“Sunday will need your help with the ball preparations,” said Friday’s beautiful sister. “As will I.”
“And you need to sleep,” Christian chimed in. “We all do.”
Elisa yawned at his comment; Tristan’s poor sister looked as if she might fall over at any moment. Friday noticed this too and nodded reluctantly.
“I’ll go with him,” said Friday’s squire. Conrad’s company was a poor substitute for his mistress, but his offer seemed to appease her.
So, mere moments after the curse had broken, they were being separated for the first of what would undoubtedly be many times. He was unhappy about the prospect—possibly even a little frightened—and empathic Friday knew it. Tristan dared not embrace her again in front of her family, but he held his balance well enough to let go of Velius’s arm and take Friday’s hands. He kissed the back of one, and then the other.
“Soon” was all he said. She would know what he meant.
The smile she gave him was so dazzling, he vowed to keep it with him for all of his days.
At the mention of festivities, the enthusiastic crowd began to dissipate, and the king’s guards led Tristan and his weary family up the long hill to the training grounds and the Guards’ Hall. Peter accompanied them, as did Friday’s father. Conrad walked beside them, proudly holding Sebastien’s large swansbody in his spindly arms. The king excused himself to rejoin his wife in the palace, but he left Velius and a stout man in a tall hat behind in his stead.
Tristan could have done without the extra company, but if it meant that he would not be separated from his brothers and sister, then he would tolerate them. Later, when he was more himself and fully clothed, he would have to thank Rumbold. In the meantime, he concentrated on remaining upright. If he crouched forward and used his arms to bear the burden of the wings, it seemed he could balance tolerably well. The extra weight was not insignificant—it seemed as if every stone in the path to the training grounds sought out the tender pads of his seldom-used feet.
The guards led everyone straight into the bathhouse. Vapors rose from several tubs that were already being filled. One was surrounded by screens and two maids to ensure that Elisa had her privacy—but not so much privacy that she could fall asleep and drown. After all they’d been through these past few days, this was a danger for every one of them.
Tristan the swan had spent almost every day in and around water, but Tristan the man couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a bath. Even now, he wasn’t quite sure how he was going to manage this with the wings. The other brothers didn’t hesitate—they tossed off their nettle shirts and jumped in the hot water. Contented sighs filled the air.
Velius gently nudged Tristan’s elbow, careful not to brush his wings. “Down the steps there is a small pool where you might be more comfortable.” Tristan followed the man down to a common resting area where, indeed, a pool was being filled with fresh water. This water didn’t emit steam like the tubs in which his grimy brothers now soaked. He dipped a toe in, resigning himself to yet another cold bath.
“Wait,” said Velius. The lithe man knelt beside the pool and placed one hand flat against the surface of the water. “Pyrrho.”
The water didn’t so much as ripple, but within moments, steam began to rise. Tristan raised his eyebrows at the man.
Velius shrugged.
Tristan removed the king’s cloak and waded in. The water so eased his skin and his weary muscles that he gave up the idea of keeping his wings dry and simply submerged himself altogether. A guard handed him a brush and a cake of soap, and Tristan set about the job of scouring several years of cursed magic and filth off his skin.
Leisurely, each of his siblings bathed, dressed, and wandered down to the sitting area by Tristan’s pool. Elisa was first; after the maids took her measurements for a proper gown, the guards provided her with a squire’s undershirt and breeches to wear. She padded in on bare feet, curled up on some large pillows by the fire, and was instantly fast asleep. Sebastien-swan waddled up beside her and joined her in slumber.
Each of his brothers arrived, dressed in unadorned guards’ uniforms and sipping from large steaming mugs of something that couldn’t be alcohol, or they’d have been just as asleep as their sister. Philippe carried nothing.
François set a mug down beside Tristan’s pool. Tristan glided over to try it; it was indescribably thick and sweet and bitter at the same time. “It’s a stimulant.”
“Granted, it would have to fuel the sun to keep me from slumber for much longer,” said Christian.
“You’ll have your rest,” said Velius. “We just wanted to chat with you briefly first, about Mordant.”
“And the curse,” said Peter.
“And my daughter,” said his father.
Tristan did not rise to Woodcutter’s semi-playful goading. At the moment, Tristan was still too concerned about the well-being of his own family to complicate it with anyone else’s. While the bath had relaxed and risen the spirits of everyone else, it seemed to have done nothing for Philippe’s demeanor. The others sat, but Tristan’s almost-twin remained in the doorway, arms crossed, brooding impatiently.
Only one thing could have been eating at Philippe: their unfinished business with Mordant. Philippe stared at Tristan until Tristan slowly closed his eyes in concession as if to say, Yes, brother. Nothing has been forgotten. We will deal with this. Just, please, give me a moment.
Philippe nodded tersely and sat, arms still crossed, in the chair closest to the door.
Tristan surrendered to the lovely embrace of the water once more, and then forced himself to stop putting off the inevitable. “All right,” he said. “Let’s get this over with. But can I at least have some pants?”
Velius waved his arm for the squire. “Grinny’s working on a sort of shirt for you. He’s no Friday Woodcutter, but he can make a man’s armor fit as well as a second skin. In the meantime . . .”
Conrad stepped forward. Folded in his outstretched arms were the black trousers Tristan had worn while pretending to be the Infidel. He dried off, donned the trousers, and found a stool in the room on which he could perch comfortably. With these wings, there would be no more stuffy, high-backed chairs in his future. He spread his arms out to the men before him. “Who’s first? Ask me anything.”
“Can you fly?” the twins asked simultaneously.
“Really? You’ve been with me the whole time, numbskulls. I haven’t exactly had the opportunity to find out. I promise, you’ll know as soon as I do.”
“Can you move them at all?” Velius’s question was more realistic. Tristan raised his arms out to the sides, and the wings spread along with them. He lowered his arms, and the wings lowered as well. Then he tried to move each limb independently. It took a great deal more concentration—a bit like having four arms now, instead of two.
“Would you mind if I took a look?” asked Velius.
“Not at all,” said Tristan, and the dark-haired healer moved to examine his back.
“Fascinating,” said the man in the tall hat. “I’m Henry Humbug, sir, and I know some minor magic . . . though nothing compared to His Grace here.”
Velius was a duke? Proper titles and addresses were things Tristan hadn’t worried about in a very long time. “Friday spoke of you, Mr. Humbug. My family owes you a great deal.”
Humbug shrugged off the compliment. “Minor magic. Nothing more. But tell me, sir, are you in pain?”
Tristan moved the infernal wings again. They were still heavy, and his back and shoulder muscles would continue to ache for as long as it took him to get used to this new form, but there was no true pain. “No.”
“Good, good. And you’ve been under this spell for how long—seven years? Ten?”
“I’d guess roughly between those, yes,” said Tristan.
“But none of you have aged in all that time.”
“Apparently not.”
“Good, good,” Humbug clucked. “And where did your brother meet his swan-ma
te?”
Tristan was caught off-guard. “Maybe a year or two after we left the islands. We encountered Odette somewhere in the frozen wilds north of the Troll Kingdom.”
“Fascinating,” Humbug said again. “There is a tale from that region about a cursed swan princess who was betrayed by love and forced into a swansbody forever.”
The circumstances were too strange to be coincidence. “And you think Odette was that princess?”
“I’m not sure we’ll ever know,” said Humbug. “But I have my suspicions.”
“Birds of a feather,” François said into a yawn.
Tristan shuddered as Velius ran his fingers down the length of his wings, tracing the muscles that now grew seamlessly into his back. After a few more moments of contemplation, Velius stood. “Unfortunately, I don’t believe removal is possible, magical or otherwise.”
“I’m not sure if I’m happy or sad about that news. Mostly I’m just glad we’re alive. If not all human.”
They all looked to where Sebastien-swan lay curled up against Elisa; their brother had made his choice. “Not much to be done about that either, I’m afraid,” said Velius. “A curse is a curse.”
“Which makes Christian now the heir to the Green Isles,” said François.
“Bastard,” Christian said to the swan.
“What action will you take?” asked Velius.
“Find Mordant and kill him. With all due haste.” Philippe was back on his feet, staring them all down.
Christian held up both hands. “It would be rash to decide anything now.”
“There’s nothing to decide,” Philippe said plainly. “Mordant is evil. He and his minions slaughtered many of our people, killed our parents, and cursed us. It is time for him to die, so we can rightfully regain what is ours.”
Philippe had a point, but that was not for Tristan to say.
Their plan of action was Christian’s call now. “Leading an army to reclaim a country involves more than the murder of one man.”
“Does it? I disagree.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way.” Christian turned back to Velius. “Your Grace, I’d like to speak with you, the king, and anyone else who might have ideas on how to proceed.”
“A wise decision,” said Mr. Woodcutter.
“A ridiculous decision,” spat Philippe.
“Yet it is the decision I have made,” Christian said more firmly. “And you must abide by it.”
“No,” said Philippe, and with that, he walked out the door.
Velius stood. “I’ll go after him.”
“Give him some time to cool down,” said Christian. “Philippe was born angry, and Mordant’s curse only served to hone that anger. It will pass.”
Tristan hoped Christian was right. There would be no turning back at twilight this time.
A wizened old codger limped his way down the stairs. He had bushy brows, a squinty eye, and a white cloth in his hand. Tristan assumed this was Grinny, the armorer. Grinny had brought a shirt, but not a functional one. It had a high collar and was a size or two too large, which made the sleeves billow out tremendously. It had been completely split down the middle in the back.
“Put this on. There’s a good lad. Don’t mind the back. That’s what I’m here to figure out.”
Several dozen pins sprouted from what Tristan hoped was a false knee; Grinny circled Tristan, folding fabric and making “hmm” noises. Tristan lifted his arms and wings as best he could. After a few more grunts and much prodding, Grinny bade him remove the shirt and vanished up the stairs again.
Tristan turned back to the company. His brothers had abandoned him and escaped into sleep, and there were still the Woodcutters left to deal with. Fantastic.
Tristan perched on his stool once more and tried his best to ease the tension between himself and these men. “Are you really the family of the infamous Jack Woodcutter?”
Of all the things he might have said, few could have been more perfect than this. Friday’s father seemed to relax at once. “You’ve heard of my son?”
“His stories are told even as far away as the Green Isles,” Tristan affirmed. “Legend has it that he visited once, though I would have been too young to remember it. Christian might, though, or . . .” He’d almost said Sebastien. Now he wasn’t sure what to say.
Jack Woodcutter the Elder raised a hand; it was large, and attached to an arm the size of a small tree. The man could have ripped Tristan’s new wings off without a thought, had he been so obliged. “There is time enough for that,” he said. “First, we must speak of my daughter.”
Tristan nodded. “I love her, sir.”
“Everyone loves her, son. You’ve got to do better than that.”
Tristan took a deep breath. “I believe she is part of my destiny, far beyond the breaking of this curse. I mean to do whatever it takes to see to her happiness.”
Friday’s father considered this for some time . . . enough time to make Tristan uncomfortable.
“I can ask no more of a man,” he said finally. “But I warn you. Friday is special”—Peter laughed at this—“yes, as a father of seven gifted daughters, I can honestly say that each one of them is special. Friday is practical and resourceful, much like her mother, but she is also loving and generous to a fault. She has a heart as big as the moon. And should even the tiniest part of that heart break, I will take my ax and chop you into many unfindable pieces.”
Peter crossed his equally massive arms over his chest and nodded slowly, grinning widely as he did so.
Tristan swallowed. “Yes, sir,” he squeaked.
“Excellent. Just so long as we understand each other.” Jack Woodcutter smiled, the picture of ease. “Now, about that legend. Tell me a story.”
13
Hopes Come to Life
FRIDAY STOOD on the balcony, away from the din of the ballroom, and looked out over the Queen’s Garden. With the exception of a few late-blooming roses, most of the flowers had gone to seed. The leaves had begun to turn and fall; there was a chill in the air. Friday rubbed her arms beneath the gossamer sleeves of her gown in an effort to keep warm. There had been little to the back of this dress to begin with, and Friday dared not waste precious fabric fashioning a shawl.
She’d had no desire to wear one of Monday’s elegant white princess gowns, but the eldest had insisted. And so the afternoon had been spent taking out seams and hemming, while doing the opposite for her own court dress so that Elisa had something proper to wear. The deposed princess was taller than Friday and a good deal more slender; cinching in the waist had made the skirts of Friday’s old gown billow out prettily. On the other hand, no matter what Friday did to Monday’s dress, she never stopped feeling like a giant cloud about to rain on someone’s wedding. What would Tristan think of this ridiculous display? Mistress Mitella would have been disappointed at her lack of confidence. The children had braided ribbons and wildflowers into her hair and proclaimed her beautiful, and that was all that mattered.
She shook her head, trying to rid herself of her fears, trying to rid her mind of the hatred she’d seen in Philippe’s eyes and the darkness she’d felt in her soul. As for Tristan . . . well, he had bigger things to worry about than how silly she looked in her dress.
“You’re missing a lovely party.” Mr. Humbug’s tall hat was perfectly framed by the glass doors that led to the brilliant ballroom. He toasted her with his glass of green punch, yet another nettle concoction of Cook’s.
Friday searched Mr. Humbug’s strange yellow eyes. “Did you know how the curse was going to end?”
“I had my hopes. There were several outcomes I did not anticipate. But then, there always are.”
“You knew so much about this . . . and you seem to know so much about my family. Are you a god?”
“You flatter me, child. No, I am not a god.”
“But you are not human.”
“Only slightly less than you, I suppose. Consider your family, my dear. In comparison, I believe a gre
at deal of us would be found wanting.”
Friday deserved that. Her bloodline ran with so much fey magic, she wasn’t sure she’d consider herself entirely human, either. “True enough, though I don’t feel as stupendous as the rest of my family, most days. Even with a magic needle.” She patted the seam where the gossamer sleeve met her bodice; still a woodcutter’s daughter in this extraordinary ball gown, Friday was never without her nameday gift.
“I hope your gifts continue to surprise you and bring you joy. Which reminds me.” He lifted his hat and scratched the thinning hair beneath, proving to Friday that it was not permanently affixed there after all. “I believe it is time for your surprise.” He bowed to her before opening the door to the ballroom. “After you, milady.”
The children had been waiting for her; they parted as she stepped into the overly warm room. Wendy took one of her hands and—because for the life of her she couldn’t bring the child’s surname to her addled mind—Carrot Kate took the other. The girls wore patchwork ribbons in their hair that matched their patchwork pinafores. In fact, all the children wore something patchwork about their person. In her stark white gown, Friday was a lone ghost in a field of wildflowers.
Trumpets sounded, and the Grand Marshal stepped forward onto the landing. “It is my great honor to announce the arrival of Princess Elisa of Kassora and her brothers, the crown princes of the Green Isles!”
Friday grinned at the announcement, though she wondered what Sebastien was doing right now. Hopefully, he was at peace in the embrace of his swan love and unconcerned with the fete celebrating his family.
Elisa was the first to descend—the crowd below welcomed her arrival with a distinctly unroyal chorus of whistles, calls, and whooping. Friday’s gown looked lovely on the princess. Its golden color flattered the long golden waves of her loose hair, and the new green trim—a nod to the colors of Elisa’s homeland—brought out the vivid blue of her eyes. Above her, Sunday’s fairy lights twinkled in the ceiling like a river of diamonds. Watching Elisa walk down those stairs was like seeing her hopes come to life. Friday could hardly imagine anything more delightful.
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