by Anna Sheehan
I blinked. I’d heard of faerie gifts before, but I myself had never had the leisure time or the excess wool to set about making one. The bottomless horn of spirits, the harps that played music on their own devices for all eternity, or, such as this, a never-empty bag of food. A continual spell on an object like that took a great deal of time and quite a bit of power. ‘Let me see that.’ I pulled the bag back and examined the seams. Why would Caital have given us something as precious as this? There didn’t seem to be a time limit on the spells, which meant it would provide food forever, at least until the bag itself wore out. There was only a limited number of spells twisted into the seams – this magic was close enough to my spinning magic that I could read it fairly easily – no more than twenty or so, and most of them appeared to be vegetable dishes. Not surprising, given Caital’s apparent green sorcery. I reached inside and drew out a loaf of crusty white bread and a bowl of steamed shelled peas.
‘Oh, thank you Mistress Cait!’ the kit cried at the trees.
My ma, however, was not impressed. ‘High time she felt some sympathy.’ She snatched at the bread and broke it evenly, handing a piece to each of us. ‘I’ll only eat her food because we’ve nothing else, but she does not hold my gratitude.’
‘Why not?’ the kit asked, her mouth full of chicken leg.
‘She wasn’t much help when they stripped me of my name, now was she?’ my ma snapped, and she slipped back into the burrow hurriedly.
I shook my head. ‘I don’t understand her.’
‘She was about to cry,’ the kit said. I hadn’t noticed. ‘She misses other fae.’
I sighed. ‘Give me some of that chicken,’ I said. I pulled a breast off and folded it into my piece of bread. ‘I won’t be back until late.’
‘Where are you going?’ the kit asked.
‘I have a promise to fulfil, remember?’ I reminded her. ‘Now that I’ve found Caital, I have to take the princess to see her. That’s me, the nameless errand boy for the royalty.’
The kit grinned around her bread. ‘I’m sure Will doesn’t see you like that,’ she said, and took a big bite.
It didn’t matter much. That’s how I was seeing myself, and it made me feel strange.
An hour later I was sitting in a rose-steeped palace, couched in shadow on a beam of the ceiling, staring down in awe at the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen. It was not riches or gold, it was not fine art, it was not arrangements of roses or flowers, and it certainly wasn’t some member of the royal house. It was an antique spinning wheel, fashioned out of briskly oiled dark oak, kept impeccably by palace servants. This was my great-aunt’s infamous spinning wheel, the one that had cast Princess Amaranth into her century-long sleep. The ‘deadly spindle’ had been removed, but even from a distance I could see that someone who knew nothing about spinning wheels had supervised this. A second spindle, and even two spools for winding thread, were attached to the base of the wheel, so naturally formed that they appeared part of the design. The wheel had been fashioned with its spare parts inclusive. No doubt this spindle was for either finer or coarser work than the one that had been removed, and the attachments of the spools would allow for easy plying of yarn. If I’d had any wool I could have sat down at that wheel and been spinning in less than a minute.
I was positively drooling with envy. I hadn’t seen a spinning wheel in over seventy years. Even the sight of it made me long to feel the wood under my hands, the pull of the living wool, the even click of the pedal under my foot. It was more beautiful and more seductive than any woman. If I could have, I’d have walked off with the thing right there, hang the princess, hang the Sleep, hang Mistress Cait, and hang – until it died in agony – the thrice-cursed law against spinning. But unfortunately, the wheel was locked behind an iron gate – a kind of cage – perched in stationary splendour beneath the royal crowns and the fine jewels of the Lyndal family.
Moreover, two guards stood at attention on either side of this vault. I’d had difficulty enough sneaking past the guards at the front gate. The thorns were angry, and hungrier than I’d ever seen them. They’d even caught at my jacket, no doubt longing for the blood that still stained it. I’d twisted two of the sharp strands together in a primitive spin, causing the thorns to quiver in consternation and release me, but I wouldn’t have wanted to be caught in the midst of them without my spindle.
I reminded myself that I wasn’t going to be able to drool over the spinning wheel all night. Not if I wanted to fulfil my promise to that wretched princess. And it was at that moment that I heard the sounds of a chase from the hallway, and a woman’s voice shouting, ‘Kill her!’
The two guards glanced at each other knowingly before resuming their rigid stance. Contempt surged. They were paid good money to guard things. Didn’t they ever guard people? Apparently not this person, whoever it was. A terrible foreboding gripped me. I slipped over the rafters and out the door, leaving a heartfelt curse in my wake. The two guards suddenly drew their weapons, looked around in fear for my disembodied voice, but I wasn’t going to waste time playing with them. Someone down the corridor was screaming.
Chapter 12
Will
Will was a bride. By tomorrow evening, she would be a wife. It felt like an sentence of execution.
That was probably why she was here again, standing at Lavender’s bedside. Prince Ferdinand was, mercifully, asleep on his couch. Will was pretty sure the Sleep hadn’t overtaken him, because his face was peaceful.
She knew she shouldn’t do it, but she couldn’t help it. She crept to his side and knelt beside him. His strong, handsome features were softened now, in sleep. His cheeks were pink, and his fine hair was tousled. She wanted to say he looked like a little boy, but he didn’t. He looked like a man, the kind of man her husband-to-be was not, and – it seemed at the time – never would be. She could have stared at him all night.
He shifted in his sleep and made a small masculine sound that made Will’s heart quicken. She wanted to curl up beside him. Instead she contented herself with reaching out her hand to brush a lock of hair from his face. He twitched, and she half feared, half hoped he would open his eyes. For a brief second the whole scene played out in her head. He would open his eyes sleepily, and find her bending over him. In a dream state their lips would meet. He would be unable to control himself. They’d fall in a breathless, clutching tumble to the carpeted floor, right beside her Sleeping sister, who would never, ever awaken.
In reality he shifted himself until his back was towards Will and began snoring gently.
She laughed at herself. Despite all her attempts to quash it, this love for Ferdinand was relentless! And damned silly, she thought.
No. She knew she had to marry Narvi on the morrow. And she knew that she would have to endure many long nights before she really had a husband. And, even then, she wouldn’t love him.
Deprived of Ferdinand’s beautiful sleeping face, she turned back to her sister. Lavender was twitching again in her sleep. What was she dreaming? Every dream was different. Will bit her lip. What if she started screaming again? There was no one here to pull her from the dream. And it was magic. Everyone would know that she had broken the injunction. No. She determined not to try.
Then a little imp whispered in her ear, why not? If the Sleep overtook her, if the dreams drove her mad, she wouldn’t have to marry Narvi on the morrow, and Hiedelen surely couldn’t blame Lyndaria for it.
In the end, she had to know. The horror of the dreams was like dragon wine – too strong to stomach, but she always wanted more. She reached for Lavender’s forehead and closed her eyes. She searched for, and found, her dream-sharing spell.
I’m hungry. A terrible gnawing monster is wrestling in my stomach. I’m so hungry I’m chewing on discarded bones, like a dog. They are rancid and have been thrown in the dirt, but I’m desperate. I gnaw on them like an animal, and try to wrestle against myself. There is no such thing as dignity where hunger is concerned. I crack the bone and am th
rilled to discover rancid, fatty marrow inside. I cut my tongue trying to lick it out. If I could sell myself into slavery to keep myself from this kind of hunger, I would. But there is no choice. No one would even be willing to keep me a slave.
Will opened her eyes, feeling sick. There was no terror there, no pain, but the hunger and the shame and the self-loathing were worse than those. She could still almost taste the rancid bones she’d been desperately gnawing. Nausea writhed inside her. She poured herself a cup of Ferdinand’s violet water and rinsed her mouth. What were those dreams? She was always the same person in them, and she wasn’t herself, but she didn’t know who she was, either. The faces were indistinct when she tried to remember them. Most of the faces of her pursuers were generic, interchangeable. There were others in the dreams, those she loved, had to protect, and not being able to keep them safe was part of the horror. But their faces always eluded her. Her own character eluded her.
Will took a deep breath. It was foolish, really, she thought. It was just a series of the most horrible things one’s mind could conjure, meant to make the Sleep less a rest than a punishment.
She paused at that thought. A punishment? Who would send a Sleep as a punishment? Well, who would want to punish Lavender?
I would, she realized. I’d want her punished for stealing all the better virtues, winning the love of the kingdom, being perfect in every way, having Ferdinand. I’d want her punished for burning my book, for not letting me indulge my magic. Will hadn’t cast this Sleep upon Lavender, or upon anyone, nor would she. But if it wasn’t an accident, what was it? And who would have cast it?
Will debated touching her again to try and find out, but she couldn’t bring herself to endure another session of her nightmares. Not yet, anyway. She knew they’d call her again soon enough. Instead she banked the fire in the grate and left the chamber.
The halls were dark and echoed without the myriad footmen and servitors. The palace seemed deserted. Spider webs were beginning to grace the corners, as the regular staff dropped off to Sleep one by one, leaving their half-trained apprentices and completely new hires to perform twice as much work as usual. The smell of roses was tainted with dust. The West Wing, Will knew, smelled of decay as the Sleeping bodies sweated in their nightmares. Will was in a nightmare herself, wandering empty corridors, awaiting a life of loneliness.
She heard something strange coming from the corridor. Some kind of commotion. She figured someone else must have fallen asleep, and hurried on to help.
When she turned the corner she did not see what she had expected – someone prone on the floor. Instead, she saw her bedroom door open, and half a dozen of her things strewn on the floor. A hand mirror, her black cloak, and quite a number of her books – all innocent ones, as her magic books were still hidden behind her closet. Will’s chambermaid was sunk to her knees just beyond the pile, in tears. Will rushed over to her. She looked up in horror. ‘I’m sorry, mistress! I didn’t know what they were about! Randy kept on at me and on at me, and I just let him in to have a look! I didn’t know he was going to—’
She was drowned out as someone poked her head out the door and glared at Will. ‘There she is!’
Will drew herself up to her considerable height. ‘What is all this? I demand an explanation!’ She recognized the intruder to her chambers. It was her sister’s head lady-in-waiting, a pretty but loud little thing called Ginith. She did not look chagrined. ‘I presume you’re the vandal who keeps scrawling illiterate insults upon my door? I hope you realize what kind of trouble you have brought for yourself, young woman. Do not think that this will go unpunished.’
Ginith smiled at Will in a way she was sure she didn’t like, and Will soon found out why. The lady was quickly flanked by an entire crowd of castle members – youths, mostly. Will recognized two of the stable hands. A collection of three girls with stained aprons Will assumed were scullery maids, and that nasty underchef called Bethel were with them. Two more of Lavender’s ladies-in-waiting followed, looking unsure of themselves, followed by the falconer’s assistant, a youth who had lost his eye last year showing off to a lady by keeping the lethal creature on his shoulder. Ginith smiled at the falconer’s assistant. ‘Get her,’ she said, her voice deadly quiet. The crowd made a move, almost as one.
Will was no fool. She ran, pelting down the corridor, her skirts flying behind her. She could hear them chasing her, their voices echoing round the empty hallways. She called out but there was no one awake to hear her. At least no one inclined to help.
Compared to Lavender, Will was fast, strong and vigorous. Compared to the palace stable hands and the iron-armed scullery maids, she was pampered and soft. They called things out to each other as they followed close behind. ‘Head her off!’ ‘To the left! The left!’ Ginith, trailing behind the more sturdy members of her mob, calling, ‘What are you waiting for? Grab her!’ and the falconer muttering, ‘We’ll get you, witch!’ Will couldn’t run fast enough. Her shoes were slick palace slippers, and she would have traded her left arm for a pair of boots. She tried to turn a corner, skidded, and lost momentum. Within a few more steps she felt a beefy hand clutch at her arm, and she was jerked to a halt. Strong bodies pushed her against a wall, and she was surrounded on three sides by the mob.
They held her there for long moments. None of them seemed to have any sense of what to do with her now that they’d caught her. They were angry and scared, not at all assured that what they were doing was right. Ginith was apparently the leader of this rabble, and she and the other ladies were trailing behind the main group. One of the scullery maids seemed ashamed of herself. ‘It’ll be all right, miss,’ she said. ‘We just want to talk to yas.’
‘Aye, and then we’ll cut her throat,’ muttered the falconer. ‘That’ll end the spell.’
Someone elbowed him in the ribs. ‘Don’t anger the witch!’
‘She’ll give you the evil eye,’ the scullery maid said.
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Will said, trying to muster some nobility. ‘Are you under the impression that I have something to do with this Sleep that is infecting the palace?’
‘Aye,’ snapped a different scullery maid. ‘And we’ll see you do something to stop it!’
‘If only I could,’ Will tried to explain.
‘Don’t let her talk!’ Ginith shouted behind them. ‘She’ll bewitch you with her spells!’
Will rolled her eyes, ‘Oh, please. Magic doesn’t work like that—’ But she didn’t get the chance to explain how it did work. The falconer’s assistant grabbed her by the back of her hair and yanked. Will’s coif collapsed with a ripping sound, and she didn’t pretend it didn’t hurt. He had twisted her as he grabbed her hair, so she went with the turn, catching him with her body and throwing him against the wall. He lost his hold on her, and Will, still twisted half to the ground, butted him in the stomach. Or tried to. She missed, and he made a very painful sound as her head connected with a different part of his body.
‘Kill her!’ Ginith screamed, still some ways down the corridor. Someone reached for Will, and she stomped on his foot. Still crouched, she tried to push through the mob, but the stable hands grabbed her arms, none too gently. Seeing the falconer curled in agony on the floor, she intentionally kneed one of them in the groin, and tried to elbow the other one away.
Will might have been half a head taller than the tallest of them, and she certainly made them pay for capturing her. But in the end, she was simply outnumbered. Then Bethel pulled a carving knife from her apron and brandished it toward Will’s face. She stopped struggling. That blade was wickedly sharp, and she had no weapons.
Wait. That wasn’t true. She had one weapon at her disposal – fear. She narrowed her eyes and bared her teeth, groaning like a beast. Then she started reciting gibberish. ‘Mole sweat and toads’ tongues, bats’ blood and aprons!’ The hands that held Will’s wrists loosened, and she tore her arms away, raising her fingers like claws. The underchef was frightened whit
e. Her hand holding the carving knife trembled, and she took a step back as Will advanced on her.
‘She’s bluffing!’ Ginith said, finally catching up, and she launched herself at Will, prepared to scratch her eyes out with her long nails. Apparently tricks wouldn’t work on Ginith. Will raised her fist and bloodied her nose. The other lady’s maids squealed hysterically in horror, worried that the poor lady would be disfigured for life! (Somehow, Will losing an eye wasn’t as worrisome to them.)
She glanced at the underchef, the biggest threat with her knife. But she was frozen in panic with their leader bloodied. Will pushed past the whimpering ladies and ran again.
Then she heard it, from behind her. Ginith, her voice slurred from her broken nose, shouting out, ‘Any one of you catches her, I’ll see you get an hour alone with Princess Lavender!’
That disgusting whore, selling out the princess’s virtue! Will would have to tell Ferdinand – she was pretty sure he was always with her, but they’d have to be sure. The offer revitalized the men in the mob, and Will heard boots clomping after her. Will’s stamina was gone. She was grabbed, thrown to ground, and a boot planted firmly on her back. Someone twisted her arms behind her and bound her hands. There was only one thing left to do, and that was scream. Will opened her mouth with a scream that would make a dragon cover its ears. As they hauled her onto her back she screamed even louder. Puffing with the exertion, Bethel the underchef joined her captors and pulled a truly gruesome kitchen rag from her apron pocket. With deft hands, she gagged Will with it. It tasted of rancid bacon and stale breadcrumbs. Will screamed around it, but the sound was terribly muffled.
Ginith came up behind them, then. Will was trussed up like a pig on a spit, and Ginith was terrifying. She held the underchef’s blade in one hand, and her eyes held a strange light above the bloodied wreck of her face. ‘You are going to bleed, witch!’ Ginith mumbled.