Kingdom of Villains and Vengeance

by Laura Greenwood et al.

  Romy gasped as she looked at the massive burns on Thomas’ arm. “What happened?”

  “Her father,” Thomas said wincing. “He picked up a log from the fire and was brandishing it about. Once the curtains caught, the fire raced up the walls and things began to spread. With my uninjured arm, I pulled Frieda out. But by the time I went back for him, the upper story had begun to collapse into the bottom floors. I couldn’t save him.”

  Frieda had begun to softly cry, and Thomas held her against him as if she were the dearest thing in the world.

  “I will replace everything. Your home will be even more beautiful than you can possibly imagine,” Thomas promised Frieda with a touch of desperation. “I just couldn’t save him. I tried. I honestly tried.”

  Romy couldn’t save her friend either from this heartache, but she could heal Thomas. Reaching her good arm out she clasped his wrist and waited for the familiar glow of magic. She didn’t care who saw or what would happen to her. Hiding things hadn’t solved anything. Perhaps it was time to show the city dwellers and magic wielders just what she was made of. Romy was tired of hiding away.

  It’s said that the truth will set you free—Romy wasn’t sure she believed in any of the old adages that Papa was forever repeating. But one thing she did know was that hiding away hadn’t been the answer.

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12-

  Romy picked the radishes one by one and placed them inside of the old woven basket. Time is a fickle thing. How can it move slower than molasses and then pass in the blink of an eye?

  It was strange, she didn’t feel much different than she had when she was nine. Here she was, still picking radishes. A faint smile twisted her lips as she remembered the incident with Mr. Johnson. Papa had been true to his word. They never did sell radishes to him again.

  The best radishes in town were sold directly to Widow Hayes. Not only was she kind to Romy, but the widow had never once mentioned Romy’s disabilities. Widow Hayes had mentioned to Romy that her nephew would be coming to stay with her. From the worried look on the older woman’s face, Romy worried that perhaps her nephew was some kind of a troublemaker.

  However, Romy knew better than to stick her nose into anyone else’s business. She had simply smiled at the widow and told her that she would bring the same order next week.

  It had been more than a year since that horrible night when Frieda’s father had passed. True to their word, Thomas and Leon had kept quiet about Romy’s magic. During that time Romy had quietly celebrated her eighteenth birthday with Papa and Frieda in their little cottage in the woods.

  Frieda had wanted Thomas to attend, but Romy insisted that it only be the three of them. Even though the city dwellers were no longer openly hostile to Romy. And it was true that Thomas was openly friendly with her, or at least it appeared that way. Having the prince on your side went a long way with the city dwellers.

  But what they didn’t realize was that Thomas only tolerated Romy because he was head over heels in love with Frieda. Romy wasn’t under any illusions that he liked her. As much as Frieda adored Thomas, Romy could sense cracks in his armor. It wasn’t that Thomas was a bad man, because he wasn’t. However, Romy didn’t see him as the fairy tale hero that Frieda did.

  “Are you about done with those radishes?” Papa called out from the porch.

  Romy could hear the squeaking of wood indicating that her father was trying to stand. “Papa, you need to rest! You were out here for hours this morning,” she called out.

  She couldn’t see his face from where she was in the garden, but she heard the frown in his voice when he responded.

  “Tarnation, child! There is nothing wrong with me.”

  Romy rolled her eyes, thankful that Papa couldn’t see her. He had been an old man when she had first come to live with him. Now, eighteen years later, Papa was no spring chicken. It was true that he still had several good years ahead of him—perhaps a dozen or more.

  But he wouldn’t have many if he insisted on gallivanting about as if he were in his youth.

  “Papa, do as I ask, please.” Romy had given up trying to reason with him. Her current plan was straight up guilt. “Do you want me to end up living her alone?”

  Grumblings from the porch were followed by the squeaking of wood. Phew, she blew out a breath. Thankfully, Papa had complied with her wishes.

  Once her basket was completely filled to the brim. Romy hefted it up into her arms. It was heavy, but manageable. Romy wasn’t much taller than she had been as a child. Papa often told her that she was no bigger than a minute.

  A moment of sorrow touched her heart. It had always appeared as if her papa could do anything. He was the strongest, kindest, and bravest person Romy had ever known. But Papa had aged. For Romy, it had seemed as if Papa had become human. What bothered her even more, was the fact that her magic couldn’t heal his ailing leg.

  Magic was a fickle creature. It could restore things to what they should be. But it couldn’t make one younger, nor could it prolong one’s life past where it was intended to go. Romy had done the best she could do with his leg, but it wouldn’t heal.

  Chances are, this is just how god intended things to be. There wasn’t any magic on earth that could change the will of god. Romy knew it, Papa knew it, and there was nothing more to be said on the subject. Everyone’s born and everyone dies. No matter how long or short the journey may be, it’s up to god to decide.

  Brushing the sadness away, Romy pasted a smile on her face walked around to see Papa scowling at her from beneath the straw hat she had made for him. She couldn’t help the bark of laughter that escaped her lips.

  “Papa, you don’t have to wear that. I promise, I won’t be offended if you use it for kindling.”

  Papa’s scowl deepened. “What are you taking about? This hat was made for me by my daughter. She is the most clever and brilliant mind to ever enter this forest. I won’t have you making fun of this hat.”

  Romy’s lips pursed together. “I can’t make fun of the hat I made?”

  Papa nodded, his lips twitching the briefest of moment. “I think you are secretly jealous of my hat. You know how good it looks on me and now you want one of your own.”

  Romy burst out laughing. “’You are ridiculous. Do you know that? Keep your silly old hat.”

  His weathered wrinkled face broke into a wide smile. Romy grinned at him. The straw hat was unevenly woven, misshapen, and altogether a complete mess. But he loved it, and that was all there was to it.

  “Do you want me to take these radishes into Widow Hayes before the party?” Romy asked.

  Papa raised a brow. “How about I take them into town? Then you can have more time to get ready for the party.”

  Romy shook her head. “You know I don’t care about fancy things. Frieda has been my friend all of these years despite my social graces. I don’t intend on being someone different now. Besides, this party isn’t about me. Their engagement is to be announced tonight.”

  Papa pursed his lips together. “And how is that trumped up buffoon going to take that news?”

  “Leon?” Romy asked in surprise. She hadn’t seen much of Leon in the past year. However, when she was around him, it was obvious that his tendre for Frieda hadn’t abated. If anything, it was only growing stronger.

  Papa nodded. “Does he know they are to wed?”

  Romy shook her head. “I doubt it. Frieda whispered the secret to me, but nobody else knows save the king. Thomas had to get permission from his father.”

  “Trust me, child. That boy is going to make trouble any way he can.”

  That was something that Papa didn’t need to tell her. Romy had known Leon for far too long to trust him any further than she could throw him. Leon was a bad egg. There wasn’t any better way to describe him.

  “How about you rest,” Romy suggested, “and I will take these to Widow Hayes. Then when I get back, we can go into town for the party.”

  “I am not an invalid.” Papa s
ounded like an ornery child.

  “I didn’t say you were,” she countered calmly.

  “Then why must I rest?” he groused.

  “You and I both know the answer to that. You must save your strength. Frieda would be devastated if I had to tell her that you couldn’t be there because you were too stubborn to stay off your leg.”

  Papa grumbled something underneath his breath that wasn’t fit for company.

  Romy laughed setting the radish basket to the side and moving up the porch steps. Without a word, she passed him the cane they had fashioned out of a lovely piece of wood. Romy had taken special care with its creation. Unlike the straw hat, this she had carved with magic.

  Romy had styled the cane to be similar to the broach she wore under her dress. The intricate carvings had ravens erupting from the sun. It was odd and lovely at the same time. Papa said it reminded him of her—Romy didn’t look too closely into that statement.

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13-

  “Widow Hayes? Are you there?” Romy knocked again on the door. The wind was restless, dancing across her skin in a pattern that seemed new and yet familiar.

  Just as Romy was about to set the basket down, a deep voice sounded behind her. “Can I help you?”

  Romy whirled around to see a boy a year or two older than herself carrying a large ax. He had at least two days of scruff on his cheeks and seemed far too large to be any body’s nephew.

  “Who are you?” she demanded. “What did you do with Widow Hayes?”

  He stared at her for a moment. The space seemed to stretch between them like a rubber band. Suddenly it snapped and Romy physically felt the connection break. Who was this man?

  The corner of his lips tilted up. “What makes you think I did anything to Widow Hayes?”

  “Look at you!” Romy blurted out. “You are so big, and dark. Are you standing on something? And the ax, that’s just creepy. Why do you have an ax? People don’t just carry those around.”

  He picked up the ax, as if considering it, and then took a practice swing. “I don’t know why not. Seems to me that if you can carry around radishes, I should be able to carry an ax. Some might think you were the odd one, not me.”

  Romy’s dark brows snapped together. “Everyone knows I am odd, it’s kind of my specialty.”

  This caused the boy to laugh. It sounded rusty, unused, and utterly charming. Romy didn’t like the way her belly flip flopped at the sound. Nor did she like the way his eyes seemed to smile even when his lips had stopped. He seemed amused by Romy and her battery of questions. This boy was obviously dangerous.

  “If you must know, my aunt was tired. I suggested that she go and lie down. You know how deaf she is. I would be more than willing to bet that if you pounded on the door and yelled at the top of your lungs, she still wouldn’t hear you.”

  “If I was a cold-blooded killer that would be precisely the same thing I would say,” Romy muttered.

  His mouth twitched traitorously. “Have you thought about that much?”

  Romy drew a blank. “Thought about what?”

  “Being a cold-blooded killer,” he responded. “I mean, it’s clear you already know what your thought process would be. First, notice that victim is tired. Second, suggest that they take a nap.”

  “You think you are really funny—don’t you?” Romy snapped.

  The large boy smiled, it was slow and easy like hot fudge over ice cream. Romy was momentarily hypnotized by it.

  “I think you are funny,” he said softly.

  This snapped Romy out of her daydreaming.

  “Listen,” she paused because his name didn’t come to mind. “What was your name?”

  He set the ax against the porch and held out a large hand.

  Romy had to set her basket down to take it. Upon contact that strange connection from earlier zapped back into place. His calloused warm hand enveloped her smaller one. The moment their hands touched his eyes lit with curiosity and something Romy really couldn’t put a name to.

  “Einar,” he said gruffly.

  “I am Romy.”

  She hadn’t meant to give him her name, but somehow with their hands connected she had the feeling that she would tell him just about anything.

  That scared her enough to yank her hand back.

  “You are feisty for one so small,” he said absentmindedly as he opened the door. “Come inside, I have the money for the radishes.”

  Romy took one hesitant step inside. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t stepped into the widow’s home hundreds of times before. But with Einar in the room, it had never felt so small before. She watched him warily as he went into the kitchen. She tipped her head to the side, watching him set the basket onto the countertop. Then he washed his hands before going to the third cookie jar where the widow kept her money.

  Surely, he had to be who he said he was, Romy reasoned. Who else would be so at home in the widow’s house? And it was very unlikely that a murderer would pay for the woman’s radishes, wasn’t it?

  Einar came out with a small bag of coins. Romy wasn’t about to take his word that all the money was there. She had been swindled before and wasn’t about to be now.

  “Go ahead,” he goaded. “Count it.”

  “I wasn’t going to,” Romy snapped.

  He smiled. “Yes, you were, and we both know it. You know, you are nothing like my aunt described.”

  Doubt and uncertainty swept over Romy. She didn’t like talking about herself. Nothing good ever came of it, she was certain of that.

  “I don’t know about that,” Romy said shortly.

  “Do you want to know what my aunt said?” he asked conversationally. He seemed not to care one way or the other, but Romy noticed that his eyes never left her face even when he passed her the money.

  “Not particularly,” Romy replied honestly. “I find that I rarely am pleased with other’s estimations of me. I care more about what I think of myself.”

  His brows rose and he nodded slowly. “That is very wise for one so young.”

  Romy bristled. “I am eighteen, not a child.”

  He raised his hands in mock surrender. “As old as that?”

  She scowled. “Are you making fun of me?”

  His amused expression vanished. It happened so quickly that Romy wasn’t even certain that it had been there.

  Einar’s gaze was intense when he spoke next. “Romy, I don’t make fun of others—ever.”

  It was strange to Romy how adamantly he stated things. Romy was used to being the butt of everyone’s jokes. In truth, she hardly listened to them anymore. It wasn’t worth it. Romy hadn’t been kidding when she told Einar that she didn’t put her trust in other’s opinions of herself.

  Romy had learned along the way that the only person who really mattered was the one staring back at you in the mirror.

  “I must go,” she said shakily, clutching the coins to her chest.

  Einar didn’t speak, he only looked at her.

  “I can pick up the basket next week with the next batch. Or have the widow send word if she needs me to come sooner than that.

  “How can I- I mean she, reach you?”

  Romy turned back for one final look at the boy. He was handsome in a rugged way. His skin was weathered and tanned by the sun. His hands were rough with callouses, indicating hard work. His eyes were all knowing, and if Romy was correct, a little bit haunted. Romy had no business even forming a friendship with him.

  “Speak to the crows,” she said finally. ‘They know how to find me.”

  Romy turned on her heel and began to head toward home. She worried for half a minute that Einar might come barreling after her, but he never came.

  However, she did feel his gaze on her back as she walked away. It didn’t dissipate until she was clearly out of sight. Romy wasn’t sure if she liked him or not, but she thought about him a great deal.

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14-

  “You’ve been awf
ully quiet since you returned home, child. Are you dreading Frieda’s party?” Papa asked as he and Romy slowly made their way across the village.

  Romy looked up at her Papa in confusion. “What? No, Papa, I am happy for Frieda.”

  “Then what else is the matter?” Papa insisted. “I have known you since before you could walk. The only time you are quiet like this is when you are wrestling out something in your mind.”

  Einar’s image flashed across Romy’s mind. It was indecent to focus on one’s physical attributes. But if Romy was forced, she would have to admit the boy wasn’t lacking for looks.

  What had really stayed with her was the way his dark eyes had followed her. It was reminiscent of a hawk. Almost as if he were toying with his prey. Romy didn’t want to be prey. She was almost certain of it.

  “Did something happen when you went to Widow Hayes’ this afternoon?” Papa pressed.

  Romy felt her cheeks flush betraying her true feelings.

  Papa stopped to lean on his cane. “You had better just come out with it.”

  Romy felt like finding a deep hole and crawling inside for a millennium or two. “Papa it’s nothing. The widow was tired and so her nephew paid me for the radishes.”

  “Widow Hayes has a nephew?” Papa asked in confusion.

  Romy fought a smile. “It does happen occasionally. People have all sorts of relations these days.”

  Papa’s lips twitched as he pretended to scowl. “You know, young lady. You have gotten rather sassy in your old age.”

  “Old?” Romy drew back and feigned outrage. “I will have you know that you, sir, are far older than I am.”

  Papa laughed, “Aye, I am. Most days, I even feel like it too. But not when I am with you, Romy.”

  They turned and headed on their way. Romy helped Papa up the steps and then rang the bell. They could hear the party goers inside. Time had gotten away from them. Or perhaps it wasn’t as easy for Papa to walk the distance as it once had been.