by F. E. Greene
“Won’t you take care of me?” Pearl asked.
Her father offered a faltering smile. “Not forever. But remember, Pearl – you’re never helpless. When life becomes too difficult, when it’s worse than you ever imagined and you think you can’t bear it any longer, the king is waiting to rescue you. Call to him. Look for him. Believe that he hears you. He will send help, I promise.”
Pearl had been tempted to call out right then. As they strolled home, she kept turning to check the mump. No castle appeared. But someday one might. Her parents believed it, and Pearl trusted them. They weren’t half as ridiculous as most Castleveilians. When she looked at them, she saw their real faces.
But Pearl hadn’t seen those faces in five years. The two people who claimed to love her so much had left without a word. On the worst day of her life, no king showed up to rescue her. Only one person stepped forward, and all he asked in exchange was a dance at the festival where her family had once been dismissed.
As she stood and stared at the empty mump, Pearl felt foolish for thinking she’d seen the castle that morning. Worse, she told the children at the schoolhouse what happened as if it were actually true.
She was lucky to have only lost her job. If she weren’t more careful, she might find herself chained in a mad-wagon and carted to Desertry, a perilous border town on the edge of the Abstergian Desert. Instables dumped thieves and deviants at its bounds. While Pearl was neither, she did sound mad for claiming to see what no one else could.
Of course no one from Castlevale had been to Desertry. It might be one more fable told to maintain compliance from children and parents alike. Still, everyone spoke as though Desertry were real – just like the mump’s plagues and lake’s dangers. Folks were quick to believe in evil things, but mention goodness, and they shook their heads.
Pearl didn’t like the idea of seeing what no one else could. But she already had. That morning the castle appeared on the mump. The fallen bridge fixed itself at midday. And something more than Hieronymus had lurked briefly on her porch. Much as she wanted to forget all those moments, they seemed as real as the disasters that kept her distracted.
At her most despairing Pearl saw what she needed. Even if no one else did.
Impulsively Pearl willed herself to try again. She felt less than alone on the solitary path although nothing moved around her. The woods had stilled and the wind had calmed as if the earth itself awaited her decision. Soothed by its silence, Pearl wished to see the castle.
This time it unfurled like a banner. Shadows collapsed from the castle’s heights to saturate the grass below. Copper bellies alight, beacons dangled from chains along the stone walls.
Then Pearl heard a mess of instruments and voices too unrehearsed to come from Castlevale where festival musicians, like everything else, were of the highest caliber. But the singing Pearl heard was boisterous and joyful. Above its clamor, a bell rang once.
Enchanted and confused, Pearl listened until an unpleasant voice barked her name. The brusque sound broke her trance. Groaning, she glared down the lane.
With a matching scowl, Hieronymus marched toward her. “There you are, Pearl! We were supposed to meet at the arch. I’ve been waiting for half a bell.”
Pearl looked past him at the mump. It sat empty. Frustrated, she sighed.
“Why didn’t you wear the blue dress?” he demanded.
“I’ll wear blue next time,” she said curtly – before realizing what she’d implied.
Instantly cheered, Hieronymus extended a hand. On his palm was a sash of crimson silk rimmed with silver braids. When Pearl opened her mouth to protest, Hieronymus cut her off.
“I know what you’re going to say,” he told her. “But this is only for tonight and completely proper. You’re my guest at the Hoarding Festival, and I want everyone to know it. Wearing our family sash is a victory for yours.”
Passing her the lantern, Hieronymus drew near enough for their shoes to touch. For once there was no air of silliness about him as he guided the sash over Pearl’s head and laid it against her left shoulder. Adjusting its fabric, he freed Pearl’s hair from beneath. His fingers lingered in her curls. He smelled of juniper and mint.
“There,” he said. “You look perfect.”
Pearl stared back, wishing she could say the same. However doggedly he wooed her, she would never love Hieronymus. She wondered why his father had agreed to such a thing – the Sterling girl at the Hoarding Festival in the Stentorian sash – but she had no desire to ask.
Impatiently Hieronymus offered his arm. “Let’s go, Pearl, before we’re more than fashionably late.”
Hesitating, Pearl peeked again at the mump. Even vacant, it lured her to tell Hieronymus everything. If he saw the castle, too, then no one could argue. All of Castlevale would have to believe the Most Honorable Lord Governor’s Inheritor.
With one finger Hieronymus steered her face toward his. “Pearl, this is an important night for us both. My parents want to see that you’re worthy of this honor. I know you are, of course, but they aren’t convinced. This is your chance to prove you belong. Do you understand?”
“I don’t want to belong, Hieronymus. I just want to save Hollycopse.”
“Then you’re going to need me. There’s no one else who can help you now.”
He was right, Pearl realized. Seeing the castle had made no difference. If a king meant to rescue her, then he was too late.
An unfamiliar sadness crawled over Pearl’s skin when she took Hieronymus’ arm. She knew how it felt to mourn for others, but this grief was wholly different. For five years she had needed no rescue to keep hold of what she loved. She managed most things on her own. She paid to get help with the rest. Now, with the Stentorian sash heavy on her shoulder, those years of effort seemed worthless.
As Hieronymus led her to the crossroad, Pearl stole one last glance at the mump. Nothing lovely emerged from the darkness. No chorus of voices arose. After they passed beneath the market arch, ornate decorations obscured the great hill, and Pearl could not see the castle even if she tried.
Chapter Seven
Throughout Rosper the Hoarding Festivals were free and open affairs. By edict, anyone could attend. But even public events had unwritten rules, fickle rankings, and secret routines that reminded Rosperians of a singular truth.
Sharing the same space did not make everyone the same.
Nor did everyone share the same space. Apart from the traditional games – ring toss, apple bob, basket grab – an unofficial sport kept many townsfolk on tiptoe, literally, as Castlevale’s elite arrived in festooned carriages to ensure they would be seen before refusing to mingle. The wealthy sequestered themselves at the north end of the market, close to their mansions and far from the sashless rabble pouring through the south arch.
It was strange behavior, Pearl always thought. If she wanted to avoid other people, she stayed at home. As she trailed Hieronymus into the mayhem, she wished that she had.
This unofficial sport also had a coveted prize – the Most Honorable Lord Governor’s Box. It wasn’t really a box but a canvas pavilion, and an invitation to enter remained the apex of social achievement. Designed to entice, and also dissuade, the pavilion was veiled by gauzy awnings. Gold bunting cascaded from corner posts. Between those, along red plaited ropes, tiny candles dangled inside glass vials, their wicks simmering in baths of wax.
It was the only place in Castlevale where real flame could be seen and only on festival nights. Passers-by paused to gawk while instables looked the other way.
Across the Great Vales, candles were banned. By edict, no fires burned in Rosper since the land’s lifeblood was also its bones. From shingle to step, every structure was built with wood. Only helstones were permitted for warming supper or skin, and disobedience earned a stiff penalty.
Even so, the pavilion twinkled. The effect was resplendent, the potential for mishap exciting. With one gust of wind, flames could erupt, and a spark might consume the whole town. To r
isk so much for mere appearance underscored another truth.
In Rosper the rich lived immune to the rules.
Across the market’s broad middle, merriment swelled like a mounting tide. At the closing bell, vendors had rolled aside kiosks to make room for couples who shuffled and spun around the campanile. Men drank. Carters haggled. Women gossiped, and children laughed. The band played their instruments like they sawed Rosperian logs. One thing Castlevale never wasted was time.
Neither did Hieronymus. Tonight, however, he was in no rush to reach the pavilion even though his parents were waiting. Finally Pearl was his, and he made a leisurely show of it by leading her along the market’s perimeter. Everyone recognized the Stentorian sash. Word would travel faster than a fire.
Halfway around the square, Hieronymus slowed. He leaned close to be heard over the music. “Would you like a cider? This vendor makes the best in all the Fourtlands.”
Pearl felt his muggy breath on her neck. Fighting the urge to push him away, as she would have one day earlier, she shook her head. She knew what Hieronymus was doing.
He didn’t relent. “Some food on a stick, maybe?” Staying close, he wrapped an arm around her waist.
Again Pearl refused. “Don’t your parents keep drinks in their box?”
“Maybe you’re right,” he agreed without moving. “We should join them, not hang about here with the scraplings.”
“Why does it matter where we stand?” she said loudly. “We’re no better than anyone else.”
He looked at Pearl like she was joking.
Pearl’s stomach turned. Swallowing her resentment, she let herself be drawn into the governor’s box while envious gazes trailed her. Some were mystified. Most disapproved.
Beneath the pavilion’s scalloped awning, Phylistia Stentorian visited with a trio of women who perfectly mimicked, after much practice, each other’s gestures and words. Heads bobbed. Arms flapped. Bedecked with feathers, their nests of greying hair teetered above apple-shaped faces.
Like pigeons they chattered at one another until Hieronymus’ mother fell silent. She noticed her son’s arrival and, with less delight, his guest’s. Then Phylistia shooed her friends away, offering hasty promises to have them back later.
Deep within the pavilion sat the Most Honorable Lord Governor who was in every sense the antithesis of his wife. Perched on an elevated chair, Harrigan Stentorian moved nothing but his eyes as he watched the rest of Castlevale revolve around the campanile. He rarely spoke and never smiled, not even on festival nights. When his dissecting stare landed on Pearl, she felt, much as saw, its disdain.
While Hieronymus introduced her, Pearl raised her eyes just long enough to be polite. Otherwise she kept them fastened on her new shoes. She didn’t want to be there, and the evening seemed bearable only because at 24 bells it would end.
Closing her eyes, Pearl wished she could live the day over. She was exactly where she never wanted to be – at the center of attention among unwanted company. After growing up in Castlevale and struggling alone for so long, Pearl knew how to be an outcast. Acceptance, or even its pretense, made her uneasy.
A firm pinch on Pearl’s arm made her jump.
“Mother is speaking,” Hieronymus said flatly.
“Woolgathering, are we?” The Most Honorable Lord Governor’s wife pursed her lips with predictable dissatisfaction. She liked Pearl no better than Maye Sterling liked Hieronymus. Phylistia might even pick up a broom if it meant Pearl could be swept from her box.
Picturing it, Pearl managed to smile. “I apologize, Mrs Stentorian. It’s been a difficult day, and I’m tired.”
Hieronymus pinched her again. “Governess, Pearl! Mind your titles.”
With a gloved hand, his mother waved aside the gaffe. “One of the many reasons why I dislike work. It taxes both the body and the mind. What good is an occupation if it dulls these enjoyments?” She followed her rhetoric with an actual question. “And what, as Second Schooler, are you teaching the children these days?”
When Pearl glanced at Hieronymus, he gave a smug nod. The matter was already settled. Pearl’s job was restored – and with a title to secure it.
“The usual lessons,” she answered. “Mathematics, grammar, manners. We also teach history although nothing from Before, of course.”
“Obviously,” the governess sniffed. “Not even we could repair that damage, even to such a sweet little teacup as yourself. Doesn’t she remind you of a teacup, Harrigan?”
The Most Honorable Lord Governor gave no reply. He stared at Pearl like he wished she might shatter so he could crush the shards with his boot.
Unflustered by his silence, his wife willingly filled it. “Surely, Mis Sterling, you could teach something more valuable. Manners I understand, but mathematics? How many scraplings use oblong division while they’re cleaning up sawdust? Or diagram sentences while dredging a trench? Childhood is the only time they have to live like the rest of us. Aren’t there any amusements in that school?”
While Pearl floundered in silence, Hieronymus saved her. “Amusements don’t make good citizens, mother. Games are a waste of effort, and stories a waste of breath.”
Her defiance ignited, Pearl decided to disagree. “Just today I was telling a story about the castle no one can see. The children love hearing it. It’s one of their favorites.”
At first the governess could only sputter. “Why would you mention that old myth? We’ve far more interesting stories.”
“And much less controversial,” Hieronymus added, his words crawling with caution. “No one likes the idea of a king running things.”
“Certainly not!” Phylistia agreed. “The children don’t need to pretend there’s a castle or a king. What if they actually went looking for them? Worse, what if they tried to climb the mump? Catastrophe!” Her jewelry rattled as her hands whittled the air. “Don’t you agree, Harrigan?”
“School is what it is.” Sound crept, at last, from the pavilion’s aft. Only moving his lips, the Most Honorable Lord Governor spoke in a voice that reminded Pearl of wood dragged through gravel. “Real lessons are taught in the home. By the parents.”
Pearl forced herself to look at the governor. He examined her like she was a stain.
“Come on, Pearl. Let’s dance.” Grabbing her arm, Hieronymus dragged her from the pavilion and into the whirl of bodies before she could refuse.
Pearl’s only relief in dancing came from the lack of conversation. The tune was merry, the steps were quick, and Hieronymus had to concentrate just to keep up. As he mouthed the beats in each measure, and sometimes which foot to move, Pearl followed his lead without thinking. They both learned to dance where everyone did – in the schoolhouse. Often partnered, they knew each other’s routines. Hieronymus wrestled while Pearl acquiesced.
Packed with revelers, the market square looked like a child’s drawing come alive. Ruffles, ribbons, and mismatched taffeta congested a space that normally seemed vast. Excess made the scene what it was, and Pearl was as unimpressed with its frills as Phylistia Stentorian had been with her.
While she swiveled in its midst, Pearl noticed a blemish within the brocade. Tucked among onlookers, a distinctly un-Rosperian woman watched the dance like it was a deer hunt. Her brown clothes were drab and mannish, her short hair restrained by a strap of leather, and although she lacked the haggard look of a scaver, the woman didn’t blend. Even the poorest townsfolk knew to wear their best clothes to a festival.
Distracted, Pearl forgot where to step. When Hieronymus’ boot crushed her left shoe, she let out a squeal, and he caught her before she could trip. Abruptly they halted, forcing other couples to shuffle and dodge.
“Have a care, Pearl.” Scowling, he helped her straighten. “Everyone is watching.”
Recognizing the truth of his own words, Hieronymus calmed. Then, without asking, he kissed Pearl. His lips mashed against hers, and his grip cinched her arms until Pearl wriggled loose and gave him a shove.
“You don
’t have permission to do that!” she hissed. “We’re not entreated!”
“Not yet.” He reclaimed her waist. “Let me entreat you. If you don’t love me after a year, I’ll set you free.”
“Set me free from what? You or my home?”
He grinned as she leaned away. “Both.”
Pearl shivered in spite of the evening’s heat. What had seemed like a trial was becoming a trap. Freeing herself, she dragged Hieronymus to one edge of the square.
“You said this dance is enough for me to keep Hollycopse,” she fussed.
Hieronymus looked shocked, as though he was the one being deceived. “How can you blame me, Pearl? You’re the prettiest girl at the festival, even in that dress. And I love you. Doesn’t that mean anything? I’ve loved you since the day we met. To see you wearing that sash makes me happier than I’ve ever been. Let me entreat you properly, and you will come to love me.”
“I’ve known you since I was five, Hieronymus. If I don’t love you now, I’m not going to.”
His paunchy face tightened with anger. “But you love Hollycopse.”
“It’s my home,” she reminded him. “It’s all I have left of my parents.”
“As of 12 bells tomorrow, it belongs to someone else unless you come to your senses and let me entreat you.”
Disgust soured Pearl’s stomach. “You’d make me trade my freedom for my home?”
“That’s your choice,” he said with a shrug. “I’m just naming the options.”
It was a conquering moment for Hieronymus. To Pearl, it felt like the unhappiest ending of all.
“Catch your breath,” he told her. “Compose yourself. I’ll be in the box with my parents. When you’ve made your decision, join us, and the governor will announce our entreatment.”
“And at the end of the year, when I still don’t love you?”
For once he didn’t lash out. “I’ll still love you, Pearl. I always will.”