by Ruth Nickle
She turned to the mirror. Her hair was back to its normal grayish brown. She’d lost control of the magic, lost the will to make herself what she was not. She curled up in the bed, pulling the blankets around her. She wanted to take her wooden spoon and hit Trygve with it, but she also wanted to hit herself. This was all her fault—all her fault for marrying a prince who did not want her, all her fault for changing her appearance for their wedding.
She had wanted to show him that appearance was transient and unimportant. She had wanted him to talk before their wedding. But she should’ve stayed ugly and gray, and waited for him to like her as she was, if such a thing was even possible.
“I’m sorry, Tatterhood.”
She could not bring herself to turn and look at him, could not accept such a simple apology. She waited, listened as he fell asleep beside her. Then she let three tears—only three—fall down her face and onto her pillow. She was not the crying sort, and so she blamed the tears on her pregnancy.
She had still not managed to tell him about their baby. She wondered if their child would look ugly like her or handsome like Trygve, and if their child would care either way.
Chapter 3
When Tatterhood woke in the morning, she found herself alone.
During their first few months of marriage, every morning they held each other before rising for the day. It seemed the natural thing to do during the almost endless nights of winter, when the sun awoke for only a few hours in the middle of the day. Now, in summer, the sun slept for only a few hours, creating almost endless illumination. The light often caused Trygve to wake hours before Tatterhood, and she would find him reading a book in a chair. She wished she could hold him this morning, because if they had fought the night before, it always softened their feelings toward each other.
“Trygve?” she called.
Silence.
A sense of unease enveloped her, a fear she could not shake. She walked through their rooms, slowly at first, then more rapidly, peeking her head in every nook and corner. The prince was gone.
Her head ached and her jaw felt tight and sore. She must have clenched it as she slept.
She looked on her table, where he always left her notes if he went to do something or meet with someone. There was nothing.
Her heart sank. Trygve never wrote her the sorts of romantic letters featured in ballads, but he always jotted down a few words to let her know if something demanded his attention. She gripped the edge of the table. Maybe he didn’t want her to know where he had gone.
“He’s left me,” she said aloud, and there was no one in her rooms to disagree with her.
Tatterhood dressed hastily in a ragged dress. Rather than brushing her hair, she pulled her hood on top of it. She grabbed her wooden spoon, rushed out of the room, and addressed her attendant, who sat in the hall, doing embroidery and waiting to be called upon.
“Lady Tove, have you seen Trygve today?”
The woman curtsied. “No, Princess. I assumed he was with you.”
The soldier posted in the hall spoke up. “I took the shift before dawn. He must have left before then.”
She wanted to scream that the prince had not just left their rooms, but left her, for good. Yet she should not do such a thing unless she was absolutely certain. She stuck a finger through a small hole in her sleeve, pulling at it until the fabric ripped, creating a much larger hole. She fiddled with the frayed threads. She wished she could ask Ingridr for advice, but her sister was kingdoms away.
As she walked to breakfast, she stopped every single servant in her path to ask if they had seen Trygve. No one had.
One of the servant’s daughters, Anna, came running down the hall. She jumped into Tatterhood’s arms and gave her a sticky kiss on the cheek.
“Where’s Trygve?” the little girl asked.
Surprised to hear her own question turned back on her, it took Tatterhood a moment to mumble, “I don’t know.” Someday, would her own child ask the same question, and would she be forced to give the same response?
“I want him to play with me,” said Anna.
“I can play with you,” said Tatterhood, wanting anything to distract her from her worries.
The girl shook her head and ran back down the hall toward her mother, Elin. “It’s more fun with both of you.”
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” Elin rebuked her daughter. She turned toward Tatterhood. “I’m sorry, Princess. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Have you seen Trygve?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
“No,” said Elin, and she got a faraway look in her eyes.
Tatterhood wanted to know the woman’s thoughts but did not dare to ask. Elin’s husband had left her last summer. And she wasn’t the only one in the castle to experience such a thing. Years before, the stable master’s wife had left him for another. These sorts of things happened. But they did not—they should not—happen to Tatterhood.
She tightened her grip on her wooden spoon, trying to channel her emotions away from grief, toward anger.
She stomped into the private, family dining room, nodded to her parents, and set her wooden spoon on the table, none too gently.
The queen cleared her throat. “What do I always say about spoons at the breakfast table?”
“There are dozens of spoons on this table.”
“But none made of wood, and none that large.”
Tatterhood pinched her lips together. She moved the spoon onto the floor, beneath her feet.
“Much better,” said her mother.
The serving girls came in carrying fruit. The red-haired girl—Mette—spooned bilberries onto Tatterhood’s plate. Tatterhood tried not to look at her.
“Where’s Trygve?” asked her father.
“I don’t believe he’s coming to breakfast,” Tatterhood said between gritted teeth.
Mette walked out of the room with a bounce.
Tatterhood grabbed a handful of the blue bilberries and shoved them in her mouth, daring her mother to correct her for not using utensils. She knew she was behaving much younger than her age, but she did it anyway.
“You didn’t argue about the coverlet again, did you?”
“No, Mother.”
“I took care of the problem. I ordered another in the color Trygve requested, and, to make you happy, since you hate to see someone not compensated for their work, I purchased the coverlet with the wrong colors. I am sure I will find a place for it.”
Her mother was rather stingy when it came to new furnishings. She had finally replaced the castle curtains a few weeks before, and had made all sorts of complaints about the cost. The fact that she was willing to buy an extra coverlet to make both of them happy meant she must be worried about the state of their marriage.
“Thank you, Mother.” Of course, with Trygve gone, the color didn’t matter.
Mette brought in the cheeses. The sunlight shining through the windows glinted off her long red braid. Tatterhood gripped her silver fork and knife, picturing Trygve talking to Mette, putting his hand on her shoulder, perhaps escorting her to her room . . .
Mette smiled at her as she returned to the kitchen.
Tatterhood tried a bite of cheese but did not like the taste. She raised one of the breakfast linens to her mouth and spit the cheese into it. Why had she tried to pretend nothing was wrong? She could continue this charade no longer. She dropped the soiled fabric on her plate.
“Please excuse me.” She dashed after Mette and slammed open the door to the kitchen.
The servants all stared as Tatterhood bounded into the room. Mette turned quickly, almost dropping her tray.
“Where is my husband?” Tatterhood hadn’t entirely meant to yell, but it came out that way.
“Wh-what?” Mette stammered, simultaneously setting down the tray and trying to curtsy.
&nbs
p; Tatterhood put her hands on Mette’s shoulders. It took great control not to shake the girl, though she desperately wanted to. “Where is Trygve? Where is the prince?”
“I don’t know,” she whimpered. “Why should I know?”
“Just tell me where he is. What did he say to you?”
Mette was almost in tears. “I’ve only been here three days. I’ve never even talked to the prince.”
“Did he visit you this morning?”
The girl did not respond. She looked like a rabbit, frozen in fear.
“Did he?” Tatterhood yelled.
One of the other serving girls curtsied before her. “With all due respect, Princess, Mette shares a room with me. The prince could not have visited her. I’ve been with her almost every moment since she’s been here.”
“The prince never spoke to her,” the other servants confirmed.
Tatterhood’s eyes jumped from servant to servant, reading the sincerity in their faces.
She released Mette as if she were a burning hot pan. The girl sniffled and seemed to shrink away.
The other servants stared at Tatterhood. She breathed in and out, trying to control her rage. She trusted these people, these people who had worked for her family for years, and if they said the girl was innocent of wrongdoing, she had to believe them.
But oh how she wished the girl had wronged her, for then she would no longer need to blame herself for Trygve’s departure.
She knew she needed to apologize to Mette, knew she should, but could not bring herself to do it. Not to this woman that Trygve desired, not to this woman that he had partially turned her into.
A throat cleared. Tatterhood turned reluctantly toward it.
Her father stood in the doorway. He held her wooden spoon.
She walked toward him, head bowed.
He put his arm around her, and did not even berate her for her treatment of Mette, though she surely deserved it.
“What has happened?”
Tatterhood could not speak.
Her mother came and put her hands on both of their shoulders, then led them back into the dining room. As the door closed, the words of a servant drifted through: “Tatterhood’s not normally like this.”
Her father gave her the wooden spoon and she clutched it to her chest.
“What happened between you and Trygve?” he asked.
“Trygve does not like being my husband.” She swallowed. “And I think he has run away.”
She let them hold her for a minute, and then they sprang into action, assembling the servants and courtiers and sending them to scour the castle, the city, and the surrounding areas. Tatterhood joined in the search herself. But during the entire morning, no one found a trace of him.
Tatterhood went to the stables. The stable master put his hand on her shoulder. He had kind eyes, eyes that understood, that had been through this before. But she could not bear his kindness, not right now.
“I need a little time alone.”
The stable master sent all the stable hands away.
She beat at the hay with her wooden spoon. Little pieces of hay broke off and flew into the air. Several guards had seen the prince wandering the gardens in nightclothes during the early morning, but no one had seen him leave the castle grounds.
Tatterhood beat a new bale of hay. Her father had offered to send out the guard, all the way to King Varg’s kingdom if necessary, to bring Trygve back. She had turned him down. She would force no man to be her husband. She did not want a man, anyway, who cared only about her appearance.
She set down her spoon and leaned with her back against the hay. Her stomach was a little queasy. For some reason she had assumed she wouldn’t have the same physical troubles as other women. She put her hand on her belly, which had not yet begun to grow. There were no outward signs of the baby. Would Trygve have left if she had told him?
At least she had what she needed from him: an heir. She did not doubt her ability to rule the kingdom without a king by her side.
She stood, not bothering to brush the hay from her tattered dress. She walked through the stable, and a horse whinnied at her. She stopped.
It was Sunset.
She ran her fingers through the mare’s immaculate silver mane. Sunset pushed her muzzle against Tatterhood’s chest, so Tatterhood found a brush and groomed the horse. The steady, rhythmic action calmed her in a way that beating the hay had not.
How strange for the prince to leave Sunset behind—it would be like her abandoning Storm. She would never do such a thing unless under great duress.
Tatterhood set down the brush. Sunset snorted at her.
“Sorry to cut it short,” Tatterhood said and stepped outside the stable.
“Sunset is still here,” she said to the stable master. “Did Trygve take one of the other horses?”
He scratched his chin. “I don’t know, Princess. There’s been a lot of horses out and about, what with looking for him.”
She waited while he called back the stable hands. They went over all their charges—every single horse—but not a one was unaccounted for. All the horses absent from the stable had been used by someone trying to find Trygve.
So Trygve had left on foot. Maybe he had bought a horse in one of the villages on the road, but why if he could take his own steed?
“I am sorry,” said the stable master. “I should have checked earlier.”
“It’s not your fault.” Her belief that Trygve had left her had probably made the people searching for him less likely to notice any details that contradicted that conclusion.
She returned to their rooms, examining them in more detail.
Trygve had left his sword.
The laundry master brought in a dozen laundry girls and boys. They determined that the only clothes missing were his nightclothes.
Tatterhood could understand him leaving, but to leave in his nightclothes, without sword or horse? Maybe she had judged him too quickly.
Chapter 4
Tatterhood felt guilty for reading Trygve’s letters, but he was not here, and now that she suspected foul play, she saw no alternative.
In the letter he had received from his father, it said, “There have been reports that the lhoosh has returned. It was spotted near the castle. I doubt it will make the journey to you, but take care, my son, take care.”
A lhoosh. Tatterhood had never heard of such a creature. She spent several hours with the keeper of books, but to no avail. She left the woman searching the rather small castle library and spoke to the court singer, who knew of no reference to it in any of his songs. She wanted to ask the local witch, Bergljot, but the woman was taking her annual summer trip to the islands, and would not return for at least another week.
Tatterhood sat in the garden where Trygve had last been seen. She took off her shoes and stuck her toes in the dirt. Most creatures left some sort of trace, but she could taste no magic in the air.
No matter. She would find Trygve. If he’d left of his own will, she’d whack him with her spoon and then leave him be. But if he had been taken by a lhoosh—whatever that was—then she would get him back.
Since Bergljot was absent, she considered sending a rider to the next closest witch to ask for advice or assistance, but it was a full day’s ride and the woman had an unusual obsession with poisonous plants. Besides, Tatterhood hadn’t needed any help to find and rescue Ingridr’s head. There was no reason to doubt her abilities now.
It was too late in the day to start on a long journey, so she retired and woke early in the morning. Bright light already illuminated her room, sneaking through the curtains. She dressed in a comfortable, worn dress with a tattered hood and filled her pockets with odds and ends from her rooms. She went to the kitchen and packed a bag of food and water. She asked Cook about Mette and learned the girl was only a year younger than h
erself. She was from a town near the edge of the kingdom, a day and a half’s journey away, and had been eager to come and work at the castle.
Tatterhood found Mette’s room and rapped on the door.
“Just a minute.”
Mette opened the door and blinked, bleary-eyed. It took a moment, but then a startled expression covered her face and she dropped into a low curtsy. “My princess,” she whispered.
Tatterhood took in a deep breath. It was always easier to break things than to fix them. And generally a lot more fun.
“Please rise, Mette,” said Tatterhood, and when the girl did, Tatterhood lowered her own head and mumbled out her apology. “I am sorry for yesterday, and what I said and did. I was, well, worried about my own problems, and jealous that my husband had noticed you, but you had done nothing wrong, and I’m sorry for taking out my feelings on you, and I do hope you’ll stay here at the castle because we really want you here and Cook says you’re a great help and if Cook says it, then it’s true.”
“Thank you, Princess. I do want to stay at the castle.”
They stood, a bit awkwardly.
“And I’m sorry for waking you up,” Tatterhood added.
“I needed to get up anyway.” Mette tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I heard you are going to rescue your prince. I wish you the best of luck.”
Tatterhood nodded. “Thank you.” And luck she would need, for the keeper of the books had stayed up all night searching but had still found no reference to a lhoosh, and it was hard to defeat something you did not understand.
In the courtyard, she embraced her parents.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to send soldiers with you?” asked her father.
“I tend to do better alone.”
“Take care of yourself,” said her mother, and she glanced at Tatterhood’s middle. So she had realized, too. She leaned in and whispered in her daughter’s ear. “It’s normally safe to ride a horse, or a goat, for the first few months, but after that you need to be more careful.”
“I understand.”
Tatterhood sat on her goat, adjusted her tattered hood, and placed her spoon on her lap. She rubbed the wooden handle, thinking about Trygve. She couldn’t use magic to find a person, though she had tried multiple times. People were just too complicated. But if she knew an object well, it could lead her the right way.