Squinting into the sun, he turned his face toward me. “Who’s there? Emmeline?” His eyes widened. “Get away,” he said, waving a hand. “Don’t touch me.”
“I wasn’t going to touch you,” I snapped.
I stepped back. Griffin may have looked better than the other boys in Root, but he shared the same stupid superstitions. He didn’t want to get too close lest my black magic taint him in some way.
Griffin and I had lived in the same village all our lives, but I could count on one hand the times he’d spoken to me. I could remember exactly what he’d said on each occasion:
“Move out of the way. I’ve got somewhere important to go.”
“Move out of the way. I’m in a hurry.”
“Move out of the way, now.”
“Move out of the way.”
“Move.”
So this encounter was a bit unusual. He’d said “get away” instead of “move.” After being on the receiving end of such poetic tenderness, how could a girl not fall in love with Griffin Boar?
After scrambling to his feet, he brushed dirt from his woven shirt and pants. “Why are you walking in the middle of the road?” he asked angrily. “Are you stupid? The middle of the road is for horses.”
“I’m not the stupid one. I was walking in the middle of the road because the middle of the road has fewer ruts,” I said, equally angry. “And I’m walking your father’s cows home. Maybe you’re too stupid to notice a road full of cows.”
He glared at the cows, then pushed one out of his way. “Stupid cows,” he grumbled. A thin line of blood appeared at the edge of his chin. It glistened in the sunlight. A sudden pang of sadness struck me. It was as if a beloved piece of pottery had cracked.
Griffin frowned. “What are you looking at?”
I pointed at his chin.
His fingers found the wound. Then he stared at the blood on his fingertips. “I’m hurt,” he said, his face slack with surprise. He felt the wound again. “It’s a cut. On my face. My face.”
“It’s a small scratch,” I said. “It’ll heal.”
But Griffin wasn’t listening. He whirled around, scanning the ground. “Where’s my mirror?” He shoved another cow out of the way. As he desperately searched, his horse wandered to the side of the road and helped itself to spring clover.
Light flashed at my feet. While Griffin’s back was to me, I reached down and picked up the oval mirror. A crack ran through it, dividing it into two equal pieces. Though distorted by the crack, my reflection revealed a dirt-smudged face. I ran my hand over my hair, tangled and matted, as red as river clay. When my mother was alive, she’d combed and braided it. But I never learned to braid it on my own and the teeth in my comb had broken long ago. No wonder Griffin never paid me much mind. I was nothing to look at. I held out the mirror. “Here it is.”
He yanked the mirror from my hand. He’d never stood so close to me. A musky scent floated around him, born from sweat and horse. “It’s broken,” he snapped. “Do you know how expensive a mirror is?”
I shook my head. We didn’t have a mirror in our cottage, but I bet Griffin owned more than one.
He held up the cracked glass and examined his face. “I’m going to have a scar,” he said, running a finger over the wound. “You’ve ruined my face. This was your doing.”
I was used to being blamed. The villagers often pointed fingers at me and said, “It’s her doing. She brought this bad luck.” I couldn’t prove that I had nothing to do with the amount of snow that fell in winter or the size of the crops at harvest time. That I had nothing to do with last year’s infestation of caterpillars or with the fever that had killed many of the roosters. I couldn’t prove my innocence in those matters so I’d stopped trying. But this was ridiculous.
“It wasn’t my doing,” I said.
Though still inspecting the scratch, he quickly glanced at me from the corner of his eye. “You made me fall.”
“I didn’t.” My leg was really hurting. I relaxed it, my right side dipping lower. “You did this to yourself because you weren’t paying attention.”
He looked into my eyes, his gaze burning. “Are you saying I don’t know how to ride?” He stomped over to his horse, opened the saddlebag, and shoved the mirror inside. “I’ve been riding since I could walk. I know how to ride a horse. You’re too stupid to know anything about it.”
My cheeks burned. “I’m smart enough to know you shouldn’t look in a mirror while riding. You should look where you’re going.”
“Smart? You?” He grabbed his horse’s mane. “You talk to cows, that’s how smart you are.” He hoisted himself upward, swung his long leg, and settled onto the saddle. “Do you know how many girls have been waiting their whole lives to bid on me? I wouldn’t go to the husband market if I were you. When they find out you caused this wound, they’ll eat you alive.”
“It’s just a scratch,” I said. “You’re still …” But I stopped myself from finishing that sentence. He was still beautiful, and despite his arrogance and lack of manners, I still wondered what it would be like to kiss him.
“It’s true what they say. You’re bad luck, Emmeline Thistle.” He tucked his hair behind his ears, then seized the reins. “Now, move out of the way.”
I stepped aside.
With a sharp kick to his horse, Griffin Boar rode away at full gallop, his hair rising and falling with the horse’s graceful stride.
He’d warned me not to go to the husband market. But I wasn’t afraid. So what if the hopeful brides blamed me for the scratch? They already treated me like a flea-infested dog. How much worse could it get?
Maybe no one would bid on Griffin and his scarred face. Maybe people would point at him the way they pointed at me. Maybe he’d feel, for the first time in his life, like an unwanted.
But I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Not even a rude boy like Griffin Boar.
Chapter Four
The sound of wheels and donkey hooves woke me. I pulled my blanket around my shoulders and walked to the kitchen window. By foot and by cart, villagers were traveling the road, heading to the village square. Some of the families I recognized but many were unfamiliar, come from the nearby villages of Seed and Furrow. Excitement darted up my spine. The morning of the husband market had arrived.
I mashed some cold boiled turnips for Father’s breakfast and set a half loaf of oat bread onto the table. Back in my bedroom, I tossed the blanket over my hay-filled mattress and washed my face in the washing bowl. Then I stood in my nightfrock, staring at the two dresses that hung from pegs. One dress was for home, the other for town. There wasn’t much difference between the two. Both were made of a coarse handspun weave, both had wooden buttons, and neither was dyed. The town dress, however, had less wear. As I pulled it over my head, I wondered if I was making a mistake. Word would have already spread about Griffin’s tumble off his horse. In the Flatlands, gossip traveled faster than plague thanks to Lull Trog, the grave-digger’s wife. All the lovesick girls would be cursing me for scarring Griffin’s face. The glaring would be worse than usual.
On the other hand, my day wouldn’t be complete without all those glares.
“Time to go,” Father called.
I fastened the buttons, then sat at the edge of the bed and pulled on my good pair of wool socks. I’d long ago figured out how to make my curled foot fit into a boot by stuffing the boot with fabric scraps. The boot’s seam was beginning to give way. I’d make do as long as I could before asking Father for a new one.
He was outside, hitching our only donkey to the cart. He wore his best shirt, which I’d scrubbed with well water and dried by the fire. I’d patched the hole at the elbow with a bit of fabric from another shirt that he’d worn to shreds. “Get on in,” he told me, tipping his head toward the cart. I climbed in.
Father walked alongside the donkey. A few carts rolled ahead of us. As we neared the milkman’s field, the cows ambled across the pasture and stood by the side of the road, watching us pass
by. Snow’s white muzzle glowed next to the browns of the other cows. I leaned over the side of the cart, but as I did so, Father cast a warning glance over his shoulder. With so many families within earshot, my talking to the cows would bring shame to him. I sighed and said nothing. Snow smiled at me. I imagined her voice. One day, Emmeline, the husband market will be for you, too.
As we neared our village square, I broke into a huge grin. So many people! Carts were lined up along the road, some turned into little houses for those who’d traveled from Seed and Furrow. Father unhitched the cart, then led our donkey to a communal pasture to join other donkeys. There’d be no confusion when we went to retrieve the creature because it had been branded with Father’s symbol. As I climbed out of the cart, villagers walked past, also dressed in their best town clothes. They gave me a wide berth. The children whispered.
Without a word to me, Father headed straight for the tavern, as did most of the men. They’d drink throughout the day, breaking into boisterous song as the ale numbed their minds. Singing was good for my father. He’d changed so much since my mother’s death, curling into himself like a snail into its shell, keeping all his feelings inside. Since her passing, Father had never once stood on the husband market’s stage. He told me he didn’t want another wife. But I knew the truth. No one would want to marry the father of Emmeline, the unnatural girl. My mere existence had doomed both Father and me to solitude.
As Father stepped into the tavern and disappeared behind its heavy door, a pebble bounced off my leg. I spun around. Maude Boar, the milkman’s daughter, hurried past, two friends by her side. “You shouldn’t have gotten in Griffin’s way,” she snapped just before throwing another pebble, which stung my arm.
“I didn’t,” I snapped back.
“Are you calling my brother a liar?” Her crooked tooth caught on her lower lip. Despite the sneer, Maude looked pretty, a painted comb tucked into her braid.
Fortunately I didn’t have to answer her question because a hopeful bride hurried past Maude and her friends, catching their attention. A chorus of squeals filled the air as the girls surrounded the bride. I hobbled away.
Our village square wasn’t much to look at—just a big open space between the tax-collector’s house and the tavern. The gravedigger and the blacksmith lived in the other buildings. No merchants lived in the Flatlands. We were forbidden from obtaining merchant licenses, so we relied on a few traveling peddlers to bring in goods.
A wooden stage sat in the middle of the square. The few benches had already been claimed. Everyone else sat in the dirt or stood. The eager brides, all wearing floral wreaths in their hair, began to gather in front of the stage, chattering among themselves. A boy selling bags of roasted walnuts wandered throughout the crowd, as did a girl selling bunches of baby spring carrots. Milkman Boar had brought some rounds of cheese and was selling wedges. My mouth watered. I’d forgotten to pack a lunch and I had no coin to spare. I took a long drink from the town fountain.
“Emmeline!” Lull Trog, the gravedigger’s wife, hurried up, nearly knocking me over. Clearly her need to spread gossip was greater than her fear of my unnaturalness. As she adjusted her black apron, many heads turned to watch. “Tell me what happened.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said coldly, then took another sip of water.
Lull Trog frowned. “Of course you know what I mean, girl. Tell me how Griffin got that wound on his face.”
“It’s not a wound. It’s a scratch.” As I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, a devilish thought crept into my mind. I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Do you want to know the truth? Even if you find it shocking?”
She widened her eyes and nodded. “Aye.”
I leaned closer. Lull Trog’s entire body stiffened and I stifled a wicked smile. “Griffin Boar got that scratch on his face because he tried to kiss me.”
“He didn’t,” she said with a gasp.
“He wanted to have some fun before he got married.” I raised my eyebrows. “I had to protect myself.”
Lull Trog held her breath. Then she spun on her heels and dashed off, her arms pumping madly. She grabbed another woman by the arm and whispered into her ear. They both turned to look at me. I smiled and waved. What would life in Root be like without some new gossip about Emmeline Thistle? I didn’t want to disappoint.
Villagers stepped aside as I found a spot in front of the blacksmith’s. Leaning against a post I had a clear view. Rousing applause filled the air as our tax-collector, Mister Todd, walked up the steps and onto the stage. He nodded as if the applause was meant for him. It wasn’t. Villagers tolerated him because they had no other choice. All tax-collectors worked for the king. Because the collection of taxes was the most important job in the kingdom, tax-collectors wielded the power of life and death. Todd had hanged more than one tax evader. But he made no attempt to hide the fact that he hated his job. Being assigned to the Flatlands was the lowest rung on the tax-collector ladder. Living with us lowly dirt-scratchers was punishment for something he’d done. He was constantly trying to get reassigned.
Todd’s three men stood nearby, each carrying a sword. They acted as his enforcers and bodyguards.
As Todd walked to the middle of the stage, his steps stiff and bowlegged, the applause grew louder and louder, joined by whistles and cheers. The husband market was about to begin. He cleared his throat, his floppy black tax-collector’s hat drooping over one eye. A flagon of ale in one hand, he punched the air with the other hand. “Shut your traps!” he hollered. The cheering continued. The hopeful brides pushed closer to the stage. After a long drink, he turned the flagon upside down. Finding it empty, he tossed it aside. It flew across the stage and slammed into a guard’s chest. Laughter arose. Todd wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “Shut your traps, you stupid dirt-scratchers, or I’ll double the ale tax!”
Immediate silence fell over the square. “That’s better.” He tightened his belt, pulling his gut up a few inches. “Let’s get to it. Calling all unmarried men. Get up here, you doomed fools.”
Cheers and whistles erupted again as the men made their way onto the stage. Some took eager steps, rubbing their hands in anticipation of a bride. A few, mostly the young ones, had to be pushed onstage by their fathers like sheep to the slaughter. Twenty-three men in all, a good number—unlike that year long ago when plague wiped out an entire season of husbands. The hopeful brides pressed close together. It’s one thing to imagine a husband. It’s another thing to look into his eyes and face your future.
Griffin Boar was the last to take his place onstage. His hair bounced with each of his confident steps. His mother, Finny Boar, and his sister, Maude, sat together, waving excitedly. On the other side of the square, men emerged from the tavern to watch the event unfold. While most smiled and cheered, a dark expression covered my father’s face. He’s thinking of the time he stood on that stage, I guessed. When my mother bid on him and won. I wanted to tell him how deeply I missed her.
As the husbands-to-be lined up, tax-collector Todd stumbled to the side of the stage and grabbed another flagon from one of his guards. Once he’d emptied it, he returned to his duties. “All right, ladies, feast your eyes on this loathsome group of losers.” He pointed to the first man, an old guy named Gus who flashed a toothless grin. “This one’s a real beauty,” Todd said. Everyone laughed, including Gus. “Don’t waste your coin on him, ladies. All you need to win Gus is an old rooster or a lame donkey.” More laughter. “How many years you’ve been widowed, Gus?”
“Three,” Gus said.
“And how old are you?”
“Sixty-one,” Gus replied. “But I’ve got a nice cottage with a deep well and a good roof.”
“Sixty-one?” Todd slapped Gus on the back, nearly knocking him over. “Ladies, bid on Gus if you want to get a good night’s sleep. He’s too old to bother you, if you know what I mean.” This comment brought on raucous jeers from the tavern crowd.
Tax-collector Todd stopped at the ne
xt in line, a young man wearing a fur vest. “I don’t know you. What’s your name?”
“I’m from Furrow.” Furrow lay on the very edge of the Flatlands, where the forest was thickest. “I’m Boris, son of a huntsman.”
The crowd ooohed.
“A huntsman’s son is a good catch,” Todd shouted. “He’s not much to look at, but he’s got nice breath.” Then, after adjusting his floppy hat, he moved to the next man and the crowd quieted. There stood an unwanted.
The unwanted had been widowed, with five young mouths to feed. If he’d been a nice man, my heart would have ached for him. But he was cruel, known to beat his children. He deserved his unwanted status, though his children didn’t deserve a house without a mother. “No pretty girl’s gonna bid on you, that’s for sure,” Todd said. “Any of you ladies desperate enough to want this dirt-scratcher?”
The brides huddled closer, fearful that such a fate might befall them. For some families, it was better to get rid of a daughter, even if it meant sending her to live with a horrible man. One less mouth to feed. Would this be my fate next year when I turned seventeen?
The sheriff made his way down the line, prodding the men with insults. One was as skinny as a rat’s tail. Another was as ugly as a toad. One was so shy that he turned beet-red and tried to run off the stage. “Virgin!” the tavern men cried. But then the crowd fell silent again. Todd took a long pause as he stepped up to the next candidate.
“Well, well, well,” he said. “You’ve been counting the years waiting for this one, haven’t you, ladies?”
If gold coins had suddenly rained from the sky, the excitement wouldn’t have matched that moment. The screams were heavy with agony. The tears held as much hope as dread. Years of dreaming of this moment could be dashed in an instant—or the prize could be won. The brides jumped up and down, daisies falling from their hair. “Griffin!” they yelled. “Griffin!”
The parents of the hopeful brides rushed toward Griffin’s parents, surrounding them with gifts—a basket of eggs, a chicken in a crate, a skinned rabbit carcass, a clay bowl. Griffin’s parents would naturally want their son to marry into a family that could provide lots of gifts, and they’d try to influence his choice. But Griffin could choose to ignore his parents’ wishes. He could accept the highest bidder or not. He could even refuse all bids and wait until next year. There was no predicting the outcome of the market.
The Sweetest Spell Page 2