Disenchanted

by Susan Carroll

  I pressed onward, attempting to rely on my other senses. The fog muted everything, trapping me in a silent dreamlike world, the only thing solid and real being the ground beneath my feet. Although it was only mid-afternoon, I encountered no one. I suppose other people could have been passing within yards of me and I would never have known it.

  Eventually I blundered into a rickety fence. I could just make out the bulk of a cottage beyond, but the wretched hovels of Misty Bottoms looked so much alike, even if I could have seen it more clearly, it would not have helped me determine where I was. I considered knocking at the cottage and asking for directions. But if anyone bothered to answer the door, Bottom dwellers are not known for their cordiality to Midtown folk. At best, the owner would snarl at me to be gone. At worst, I might end up with frap flung at me.

  Instead, I kept close to the fence, using it as a blind man might have clutched his cane for guidance. When I came to the end of it, I realized I was at a crossroads. A sudden burst of noise startled me. Coarse laughter mingled with the screech of a fiddle and rough voices raised in some raucous drunken song.

  The fog distorted my hearing, but the sounds seemed alarmingly near. My heart skipped a beat. I feared I had blundered too near the Winking Goblin, that den of villainy and debauchery Mal had told me to avoid at all costs. I stumbled in what I hoped was the opposite direction, the lane that would lead me down toward the river.

  To my relief, the sounds of the tavern grew fainter. I believed I could even hear the distant lap of water. I inched along, proceeding more cautiously. I did not want to find myself ankle deep in muck and reeds, or worse still actually fall into the turgid waters of the Conger River.

  A wooden sign loomed in front of me and my heart lifted at the sight of a landmark I recognized.

  These signs were posted at all the borders of our realm, proclaiming in cheery red letters, WELCOME TO ARCADY, THE KINGDOM OF HAPPILY EVER AFTER. Only on this particular welcome post, some wag had carved an n before the e so it actually read HAPPILY NEVER AFTER.

  Only someone from Misty Bottoms would dare to deface one of the royal signposts. I wondered if it might have been Mal. The n slanted in that peculiar way he had of forming his letters and he was certainly reckless enough to mock the king in this fashion.

  Thanks to the signpost, I had a clearer idea where I was. If I pressed forward, I would come to the wharf where the ferry was docked and the tall stone tower that housed the river side border patrol. By veering off to the left, I should eventually reach the area where the eel sellers plied their trade.

  My nose informed me that I was groping my way in the right direction. The heavy fog might hide everything else but nothing could disguise the reek from barrels of eels pickled in brine. Right next to the Snigglery, I located Fugitate’s establishment.

  The curio shop was little more than a shack with small dingy windows. A creaking sign on rusted chains hung over the door. FUGITATE’S FANCYS. WITHYPOLE FUGITATE, PROPRIETOR. I hesitated on the threshold, seized by an attack of nerves. I had never visited Fugitate’s shop on my own before. Mal had always accompanied me whenever I wanted to sell something and he had been the one to handle all the negotiations. It was a tricky and difficult business, striking a good bargain with Withypole Fugitate.

  Even if I could have found Mal in his shop this afternoon and explained what I wanted to do, he would have flatly refused to help me. He would have been furious at the idea of my selling my mother’s earrings in order to get Imelda and my stepsisters to the ball. I was entirely on my own.

  I wiped my moist palms on the inside of my cloak and entered the shop. The little bell suspended above the doorway announced my arrival with a discordant jangle. Fugitate’s shop was a murky place on the sunniest days owing to the small grimy windows. With the fog pressing on the glass, the interior was swathed in shadow. I had to give my eyes time to adjust before I could pick my way forward.

  The tables and shelves of the shop were laden with merchandise stacked up in haphazard fashion. Silver plates, blue patterned china and copper pots crowded next to ivory-hilted daggers, jewel boxes and sewing chests. Embroidered footstools, settee cushions and fireplace screens battled for space alongside stacks of oil paintings and piles of dust-covered books.

  A rack of old-fashioned clothing, full-skirted satin gowns, velvet doublets and moth-eaten wool cloaks took up far too much room. I had to ease past it, taking care not to dislodge any of the porcelain vases and delicate figurines crammed on the opposite shelf. A feeling of melancholy washed over me as it always did when I entered Fugitate’s shop. I could not help wondering about the people who had owned all this, the desperation that had driven them to sell off their belongings.

  Had they crept in here as I had often done, placing their small treasures on the counter and anxiously waiting for Fugitate’s valuation and the coins he would count into their trembling hands? Then like me, did they rush from the murky shop, clutching their purses, glad to be back out in the sunlight, a relief tempered by regret and a sense of shame?

  I could not decide what depressed me more, the china dolls leaning forlornly against one another, their curls disheveled from the last time they had been hugged by a little girl, or the box of toy soldiers, their general still sticky from marmalade-covered boyish fingers. Or perhaps it was the piles of musical instruments, tin whistles, pipes, tambours and the lutes that reminded me of Harper.

  His lute had had a letter etched near the frets. Harper had said that it was from a jealous rival who had seized his lute, cut the strings and tried to scratch the word “plunker,” a slur upon Harper’s musical abilities. This rival had only got as far as the letter p before Harper had stopped him.

  Although I told myself I did not care, I could not help wondering. What if Harper had fallen upon hard times and been obliged to sell his lute? I started to examine the stringed instruments more closely, only to stop, disgusted with myself. I did not care, and Harper had not been seen in Arcady for years. It was idiotic to imagine I might find Harper’s lute abandoned here. Discarding me had been easy, but Harper would have perished of starvation before parting with his beloved lute.

  As I squeezed my way toward the counter, the shop was choked with more wares than the last time I had visited. Yet Master Fugitate rarely seemed to have customers or sell much of his merchandise. What could he possibly want with all this stuff?

  Most fairies had no use for human possessions, although they did have a penchant for sparkling gemstones. At least they did according to one of the volumes in my father’s library, The Quaint Customs and Ways of the Fey Folk. The book filled me with wonder when I was a child and I had longed to make the acquaintance of a fairy.

  At one time, the Red Grove Forest had been full of them, but the king’s edicts restricting the use of magic and his exorbitant wing tax had driven most of the fey from our kingdom before I was ever born. Withypole Fugitate was the only one I knew of and this was based on Mal’s belief that Fugitate was a fairy in disguise, a suspicion neither of us had ever confirmed. The dour shopkeeper was nothing like the fiercely proud, beautiful creatures my father’s book had depicted.

  Usually the jangle of the bell would bring Master Fugitate scurrying from the back room to glower at anyone who had entered, as though he suspected you had come to steal from him. I waited at the counter for what seemed a considerable length of time but there was no sign of Fugitate’s scowling features.

  At last I called out, “Hallo! Master Fugitate?”

  When I received no response, I began to feel uneasy. The shop appeared to be deserted but I could not imagine Withypole going away and leaving the premises unlocked, his merchandise unprotected.

  I called again and louder. When there was still no answer, I skirted around the counter. The shop was separated from the back by a doorway hung with a musty purple velvet curtain trimmed with golden tassels. Above the door, a sign proclaimed in huge black letters: ABSOLUTELY NO CUSTOMERS BEYOND THIS POINT! OR ELSE!!!

&n
bsp; Or else what? I had often wondered, but never had I risked finding out. Nervously, I plucked back a corner of the heavy drapery and peered through the crack.

  I was astonished to discover Fugitate’s shop was larger than it appeared from the front. A narrow corridor opened before me with four closed doors, two on either side. The hallway ended at a fifth room with the door ajar, a glimmer of light issuing from inside.

  “Master Fugitate?” I called. Only silence greeted me and my unease deepened. Mindful of the sign menacing me with its vague threat, I started to draw back. What lay beyond that curtain had to be Withypole’s private quarters. I had no right to intrude and Fugitate was not known for his kindly disposition.

  But what if he had been attacked or had fallen so ill, he could not cry out for help? Were fairies subject to the same sicknesses that plagued humans? I had no idea. All I knew was that I could not just leave the shop without making some effort to see if Withypole was all right.

  Mustering my courage, I ducked past the curtain and headed down the corridor toward the room where the light beckoned. I eased the door open and peeked inside to find a modest bedchamber with a small bed that was little more than a cot. A battered night table stood next to it, bearing a chipped vase of wilting daisies.

  The only ostentatious piece of furniture in the room was a full-length cheval glass set in an intricately carved oak frame with sconces for candles. Fugitate posed before this mirror. He was bared to the waist, his wings exposed.

  My breath caught. Fully unfurled, his gossamer wings spanned outward, nearly touching the walls on both sides, a distance of at least eight feet. The light that had drawn me did not come from the candles on either side of the mirror. They were not even lit. It was the wings. They shimmered with an intensity that reflected the alabaster whiteness of the fairy’s skin, the frosty sheen of his thick waves of hair. Fugitate looked tall and proud as he studied his image in the mirror. His face was beautiful with finely chiseled cheekbones and delicate brows arched over his eyes. It was little wonder that he had not heard the bell or me calling to him. He appeared lost in another world, a realm of poignant memory and untold sorrow. A single crystal tear escaped and cascaded down his cheek.

  I averted my gaze, realizing I had witnessed a private moment no human had a right to see. I tried to tiptoe away, but I had the misfortune to stumble over a loose floorboard. As I flung my hand out to keep from falling, I inadvertently pushed the door all the way open. The knob hit the wall with a loud crack.

  Fugitate spun around, staring at me with a horror that swiftly turned to anger.

  “What are you doing here? Are you spying on me?”

  “N-no.” I shrank back as he stalked closer, his brows crashing together, his wings flattening behind him. “I called out for you but when no one answered, I feared—”

  “Get out!”

  “I never meant to—I am so sorry.”

  His face loomed within inches of mine. His eyes flashed golden fire. “I said GET OUT!”

  I fled, my heart racing ahead of me. I tore down the corridor, past the curtain and through the shop, knocking over books, paintings and drums in my scramble to escape. A china gnome tumbled off the shelf and shattered, but I did not stop until I reached the door. I fumbled with the knob, glancing frantically over my shoulder, terrified I would find Fugitate in vengeful pursuit.

  He was not. I did not see or hear anything except for a peculiar noise I could not place. I listened intently, my eyes widening at the realization. The fairy was weeping, harsh wracking sobs that tore at my heart.

  Still shaking from the fright Withypole had given me, I longed to go and comfort him, but I did not dare. Any solace from me would not be welcome and I dreaded provoking his wrath again, although I suspected that his fury masked his own fear. He must be terrified that I would go straight to the royal authorities and expose him. Penalties for fairies attempting to disguise their identity and avoid the wing tax were said to be especially harsh. I had heard horrible rumors about punishments that involved stone presses and crushed wings, although I was not sure I believed them. Could even King August be that cruel?

  Withypole must have believed it, hence the depth of his despair. I wondered why he had chosen to remain here in Arcady, especially in Misty Bottoms, the most wretched corner of our land. Why had he not gone with the rest of his people, traveling to a far-off kingdom where he could be free and safe?

  Whatever his reason for staying, I could not leave his shop without attempting to apologize and promise that his secret was safe with me. I came away from the door and waited although it was difficult to listen to those heavy sobs and do nothing. Eventually they faded to a soft snuffling and then there was silence.

  I was picking up the pieces of the shattered gnome when Withypole emerged from behind the curtain. Gone was the magnificent creature I had caught a glimpse of earlier. His beautiful wings were crushed beneath his brown woolen shirt. He looked like the stooped, hunchbacked shopkeeper I was accustomed to seeing. The fury was gone from his eyes as he regarded me. They had turned dull amber and were red-rimmed from his weeping.

  “You still here?” he muttered.

  I approached him timidly. “Yes, I am sorry. I broke your gnome.” I laid the pieces on the counter. “I’ll pay for it.”

  Withypole jerked his head to one side. It was an odd gesture I had seen him make before, but I had finally puzzled out what it meant. With his wings so cramped, it likely hurt him to hunch his shoulders. The head jerk was Withypole’s version of a shrug.

  Mumbling something about gnomes being stupid, irritating creatures, Withypole swept the pieces off the counter and bent to drop them into a waste basket. When he straightened, I took a deep breath and plunged in, “I also want to apologize again for invading your privacy. When you didn’t answer the bell or my shouts, I feared something might have happened to you and I just wanted to check.”

  “I was busy thinking, wasn’t I? And I locked the shop door. What did you do, pick the lock?”

  “No, of course not. You must have forgotten to lock up or else the spring didn’t catch. But it doesn’t matter because I promise you, I would never ever betray you or tell anyone about your wings.”

  “Wings?” he snapped. “What wings?”

  “Why, yours. It must be so hard for you to keep them hidden away all time. They are so dazzlingly beautiful but so delicate. Can you really fly? What does it feel like?”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about, Miss Upton.” He scowled at me. “Are you one of those as likes to sniff pixie dust? If that is what you are after, you should take yourself off to the Winking Goblin. I don’t deal in anything like that here.”

  “I am not a pixie sniffer,” I began indignantly and then faltered as I realized what Fugitate wanted to do: pretend that this incident had never happened. Upon reflection, I decided it might be best if I did likewise, although it was difficult to swallow the rest of my assurances, to say nothing of my curiosity about his wings.

  “Sometimes I do let my imagination get away from me and I have not eaten much today. I was probably feeling a little giddy and—and—”

  “No doubt,” he interrupted. “So did you have some reason for coming to my shop today, other than poking your nose where it didn’t belong?”

  I had been so upset that I had allowed myself to forget why I had come. My spirits plummeted as I replied, “I need to sell something.”

  I dug inside my reticule to retrieve the knotted handkerchief cushioning my mother’s earrings. I had never imagined parting with these beloved treasures was going to be easy, but I had not anticipated how hard it would be until the moment was actually upon me. I clutched the handkerchief, hesitating for so long, Withypole grew impatient. “Let’s see what you’ve brought then.”

  I laid the handkerchief on the counter, struggling with the knot until it gave way. The emeralds sparkled against the white linen, looking as bright and entrancing as the last time my mother had worn them. I tr
ied to tell myself they were only earrings. It was not as if I was selling my memories, the last fragments of my mother I had left.

  All the same, I stepped back from the counter to keep from snatching up the earrings. I shifted from foot to foot, waiting for Fugitate’s valuation of the emeralds’ worth and dreading it.

  I expected him to take up his jeweler’s glass and examine them more closely. Instead he just stared at the emeralds before finally saying in an odd voice, “You really want to sell these twinkles?”

  “These what?” I asked, startled by the fairy’s use of my childhood term for my mother’s earrings. How could Fugitate possibly know about that?

  “Twinkles. It is what my people—er, ah…what the fey call gems. Or so I have heard,” he added hastily. “These are the green twinkles Julius acquired for his good lady.”

  “Julius?” I echoed.

  “Julius Upton,” the shopkeeper replied irritably. “Your father.”

  “I know who my father was. But how did you know him?”

  Withypole’s gaze shifted away from me. “I am sure lots of folk did, him being such a notable advocate, pleading cases before the royal judiciary council and all.”

  “You have my father mixed up with someone else. He was never any sort of advocate.”

  “He gave it up before you were born. Had to, didn’t he, after defending too many of the wrong sort of people.”

  “What do you mean the wrong sort of people? Are you trying to tell me my father defended villains?”

  “No, I mean representing the kind of people that the king didn’t want defended. Such clients do not make for a successful career as an advocate. Your father was better off out of it.”

  My mind reeled from what Fugitate was telling me. I could hardly bring myself to believe it. My father had been such a quiet, reclusive man. I could not imagine him speaking before the royal judiciary council to defend anyone, let alone a person who had offended the king. It would have been such a defiant thing to do and my passive father had never seemed the sort of man to take such risks. And yet…I was troubled by my memory of him hustling me away from Quad Hall, refusing to comply with the law that our auras be registered.