Secondhand Charm

by Julie Berry

  Priscilla was right. He was handsome. His hair was chestnut, his eyes dark and sparkling in the torchlight. I knew he was just a man like any other, but I couldn’t help a giddy thrill. I’m standing next to the king! The comely, athletic, youthful bachelor king …

  But those dark eyes were worried. “Please lead me to the patient,” I said.

  “Do you have tools?” King Leopold asked. “Medicines? What do you propose to do?”

  What did I propose to do?

  “Heal him.” Then I panicked. “Or at least do all that I can.”

  The king’s mouth was grim. After a moment’s pause, he turned on one heel and led me to the next carriage over.

  Chill night air blew through the corners of the carriage. A short, stout man lay stretched across the rear seat. I felt heat radiating off his forehead before I even touched it. From time to time his body was racked with choking coughs. The stuffy air inside the carriage stank of his sickly breath.

  I knelt beside him and lay my hands on his forehead and under his neck. He burned terribly. Lumps swelled on either side of his throat. I pressed his head between both hands and palpated his scalp while I tried to think. He needed treatment, but Maundley wouldn’t thank me if I brought this illness into our village.

  The patient took a long, slow breath. I realized he was sighing with relief at my touch.

  “What do you suggest?”

  I’d forgotten the king was there.

  “Ask Mayor Snow to obtain a room for him at the Galloping Goose,” I said. “He’ll need to be carried there, stripped, and bathed in lukewarm water. Ask my grandfather to send a bottle of cider, and ask the inn to send up a bowl of broth.”

  The sick man coughed painfully.

  “Also ask Widow Moreau—she’s the old woman who runs the town—to find me some catnip and licorice root. And honey.”

  King Leopold nodded and backed out of the carriage.

  “And garlic,” I called after him. “Ample garlic.”

  I rubbed my patient’s temples and jawbone. Had I done wrong, giving orders to the king himself? The sober way he received them was some reassurance.

  In minutes the king returned with another of his company, and the two men heaved the sick man up off his couch and out of the carriage. I followed after, gulping in the fresh air.

  At the Galloping Goose, serving women attended to the bath. By careful eavesdropping at the bar I learned the patient was Chancellor of the Exchequer. A weighty title indeed.

  “As I suspected,” I told Aidan while we waited at the inn. “A glorified tax collector.”

  “No wonder the king values him so.”

  I peeled cloves of garlic, crushed them underneath an empty beer mug, and dropped them into a bowl of water. “Even tax collectors deserve to live,” I said.

  “That,” Aidan said, wrinkling his nose—I assumed at the garlic—“is a matter of opinion.”

  I set aside my garlic brew, then bathed shredded licorice root and catnip leaves in boiling water, spooned in a great glob of honey, and put a lid on the teapot. My medicines were ready.

  The door to the room opened, and a young, pale courtier with a narrow nose appeared.

  “The Lord Chancellor will see you now,” he told me.

  I carried my teapot and garlic water up the stairs. The thin courtier showed me into a room with a lamp lit by the bed, where the Lord Chancellor sat propped against pillows, wearing a clean nightshirt. The king sat in a corner with a cloak draped over himself.

  “And this is she?” my patient said. “My ministering angel?”

  I couldn’t tell if he was sincere or mocking. His face was round and red, with a smooth bald crown on top and a full neck rippling down from his chin.

  I set down my brews and placed my hands upon his head and neck one more time. At my touch, he closed his eyes and sighed blissfully.

  “You’re not cured,” I said. “Only cooled and refreshed from your bath. You’re still feverish, though less so.”

  “That’s something you do, there, with your hands,” the Lord Chancellor said. “Marvelously cool. Like peeled grapes on a summer’s day.”

  “I wouldn’t know about peeled grapes,” I said. I poured him catnip and licorice tea. “Drain this teapot over the next hour,” I said. “Then sleep all you can.”

  He saluted me. “I must obey the doctor’s orders.”

  “In the morning, you’re to drink all the water in this bowl,” I said. “You won’t be thanking me then. But it will help the aggravation in your throat. The innkeeper can make you more of this tea in the morning. And you should have some thin porridge for breakfast.”

  He took a swig from his cup, winced, and took another. “Porridge? Has it really come to that?” He held out his soft, dimpled hand. “Christopher Appleton’s my name, my good girl.”

  “You see, Appleton?” the king said. “Just what I’ve been telling you. You see what a difference a charming young lady can make, eh?”

  “Balderdash,” said the Lord Chancellor. “One good apple doesn’t mend the whole spoiled barrel. You’d do well to remember that. Meaning no offense to those present.” He winked at me.

  “Mind your manners,” the king said cheerfully. “If I could afford to manage without you, I’d cut out your tongue for that insinuation.”

  I curtsied and turned to go. “I’ll come again in the morning, before the feast begins.”

  The king startled us both by clapping his hands loudly. “By Jove, that’s right,” he said. “The feast day. It’s what we’ve come for, isn’t it?” Then he reached for my hand. “We are much obliged to you,” he said. “I wouldn’t know what to do without Appleton. What is your name?”

  “Evelyn,” I said. “Evelyn Pomeroy.”

  The king smiled broadly, showing a splendid set of teeth. I would have to report them to Priscilla.

  “Evelyn Pomeroy,” he said. “That’s a name I expect we shall be hearing again.”

  Chapter 7

  The Lord Chancellor’s breath was still foul in the morning, but not his temper. He took his porridge and tea, and drank the garlic drink dutifully while I glared at him, so I knew he’d mend. I started another batch of garlic steeping, then headed to Saint Bronwyn’s mass much relieved.

  The choirboys, under the direction of Father Pius, staged a holy reenactment of Saint Bronwyn’s virtuous life. I was fond of Maundley’s patron saint, who had been kind to animals and ever carried soup to the suffering poor. But it was hard to remember that this was a holy reenactment as I watched a fuming, mortified twelve-year-old boy who had been cast, regrettably, as the good lady herself, stomping through his motions under Father Pius’s watchful, bushy eyebrows.

  We were all glad to exit the church and make our way to the festivities.

  The common had become a wonderland. Bright stalls lined one side, gypsy wagons unfolded like mechanical toys along the next, and cooking fires dotted another. Village women hawked and bartered handicrafts, and gypsy women did the same with their marvelous beads and scarves, knives and pots. Apples stuffed with raisins baked in an outdoor oven, while luscious scents wafted from the fire pit where the boar roasted underground in hickory coals. On the green itself were the games, foot races, sack races, and three-legged races for all ages. Next came contests, wrestling and hammer throwing and archery. Some gypsies joined in the games, and a few Maundleyans got their tempers ruffled when blue ribbons were claimed by gypsies. The king himself watched the games with keen interest, even cheering for the winners.

  Grandfather had made me a little present that morning of five guineas, for all my hard work at school. I protested and tried to make him keep it, but he insisted that I take the money. “Treat yourself to something nice at the fair,” he said. “Some token to remember this day.”

  And so I browsed the stalls, taking my time luxuriously, feeling rich as a queen. I fingered fabrics, leather valises and wallets, wood carvings, and hair pins.

  “Pretty girl want to buy a pretty
charm?”

  The woman gazed at me through penetrating dark brown eyes. She was tall and handsome, with broad shoulders and cheekbones, and curls of salt-and-pepper hair poking out from under a red scarf. She seemed to sway slightly, as though she were remembering a dance, and her skirts, spangled with dots, swished around her hips.

  She tapped me on the nose. “Come, see my special charms I save, just for you.”

  Before I could answer she seized my wrist. Hers tinkled with a dozen bracelets as she led me past the trinkets for sale in her stall. She pulled out a wooden box. Inside, on thin woven cords of colored silk, were a gorgeous riot of bangles to be worn as pendants around the neck.

  Without thinking, I reached for a charm, a black rock polished to an incredible gloss, with a perfectly smooth hole in the center, through which a red cord threaded.

  “How much is this one?”

  “Ah, you like that?” she said. She thumped her breastbone. “Girls like you choose what your heart needs. Centuries ago, that very charm was worn by a duchess in Rovary.”

  Fiddlesticks, I thought. These look like she made them last week. I dropped the shiny stone. “What do you mean, ‘girls like me’?”

  She watched me sideways, her high eyebrows arching. “Eh? No? Pani-sap-rakli?”

  I took a step back.

  She reached for my hand again. “Nothing, nothing. Don’t listen to the old woman muttering! Come, come, I sell you draba. Charms. This one, for you? Eight pennies.”

  She draped the charm over me. It slid into place around my neck like it belonged there.

  “Eight pennies,” she sang, her hoop earrings swinging. I handed her one of my guineas, not knowing how to do otherwise.

  “Tell me what this charm does,” I said.

  She patted my cheek. “It’s love charm,” she whispered. “Rovarian duchess, she use it to win the heart of daring general in Rovarian army. For you, in order to work, you need to think of one you love, every time you put on.”

  I laughed. “No fear, then,” I said. “Let me buy another of these for my friend.”

  I found a matching charm with a ring of black stone. Rovarian duchess indeed! What, did she have a sister? Two charms just the same? No matter. I would enjoy presenting this to Prissy.

  The woman counted out my change and pressed it into my palm, then folded my own fingers over it. “Tell you what I do for you. You choose another charm, no? Another draba for the pretty rakli. For only three pennies more I give him to you, you such good customer.”

  I found a delicate snowflake pattern, made entirely of frail twigs lashed together with what looked like cobweb. The cord was emerald green, and the twigs had their bark stripped off, leaving the pale yellow wood bare. It reminded me of a wild spring blossom.

  “You like that? Three pennies.”

  I handed her the money. “And what does this give me?”

  She pursed her lips. “Luck,” she said. “Extra special good luck. Used by a princess in Nondavurg, always very clumsy, until she wear this.”

  I smiled. Preposterous! Yet I could almost believe she meant it.

  “Thank you very much.” I turned to leave.

  “Wait wait! One more, you are needing to have!” she cried. “I feel it in my back teeth. Come, I give last charm, one penny.” She thrust the box at me. “Find the charm calling you.”

  There was something about her that was impossible to refuse. This, I figured, was how she earned a living huckstering worthless trinkets. But the bright silk cords lay tangled in the box like maypole ribbons. At the bottom, on a drab string, was an odd-shaped nugget of waxed bone.

  “This is a curious one,” I said. “It doesn’t seem to fit with the others.” I stroked the bone, feeling its tiny nubs, wondering what kind of creature it once belonged to and how long ago it lived. A vertebra, I was inclined to think. As a scientific puzzle, this charm intrigued me.

  She watched me through narrowed eyes. “So,” she said. “This is what you choose.”

  “Oh, I didn’t say that,” I said. “I was just noticing it.”

  She held out her hand for it, and I found mine gripping it tightly.

  I released my grip and laughed a little. “I suppose I have chosen it,” I said. “For a penny. Maybe it has chosen me.” I paid my price. “What does this charm give me?”

  She put her box of charms away, under the table and out of sight. “Protection,” she said. “From snakebite. Good-bye.”

  Chapter 8

  I wandered away from her stall, deep in thought. All that hocus pocus about choosing the charm you needed was nonsense. Wasn’t it? Love, luck—every gullible fool wanted love or luck. It was nothing more than coincidence that I’d just had a snakebite, and a tiny one at that.

  I found Prissy helping her mother at the handicrafts table, and gave her my present.

  “It’s a love charm.” I slipped it over her head. “Think of Matthew Dunwoody every time you put it on.”

  “That butcher’s son,” she fumed. “Thinks he looks so grand for the dancing girls in his new leather breeches.”

  “Well, does he?”

  Prissy scowled. “Thanks for the necklace. I see you got yourself one too.” She gave me a meaningful look. “Who’s the lucky fellow?”

  “Hah. I only bought one because it was pretty.”

  Matthew Dunwoody passed by, deep in conversation with Roger Thomas, the carpenter’s son, when both stopped at the sight of us.

  “Good morning, Evie,” Matthew said. “Don’t you look rosy today!”

  Priscilla pressed her lips together tightly. “Good morning, Roger,” she said, deliberately ignoring Matthew. “A fair day we have for our feast.”

  “Not as fair as the pretty girls who’ve joined the celebration,” Roger said, bowing. Chiefly in my direction.

  Praise be, they left. I tried to compose my face. Poor Priscilla was having a harder time.

  She folded her arms across her chest. “What came over them?”

  It was a reasonable question. I’d never had such attention from village lads before. Neither Priscilla nor I had ever been written in on the list of Bonniest Girls in Town. In matters of spelling and arithmetic we were the undisputed champions, but regarding beauty …

  “Pay no attention,” I said. “They probably spent the morning at the Galloping Goose.”

  The athletic games wound to a close, and everyone headed for the makeshift pavilion erected in honor of Saint Bronwyn’s Day. Sister Claire herded us there for the school exhibition, but first I bought a pair of crocheted infant’s trousers for baby Brom. It would give me an excuse to stop by Hannah Croft’s later and see how he was getting on.

  I lined up with the other students and watched the village settle uncomfortably onto the benches under the pavilion. I felt embarrassed, holding the town captive while we students recited our lessons. After the exhilaration of the contests and games, we were bound to be a disappointment. But they sat politely.

  Grandfather sat in the very front row, looking smart in his red checkered shirt and brown trousers. King Leopold himself sat and listened to the recitations. I wondered why he was so interested in our small village school. I confess I watched him more than I watched Sister Claire.

  The littlest ones sang the well-known geography song. “Fairest Pylander, home and native soil; Rovary, south, where the whalers toil; Merlia, west, on the breast of the sea; Danelind, north, where the hunters be.” They followed it with a children’s psalm, then bobbed and curtsied to their mothers and received smiles from the king for their charms.

  Having the king present for recitation day was such a startling novelty that when my turn came I nearly faltered and called the behemoth a dragon. It was a great relief to finally sit down.

  Then Sister Claire rose.

  “Good people of Maundley,” she said, “permit me now to announce the winner of the top academic prize at my school.”

  I bit the insides of my cheeks. Let my face show nothing! Don’t hope for
this prize, Evelyn. Be good enough to wish it for Priscilla. But I couldn’t entirely master myself. Oh, how I wanted to end my education with that prize. I was ashamed of how badly I wanted it. I caught myself clutching my good luck charm.

  “This year’s winner is,” Sister Claire said, with maddening delay, “Priscilla Hornby!”

  Oh.

  I turned and embraced Priscilla and kissed her. Truly, I was glad for her success, but more truly, I needed to do something to mask my disappointment.

  Sister Claire clapped along with the rest of Maundley. She watched us both.

  What did it matter anyway? Top prize or no top prize. What difference could that possibly make to how the sun rose and set?

  Sister Claire held up her hands. She looked like she was about to do something unplanned—which for her was most unusual. “I want to add that this year’s decision was especially difficult.” An anxious look flickered across Mrs. Hornby’s face. “Allow me, please, to designate Evelyn Pomeroy with an honorable mention.”

  And now Priscilla embraced me, over the fresh wave of applause, and I wondered how to keep my face still. Somehow this was worse, to be singled out as the runner-up. If I couldn’t win, I would rather have remained obscure.

  The king strode to the platform where we stood with Sister Claire and bowed to her, which made her cheeks flush. The women present gasped at this gallantry. With his elbows cocked at his sides, his embroidered waistcoat, and a green cape flowing over his shoulders, he could even make a nun blush. Why did it irk me that he had seen me take second place?

  “We are most impressed with the achievements of your students here in Maundley,” he said, resting a hand on Priscilla’s shoulder. She looked like she might faint. “Not every village we visit prizes their schools, nor their young scholars, this well.”

  Sister Claire, that modest soul, lowered her eyes but could not conceal her smile.