, as the youngest son, there wasn’t much room for me, so I decided to take off and travel, see what the world has to offer.”
“I can’t imagine. I’ve always known exactly what I wanted to do.”
“What is that?”
Kyra’s muscles tensed. “Um…dairymaid.”
“You’re a dairymaid?”
“Yep.”
> “Huh. So, what, you like, make butter and stuff?”
Dairymaid? Couldn’t she have come up with something better than that? She guessed it could be worse—she did have more than a passing knowledge of dairy craft. Domestic Studies were a required part of potioner training. Of course, she’d grumbled like all of the other apprentices, but her Hiccoughing Butter and Sweet Dreams Pots de Crème had gotten top scores. Honestly, she loved potions almost no matter what area they were in. Even cosmetics came in handy—she’d learned how to make a glamour that changed her appearance when she needed a disguise.
“Mm-hm,” Kyra said, in answer to Fred’s question. “So tell me about this olive oil. Where’s it from?”
She relaxed again as the subject switched back to cooking. She didn’t know why she was feeling so comfortable. Somewhere deep in her bones she knew it was dangerous to feel that way.
Her first bite of fish made the niggling feeling of danger evaporate immediately. “This is so good. What is in that spice mix?”
“Now, I may be a lot of things, Kitty, but a spoiler of ancient Lorienne secret recipes I am not. You’ll have to learn the language and find out.”
Kyra threw a pinecone at him. Then took a bite of potatoes.
Fred chuckled, catching the expression on Kyra’s face.
“What?” she said, her mouth full. “It’s really good!”
He nodded, still watching her. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it so much.” He reached out and added wood to the campfire before turning to his own meal.
The conversation fell away as they dug into their food.
The flames grew, crackling as they licked the fresh tinder. The fire shifted and sparks flew up into the air between them.
Kyra ate slowly, savoring each tasty forkful.
When the last bit of fish and potatoes were gone, Fred leaned back on his elbows across the fire. “So, you’ve got roommates?”
Kyra answered with care. “Two of them. They’re my business partners—we have a dairy business together.”
“It seems like that would be a lot of time together, living and working with the same people.”
“Usually we get along just fine. Sometimes better than others. But we all love what we’re doing.” This was completely true, and it wrenched Kyra for a moment. She was the one who’d brought them together to form the Master Trio—she’d seen in Hal’s and Ned’s eyes the same passion for potionery and had known they would make an amazing team. They were both a few years older, and Kyra had attended lectures by them while still an apprentice.
Hal’s lectures had drawn huge crowds—mostly giggling girls, many of whom weren’t even potioners. Kyra didn’t care that he was handsome—in fact, his fussy blue silk and velvet outfit might have turned her away if not for the spark in his eyes when he presented his ideas. His potion theories were revolutionary, and he seemed to have a passion for his work.
When Kyra finally extended an invitation to join her in business, she wrote him the most formal letter possible. She wanted him to know right from the start how serious she was.
Ned’s lecture, on the other hand, had been poorly attended despite the name he’d made for himself, but he hadn’t seemed to mind. His clothes fell in wrinkles over his big belly, and it looked like he’d just randomly picked them up off the floor; but when he spoke he’d had the same spark as Hal.
Ned had ended his lecture by saying, “So, yeah, that’s what I’m working on right now, but, hey, you don’t want to hear me yammer on anymore. Anyone up for some meat loaf? I’ve heard the place across the street has the best.”
Kyra had gone with him, but only because she felt bad.
She felt worse after tasting the meat loaf. “Actually,” she said, “I’m pretty sure mine’s better.”
Ned’s round face lit up. “Do you use cumin? I don’t know why more people don’t use it. It’s pricey, but a small investment for so much goodness.”
Later, when she’d written to invite him to join the business, she’d included a recipe for her most recent improvement to meat loaf.
In the end, though, she hadn’t chosen them for their personalities or how they dressed. She’d chosen them because they were the best at what they did, and because they both loved potions. Just like she did.
When things had been good, energy sparked through the flat, and they made potions and poisons that did things no one would have ever thought possible. Everything seemed right with the world. The memories caused Kyra to ache all over, knowing these events would never happen again.
She realized that Fred was watching her. His eyes flickered with the flames from the fire. She looked away.
“You really do love your work, don’t you?” Fred said. “I can see it on your face when you’re thinking about it.”
“Yeah, I guess I do.”
“I’ve never felt anything like that. Watching you makes me feel like I’m missing out on something.”
Kyra couldn’t meet his eyes. “It isn’t so easy. There’s always a price for love.”
Fred was quiet for a minute, and he came around the fire to her side. His shoulder brushed against hers. “I don’t know anything about working, but I do know a little something about love.”
Kyra’s breath caught in her throat, but when she looked up she saw he was smiling, his face inches away from her own.
“Have you ever heard the song ‘My Love’s a Bonny Lady, if Only She Weren’t a Fish’?”
“Is it about a mermaid?”
Fred shook his head. “Nope.”
Fred taught her the song, and soon she was joining in on the refrain:
Her skin’s as pretty as lilies, her eyes as bright as a star,
If only she could come up here, she’d be the prettiest girl by far.
Alas, she’s under the ocean, I cannot kiss her there,
For whenever I duck my head under, I come gasping up for air.
A kiss, a kiss, I’d give my fish a kiss.
My lady lies under the ocean where I cannot get a kiss.
Fred beamed at her as she finished the verse. “Okay,” he said, “now you’ve got to learn the hand motions. Keep rhythm with your foot and lift your hand up as though you’ve got a mug of beer in it.”
He raised her arm and folded her fingers around an imaginary mug handle. “Now pretend you’re in the pub, swinging the mug to the tune, and when you get to the part ‘whenever I duck my head under,’ duck your head”—gently, he pushed her head down and to the side—“and tip the mug. It’s not quite as entertaining without the beer actually splashing down on your face, but you get the idea.”
Kyra’s long hair caressed her cheek. From that angle she asked, “Are you serious? You pour beer on your face?”
“Well, you aim for your mouth.”
“I’m sure this is extremely popular with pub owners.”
“If it keeps the customers happy… Once through with the hand motions?”
For some reason, the ridiculous drinking song reminded Kyra of her dad. He would love Fred.
Kyra quashed the thought as quickly as it had sprung up on her. She couldn’t think of her family.
They sang it through together, complete with imaginary beer. The way he watched her sing made her feel as undressed as she’d been when they’d first met.
When they finished, Fred picked up the cooking pot. “I’m going to go give this a quick rinse.”
Kyra was warm all over. She pulled her bedroll out and snuggled down into it.
A few minutes later, a chuckle came from behind her. “Kitty, don’t be alarmed, but this part of the forest seems to be populated by a bush I’ve never seen before.”
“Hmmm…?”
“It seems to be sprouting women’s underthings.”
Kyra sat bolt upright. “Leave those underthings alone.”
Fred sat beside her. “I wouldn’t dream of touching such an unusual plant. It’s probably poisonous.”
“Ha-ha.”
“Well, it isn’t
as though I haven’t seen them before. Though I must say, I think I’m more fond of that lacy see-through model I saw you in earlier.”
“Good night, Fred.” Kyra lay back down on her bedroll.
“’Night, Kitty.”
Kyra smiled despite herself. She shut her eyes and, feeling fed and content for the first time in a long time, fell right to sleep.
Kyra woke before dawn the next morning with a start, cold wet dew clinging to her meager blanket. Rosie had sought her out sometime in the night and was curled beside her under the damp cover. Fred was less than a foot away in his own bedroll, sleeping as though he hadn’t a care in the world. For one second she wanted to curl back up and sink into the warm feeling she’d fallen asleep with.
What was she doing? Kyra sat up, shivering.
Last night there had been singing.
She had been singing.
And the way Fred had looked at her when they were singing…
She’d acted like some crazy pleasure-potion addict last night. Practically selling her soul for a single hot-cooked meal. She was the potions weapons expert, a dangerous assassin living on the fringes of society. She was tracking the princess. In order to kill her. People like her did not share friendly campfires with strange young men. Especially not young men like Fred.
No, she consorted with criminals. Kyra felt suddenly sick all over again at the thought of working with Arlo.
She needed to focus on her mission.
Fred was still sleeping, his face completely relaxed.
She carefully moved the sleeping pig to one side, rose, and quietly rolled up her bedding and blanket. She tied it to her pack, then silently left a stack of coins by the fire, where she knew Fred would find them.
Scribbling “Thanks” with a stick in the dirt, Kyra hesitated, then signed “Kitty” after it.
She tucked the pig under her arm, plucked her underthings from the trees, and set off on her own.
Once she was far enough away from the campsite, she set the little pig on the ground, and Rosie dutifully snuffled and led the way forward. Every now and then, she turned her little pink face back to make sure Kyra was behind her.
Kyra wanted to shout, “Of course I’m following you! You’re the seeking pig!”