Her Moon: A Retelling of William Shakespeare's The Winter's Tale

by Cortney Pearson

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Author's Note:

  Her Moon was included in a YA anthology of short stories that are based on the works of Shakespeare, entitled Never Be Younger: a YA Anthology. It's a retelling of The Winter's Tale, and was originally titled based on a line from the play: "To Undreamed Shores." I have since changed the title to one I feel better suits the story.

  Her Moon

  a retelling of Shakespeare's The Winter's Tale

  by Cortney Pearson

  I cannot be mine own, nor anything to any, if I be not thine.

  --William Shakespeare, The Winter's Tale

  Chapter One

  I know it’s a great honor, but I have no desire to attend the party this evening. I stare out my bedroom window, at the sheep speckling the pasture. The new dress Argento had made for my seventeenth birthday last month lies across my bed, and I sigh.

  “It means a lot that we’ve been invited, Perdita,” Argento had said as we rallied the horses and secured their posts in the barn an hour before. “It won’t hurt you to leave your anvil once in a while.”

  He was right of course, though I loathed admitting it. I checked the forge in the barn, making sure it was completely out, and secured the crate on the wagon, double-checking its contents. If I didn’t have a delivery I wouldn’t be going. And if Argento hadn’t been specifically invited by King Leontes’ loyal retainer himself. But Argento has been good to me. A father in all but blood.

  He found me abandoned in the countryside when I was an infant. He could have let me die, but he raised me as his daughter instead. I owe him this much.

  I bathe and slip into the soft, white underdress. The bell sleeves flare out at my wrists, the wide collar leaving my shoulders exposed. Next I pull on the sapphire, velvet overdress and lace the corset. The full skirt flows out more than anything I’ve ever worn, and I can’t stop petting the fabric. It’s the finest thing I’ve ever owned.

  After a short debate over what to do with my mop of black curls, I pin them all atop each other in a tousled, yet tasteful style.

  I stuff the maps scattered across my bed back into their basket. Maps I’ve drawn from books I’ve read, of America, of England, Ireland, and France. Dreams play through, dreams of dancing, of sailing on a boat, of touring the countryside and seeing things I’ve only imagined.

  “I won’t be doing much traveling tonight,” I say, spritzing myself with rose water and slipping my feet into the new boots I bought with this last payment from Sir Tomsin. He’d given me quite a bit extra.

  “For such unusual skill,” he’d said. “Gidget hasn’t limped once since you shoed her.”

  I smooth my skirts once more, admiring the fit and the emphasis it gives to my figure. My calluses catch on the fabric, and I stare at my traitorous hands.

  “You’d never tell I was a blacksmith in this,” I mutter to myself with one last glance in the mirror.

  Argento drives the wagon, guiding Ivory and Brecker down the road winding to the valley below. Trees line either side like a barbed snake. The Bohemian valley stretches, expanding to more trees in the distance that reach up to tickle the underbellies of aloof clouds.

  My stepfather wears the same suit he’s worn on holidays and harvest celebrations since I’ve known him. Its edges are a bit tattered, but he’s somehow managed to keep it in one piece.

  I brush a fleck of dirt from his collar. “You should’ve let me buy you a new one.”

  Argento gives me his wrinkly, sweet smile and pats my knee. “Save your money, Perdita. You do enough helping to keep the farm afloat.”

  Brecker and Ivory clip-clop ahead. Dwellings begin to multiply the farther we go, along with the streets and lanterns being lit in preparation for the party. Wagons and carriages fill the streets, people chatter. We make our two stops to deliver our goods, and a large number of coins jangle in my purse by the time we arrive at St. John’s Inn.

  “Do you have any idea why you were summoned here?” I ask as Argento helps me down from the wagon. The air is chilled. I pull my wrap tighter around me.

  Music wafts from the inn—fiddle and pipe prattling a cheerful tune and blending over gales of laughter and the smell of ale and freshly cooked stew.

  The inn brims with life. Every lantern has been lit, every fireplace dances with flames. Barmaids scurry, delivering orders and enduring unwanted pinches. Couples dance in the center of the ring of tables pushed along the wall.

  Argento and I greet the familiar townsfolk, including Christabel Attwater and Pastor Jamison, when two men standing near the bar signal us over. One I recognize as Sir Tomsin. Tall and thick in the shoulders, he wears a stately suit and holds his hat under one arm.

  “Mr. Aravale, a pleasure to see you,” says Sir Tomsin. “You remember my son, Theodore.” He gestures to the gangly young man at his side. Theodore is dressed similarly to his father in a fitted red suit coat with silver buttons.

  Argento gives a slight bow. Even dressed in his best, my stepfather looks shabby beside the royal surveyor and his son.

  “I understand you have some business to discuss,” Argento says.

  “I do indeed. Theo, would you keep Miss Aravale company while we talk this evening?”

  The gangly boy closes his lips over his teeth in an attempt at a grin and inclines his head at me. “With pleasure.”

  “Oh, that isn’t necessary,” I say, backing up and nearly running into a barmaid. Theo’s face falls. I hadn’t wanted to come in the first place and I certainly have no intention of being ‘kept company.’ “Thank you all the same. Argento? I’ll just wait over here.”

  Sir Tomsin opens his mouth to argue, but Argento only smiles. I scurry away like a mouse from a pouncing cat. The table nearest the fire has no takers, so I slide in.

  “What can I get ye, miss?” asks the barmaid. Blonde curls drip down past her shoulders, and she gives me a pretty smile.

  “Something to drink, please. Some water.”

  “Comin’ up, miss.”

  I dart a glance near the inn’s entrance, to where Argento and Sir Tomsin have reconvened with several others. Theo stands near a column, watching me, a perplexed crease in his brow.

  “Oh please, don’t come over here,” I grumble under my breath. The barmaid places a cup of ale before me. It’s not what I ordered, but I take it. A quick gulp, and my pulse rises as Theo tugs the bottom of his jacket and lifts his chin, eyeing me where I sit.

  It’s one thing to know I’d been so rude. It would be quite another to have him come remind me of it. Expressing remorse has never come easily to me.

  A boy with black hair, blue eyes and mischief riding his glance slips onto the seat across from me, breaking my view of Theo’s reproving glare. His collar hangs open, and his hair is freshly tousled as if he’d run all the way here instead of riding in a carriage like others of his status would. He rears around in his seat and tips two fingers to his forehead in gesture to Theo, who seems to rethink his present route.

  “Um,” I say. It’s about all I can say, actually.

  “I think your friend is not used to being snubbed. Some cider for me, please,” he orders as the barmaid stops by our table once more.

  “Excuse me?” I say, wondering who this boy is and why he thinks he can sit here.

  “He’s dejected,” the boy goes on. “Just look at him.”

  “I suppose I was a tad harsh,” I sa
y. “I despise being thought of as weak. As needing to be entertained.” It’s one reason I opted for the blacksmith apprenticeship four years ago.

  “Heaven knows I could use some entertainment,” the boy says, fidgeting around as the barmaid places a cup before him. He takes a long swig.

  “You don’t dance?” I ask, referring to the only entertainment there is.

  The boy sets his cup down and traps my eyes with his blue ones. “Why, are you offering?”

  His lip crooks upward. I force down my own smile and stiffen my posture, chin raised.

  “As a matter of fact, no.”

  “Good. I wouldn’t have accepted anyway.”

  I chuckle, and so does he. We take a silent moment, punting inquisitive looks back and forth. He never seems to stop smiling. Even when his lips straighten, the gleam lingers in his gaze.

  “Who are you?” I finally ask. For a moment a small puncture of guilt pangs for speaking with this stranger and yet not being Theo Tomsin’s ‘company,’ but a group of laughing girls pulls Theo to their table across the room, dousing the guilt in an instant.

  “Cove Rutledge. And whose company am I enjoying?”

  Heat crawls to my cheeks, and I dip my chin. “Perdita Aravale.”

  “What brings you to the St. John’s Inn this fine evening, Miss Aravale?” Cove asks.

  “My stepfather has some business with our friend Theo’s father,” I say, peering at the crowd near the bar. Argento and Sir Tomsin are engrossed in their conversation. I wonder what they’re speaking of.

  “You shoed my father’s horse the last time I was here. But you were younger then.”

  I analyze his thin smile, playful-glinted eyes, and the way his hair flat-out refuses to behave. He’s too striking. I certainly would have remembered him.

  “It’s possible,” I say. “I shoe a lot of horses. Who’s your father?”

  “He’s back there.” Cove points toward a stately man dressed in a fine red coat who is conversing with Argento as well. It seems Cove is also associated with royalty.

  “So.” Cove leans in and links his fingers together across the table from me. “Tell me about yourself.”

  “That’s a very vague request,” I say.

  “Okay, I’ll be more specific.” He rests his hands behind his head, staring up at the pieced-glass lantern dangling over our table. “Specific…specific…I know. Let’s talk colors.”

  Colors? I fold my arms. “Pity. You’re reverting to the one question everyone resorts to when they don’t know what else to ask.”

  Cove points a finger. “Touché, Miss Aravale. I said colors. I didn’t say I was going to ask what your favorite is—although I’m sure it’s highly interesting. Here’s my question. If everything was black and white, and you could only see one color—ever, for the rest of your life—what would it be?”

  That’s not at all the question I expected. I open my mouth, but he cuts me off.

  “Not your favorite color, necessarily.” He leans in and the lantern light catches his eyes. “If you just pick your favorite…well, that’s cheating.”

  I play out his painted scenario in my head, glancing across the dining room and trying to imagine everything devoid of its usual hue, everything ashen. Trees in the nearby forest, all gray instead of their rich brown trunks and green, verdant growth. Or a garden, washed blank, where the roses are burned instead of a riot of brilliant scarlets or luscious pinks.

  And to my total surprise, I draw a blank. Only one color? How could anyone possibly choose just one when so many are beautiful in their own way?

  “You’ve raised quite the dilemma, Mr. Rutledge,” I say.

  His mouth quirks. “I would think you were never perplexed, Miss Aravale.”

  “Then you have a lot to learn about me.”

  “I hope to.”

  My pulse escalates. He blinks lazily, the corners of his mouth still twitching.

  I’m so distracted I hardly notice Argento approach our table. My stepfather clears his throat.

  “Please excuse the interruption, but we must be going. Perdita?” Argento offers me his hand.

  “Of course,” I say, trying to figure out how to breathe normally again. I shake myself and stare up at Argento’s kind, aged face. Right. Home. It’s a long way back up the mountain.

  “Thank you for your company, Mr. Rutledge,” I say, standing. Cove stands as well, straightening his jacket though it does the article no good whatsoever. It’s like he went rolling down hills before deciding to come to a party. “It was nice to meet you.”

  “I hope to see you again soon,” says Cove. In a swift motion he takes my hand and bends to kiss my knuckles. His fingers are soft, and he raises his eyes to me mid-gesture. Heat flushes up to my hairline. It’s all I can do not to pull away.

  Argento hands me my wrap, and we step out into the night. A horse whinnies, and the smell of manure filters across the breeze. Argento helps me up into the wagon, takes the reins, and urges Ivory and Brecker forward through the bustling crowd of comers and goers.

  “What did Sir Tomsin want?” I ask, repositioning my wrap. I struggle to harness my thoughts, but Cove manages to take over each one. The feel of his lips remains on my hand, and I shudder, remembering his low voice and easy manner.

  “Details on the sheepherding industry. It appears I am the man with all the answers in that area.”

  “Of course you are,” I say, shivering and peering back at the inn growing smaller behind us.

  It’s strange that even though I can no longer see him, Cove’s glance trails behind me. The attention is beyond tangible.

  I hope to see you again soon.

  I suspect his parting words were more than just a common pleasantry uttered out of politeness. Something tells me Cove Rutledge is rarely polite for the sake of it.

  Two

  It has a woman’s touch,” says Christabel Attwater, examining the cast-iron spoon I’d sculpted earlier. Curls frame her face, and her beautiful skirts sweep the dusty floor of my shop.

  I cringe. Why does she always dress so fancily when visiting me here?

  “Others don’t take the time for these curves, these details. You have a gift, Perdita, my dear.”

  She places the spoon onto the filthy wooden table covered in ashes and bits of metal. Next, she examines a small stew pot.

  “Stunning. Absolutely beautiful work.” Ignoring the black smudges the pot has left on her hands, she looks directly at me. “Don’t let anyone tell you it’s odd for a woman to blacksmith,” she says.

  “I never do,” I reply, lowering my hammer. My hands and shoulder throb under its weight.

  All of Bohemia thought I was crazy when I chose this for my apprenticeship. Four years ago, I studied with Pavel Brooks down in the town, sleeping above his shop and working early and late hours to learn the skill. By the time I turned sixteen, Brooks said I’d learned all he could teach me. Argento had been kind to allow me to turn his tattered barn into a smithy.

  “I’m stronger than any man because of it,” I add.

  Christabel smiles, accentuating the lines around her eyes. “I can firmly believe that. And yet I saw you the other evening. No man would balk at you in a dress, that’s for sure.”

  Heat rises to my cheeks. Instantly, I think of Cove Rutledge. Before I can thank her for her compliment, she goes on.

  “I’d love to show you the world, Perdita. You have such a talent for the rougher things of life. I’d like to introduce you to a much finer side. How would you like to accompany me to England in a few months? My daughter is expecting her first child, and I mean to be there. You’ll be much better company than my footman there.”

  She gestures to Harrison, waiting by the elaborate carriage parked outside. He tips his hat in response. Christabel laughs.

  “What do you say? I’ll introduce you at balls, we’ll buy you more of those pretty dresses, you’ll have the time of your life!”

  My pulse takes off, ready to leave this instan
t. I’ll go, I’ll pack right now!

  “I’d love to, truly,” I say, compelling myself to speak deliberately. “But I can’t afford such a trip.”

  The dresses, the fare for passage, not to mention room and board…I’ve been saving for a while, but I doubt I have that much, not when a lot of my income helps Argento keep the sheep farm afloat.

  Christabel waves me off. “No need to fuss about that. I was your caretaker, Miss Aravale. You’ll be my guest, no expectations necessary.”

  It’s too much. I can’t accept it. If she were family, maybe. Then again, this woman practically raised me, so she may as well be.

  “Just the same, I’d like to pay my own way.”

  Christabel purses her lips. She examines the spoons once more. “I’ll make you a deal, Perdita. Make me a set of these, and you’ll have your passage.”

  My smile spreads. Now that I can do. “Thank you, Christabel.”

  ***

  I pound the key until the final piece chips off, leaving just the right amount of space for the gap between the key’s teeth. I wipe sweat from my brow, wishing I could clear it from my arms as well, and lay my hammer down. The lock rests on the table near a clustered pile of metal pots, pans, and spoons—test subjects to practice on, really.

  “Please let this be the one,” I mumble, inserting the key into the lock’s hole. With a turn, the latch releases with a satisfying clink.

  “Impressive,” comes a voice behind me.

  I wheel around. “Mr. Rutledge,” I say in surprise, instantly aware of the sweat and smudges on my face, not to mention the hair escaping from my loosening braid. What is Cove Rutledge doing here? It’s been just over a week since I met him.

  Cove is wearing a tailored tunic and knee-length boots over slightly creased pants. He leans against the door post. “I finished my duties early, and I heard this was the place to come when time became such a commodity.”