by Deva Fagan
“I can’t allow my most valuable wares to be handled by…” He gulped under my narrowed gaze, but went on. “Things are bad enough with the curse. Half my best tomes are fading. I won’t have them getting mud-stained and stinking of the bog.” He looked down to my hands, gripping the edge of the counter.
Dirt was crusted under my nails. I jerked them to my sides. “I want to see that book,” I said.
Parsnip man looked past me, out to the street. Stinking sloughs, he was going to make a scene. He’d start caterwauling that there was a loathsome bog-witch in his shop. I’d be up on a bonfire before I knew it, and Barnaby wouldn’t even notice, too busy chatting up fan girl. My stomach turned over; my skin shivered with the thought of fire.
I fumbled through my hair for the coin-shaped leaves of wild ginger, then seized the tiny lump of fool’s gold from its pouch on my scarf. It felt oddly sticky, but there was no time to clean it off. This fellow deserved to be cheated. I stood ready, my heart pounding.
“Go on, then, get along,” the shopkeeper said, licking his lips.
“I’m not leaving without that book,” I insisted. “And you can’t say no to this.”
I brought my hands together, intoning the seeming spell as I did.
Instead of a shower of gold coins, a blazing green fire whooshed up. My heart galloped off into some distant land, leaving me staring foolishly at the inferno.
Smoke roiled as the verdant flames raced along the counter, devouring a few scrolls and curling up a stack of small notebooks. Parsnip man scrambled back, throwing his arms out to shield the stacks of books behind him. His wide, desperate eyes found me, reflecting fire and fear. “It’s yours!” he cried. “Take it! Here!” He darted for the shelf in the window, sending books crashing to the floor as he pulled free Secrets of the Mistveil. “Just stop it! Don’t burn my store down!”
He thrust it toward me. I reached out, my mind spinning. What had I done? I stared at the black tome in my hand, then yelped as flames burst around the leather bindings with a sudden crackle. It was on fire!
And so was I! I dropped the burning book to slap at my arms. I felt no pain, but green flames danced across my eyes. Was this what Grandmother’s flaming-eye charm was like?
My heart pounded so loud it sounded like running footsteps. No, there were footsteps. Someone was behind me. Hands gripped my shoulders. I had one last horrified look at the shopkeeper before I was hurled out the door, into the street. Someone propelled me along. I scrabbled at the air, trying to clear my vision.
“Hold on,” said Barnaby. “I just need to find— Ah, that’ll do.”
The hands on my back pushed me down, and suddenly I was soaking wet. Cold water flooded my nose. The green flames winked out. I pushed myself back up. Rivulets streamed down my face. I was soaked through. “A rain barrel?” I sputtered.
“Stay here,” said Barnaby. He shoved his pack into my hands, stripped off his jacket, and dredged it through the water. “Let me play my part now.” He nodded at the pack. “Just keep that safe, will you?” Then he winked and ran off, back around the corner.
I twisted the heavy sack between my fingers, which were still sticky, and blinked through dripping eyelashes at the narrow street around me. I saw no one besides me and the rain barrel. But I could hear shouts, and I could smell smoke. A piteous wail curdled the air.
I couldn’t bear this. It might not be very witchlike, but I wasn’t just going to stand there and let all those beautiful papers go up in smoke. Though I couldn’t curse, I could do something. If nothing else, I could smother the flames with my own soggy self.
I brushed my sopping hair back over my shoulders and started off. But as I reached the corner, the shopkeeper’s wailing stopped. My footsteps slowed. Did that mean…? Was he…?
Don’t be an idiot, I told myself firmly. It wasn’t that big a fire. He had plenty of time to get out. Unless he was trying to save his books. I hesitated. Visions of what I might see swirled through my mind. Destruction. Death. All my fault.
I took a deep breath. I had to find out what I’d done. I peered around the corner cautiously.
A crowd of figures stood in the street, chattering and clamoring. The girl with the fan, the smoking geezer from the tea shop, the giggling girls, and more. At the center stood the shopkeeper, ash-stained but grinning broadly, and Barnaby. He stood in his simple white shirtsleeves, wearing a look of abashed humility.
“…saved my entire shop,” the bookseller was saying. “That bog-witch set it all afire, but this young man came to my rescue. Charged in without a care for himself and struck the flames out with his jacket. Saved it all. Even me!” The man held out his arms, turning to display the scorch marks across his own coat. The onlookers oohed and aahed.
“I can’t thank you enough, lad,” the shopkeeper went on. “How can I ever repay you?”
“Oh, it was nothing. A jacket is a small price to pay for saving a man’s livelihood.” Barnaby ducked his head, the picture of modesty.
“Piffle! I’ll see you rewarded for your kindness, lad. There. That ought to buy you the finest jacket in town.”
I watched, speechless. Even from here I could see the glint of the gold coins being pressed into Barnaby’s hands.
“Oh, really, I couldn’t…”
He did, though. Barnaby might protest, but he slipped the coins away quick as a wink. So quickly, in fact, that I hadn’t quite seen where they’d ended up.
“Isn’t there anything else I can do for you?”
“Well…if it’s no trouble…”
“Anything!”
“I thought I might like that book, the one that the bog-witch wanted. Someone ought to find out what the despicable hag is after. Who knows what she might do next?”
A chorus of approving murmurs rose from the crowd. I balled up my fists and gritted my teeth. Oh, I’d show him what this bog-witch was going to do next.
I reminded myself that I needed Barnaby to get into Blackthorn’s treasury. I couldn’t afford to break his fingers or give him frostbite, and if I was going to be traveling with him I certainly wasn’t going to try the skunk-stink curse or the doom of a hundred misfortunes.
I waited, listening to Barnaby accepting congratulations from what sounded like every citizen of Withywatch. At last he detached himself from the adoring masses. I heard him coming, whistling an irritatingly jaunty tune.
“Oof!” He gasped as the sack hit him in the midsection. “Hey!” He rubbed his chest, eyeing me reproachfully.
“It’s not my fault you’re carrying around lumps of iron,” I said. “And, like you said, I’m a bog-witch. Who knows what I might do next?”
“You can’t be angry at me. I just saved your backside from a merry roasting by the fine citizens of Withywatch.” He held out a charred oblong. “I hope this was worth it. Got pretty burnt by that fire of yours. Still, not a bad take. Generous fellow, that bookseller.”
I stared at the book, then at him.
“Now, don’t be like that. I couldn’t have done it without you. And I was due for a new jacket in any case. I don’t think I’d have ever gotten the bog stench out of the old one.”
“You used me,” I said, finally finding words. “You waltzed in and played the hero and let me look like a fool.”
“Hey, now, you made a fool of yourself all on your own. And it wasn’t as bad as you think. All right, so maybe it wasn’t the swiftest choice in a room full of paper, but that flaming charm was frog-flipping spectacular.”
I gargled something inarticulate. I still didn’t understand what had gone wrong. I’d had the ginger, and the seeming spell should have created a shower of gold coins that would last a few days, then melt back into leaves. Now I’d wasted my fool’s gold, which I’d traded off Ezzie at the cost of a dozen of my best crow feathers. I felt for the pouch where it hung from the fringe of my scarf. Then I frowned. It wasn’t empty.
I pulled out a glimmering golden lump. “Stinking sloughs!” I tightened my fist, remembering the sticky
gob of pyre root I’d stuffed in there this morning. I had grabbed the wrong lump!
“Don’t look so glum,” Barnaby said. “Do you want another fried cake?”
What I wanted was to be able to do one thing properly. Fighting off bitterness, I tucked the fool’s gold away again, making certain there was nothing else in the pouch this time.
Barnaby stretched his arms, yawning hugely. “Enough heroics. I’d give my left ear for a bath and lunch.” He hitched the pack over one shoulder and set off down the street. “But first we’re finding you some new clothes.”
I grimaced.
“Unless you want to get run out of town by an angry mob…?”
“Fine,” I said. “These are pretty muddy. But no lace. And no ruffles. And I’m keeping my scarf.”
I raised a disdainful brow at the blue dress Master Morland held up. “I said no lace.”
“Come on, Prunella. It’s not half bad,” said Barnaby. “You’d look swell in it. No one would think you were a”—he glanced at the shopkeeper—“not from around here.”
“Because I’d look like any other girl off the street. Besides, those sleeves are so puffed I’d be afraid to put it on. The first bit of wind might pouf me up into the sky.”
Master Morland’s hopeful smile faded. “But they’ve all got lace and puffed sleeves. My dear Mary made—makes—them all that way. It’s the fashion.”
“The fashion needs to change, then,” I muttered. “Maybe I’d have better luck looking at the men’s clothing.”
Master Morland made a clucking sort of noise in the back of his throat, but led me over to a long rack of jackets and breeches.
I shook my head. “There’s even more lace over here.” And that wasn’t the worst of it. Oh, they were beautifully made, stitched of fine rich fabric in shimmering jewel tones. But they were all the same. Like a garden with row upon row of beautiful, identical tulips. I wanted a spotted spider-trap orchid.
“Now, that’s more like it,” said Barnaby gleefully, hastening to one end of the rack. “Right spiff that is. I’ll be as fine as a prince.” He gathered up the armful of green velvet and dashed behind the changing screen.
I turned on Master Morland. “Isn’t there anything else?”
His dark cheeks rounded out as he considered my question. “Well, there are a few things in the back wardrobe. But you wouldn’t want those. No one wants those. Just my dear Mary having a bit of fun. Waste of good cloth, I used to tell her, but it made her so happy, I—” The man choked off, rubbing one hand across his face. “Well, come along back, and you can see for yourself.”
Master Morland led me to a tall mahogany armoire tilted up against the rear wall of the shop, between a pile of hatboxes and a curtained doorway. The heavy door creaked open at his touch to reveal a jumble of colors and shapes.
I clapped my hands together. “Perfect!”
“What’s wrong with it?” I asked a short time later, as I spun around admiring my new skirt.
“There are so many answers to that question.” Barnaby’s eyebrows had been lodged up around his hairline since I walked out from behind the changing screen. “For one, it’s green.”
“So is your suit.”
“Forest green. Not pea-soup green.”
“It’s purple, too.”
“Exactly.”
I ignored his look. “I think it’s quite fetching. Even with these little orange flowers embroidered all along the bottom. They remind me of hot-leaf blossoms. And the skirt and jacket together are half the price of your breeches alone.”
I liked the matching short coat even better than the skirt. It had voluminous pockets and flared comfortably at the waist. I frowned, noticing that I’d already gotten a bit of pyre-root sap on one of the star-shaped ivory buttons. The cursed stuff was impossible to get off!
Barnaby sighed. “We’ll take it all,” he told Master Morland.
The shopkeeper smiled. “Oh, Mary would be—will be—so pleased. No one’s ever bought anything from the back of the shop.”
“Is she traveling?” Barnaby asked, glancing around the shop as he handed Master Morland several gold coins.
“Oh no. She’s…” The shopkeeper fumbled with the coins as he locked them away in a money box. “I suppose everyone knows. That’s why business has been so poor lately. It’s the curse, you see.”
Barnaby stiffened. Two sharp lines creased his forehead. “She’s been cursed?”
“My poor girl. Used to be she had more gumption and spice than a cradle of kittens. Now she just lies there. Barely eats. Been a couple of others taken ill, too, all the same way. It’s horrible.” He shook his head. “I look after the shop best I can, keep an eye on her in the back.” He jerked his chin toward the curtained door at the rear of the shop.
“Can we meet her?” Barnaby asked abruptly.
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” said Master Morland. “I’ve had every apothecary and healer I could find in to have a look. Been about as helpful as wings on a pig.”
Barnaby ignored my questioning glance and followed Master Morland. I tarried for a moment. It didn’t seem like the wisest or safest choice, but my curiosity had been piqued, and I felt I owed the woman something. I really did love that star-buttoned jacket.
The chamber was tiny, half of it filled by the narrow cot where Mary Morland lay. I hung back. Something about the chilliness, the stillness of that thin figure sent fingers of fear rippling down my spine. Even from the doorway I could see the dark hollows under her eyes and the beads of sweat clinging to her half-opened lips.
Master Morland leaned over the bed, taking his wife’s hand as if it were a bit of fine porcelain. “Mary, dear, these young people wanted to meet you. The young master’s got up in one of your best suits. And look, this young lady’s taken a liking to that green-and-purple fancy from the big wardrobe. You know, the one I always said looked like a collision between a bowl of pea soup and a—” He looked at me and cleared his throat. “Well, you know the one I mean.”
Slowly, she blinked. Her gaze drifted, meandering down from the ceiling to Master Morland’s nose, to Barnaby’s sleeve, to me. I swallowed, forcing myself to step forward.
Mary trembled, her breath catching. Her eyes met mine, and something sparked in the depths. Her hand spasmed, clutching the thin blue blanket covering her chest. My stomach buzzed with my wish to be gone, away from that still form and those restless, hungry eyes. I recoiled. She blinked again, and her eyes slipped back into dullness.
“How do you know it’s a curse?” asked Barnaby, his fingers shaking slightly, though his voice was firm.
“Same as the rest. It started round the time word came about the Mirable Chalice.”
Barnaby looked at me with an unfamiliar intensity. “What do you think? Is it a curse?”
I reached back for the doorframe, still shaken. I didn’t want that hungry look latching on to me again. From the safety of the doorway, I squinted at Mary and gasped.
“What?” Barnaby demanded. “What is it?”
I slitted my eyes again, certain I must be imagining things. But no, there it was, a faint shimmer. Just like I’d seen over the books in the shop. The thin cloud shivered with each of Mary’s exhalations, drifting slowly up and away. I turned, tracking the glints. But the trail was so weak I lost it before I’d gone two steps into the front of the shop.
I turned back to Barnaby and Master Morland, who had followed me out. “But it doesn’t make sense. Why would she have magic? And why would it be wasting away? Where is it going?”
“Magic? My Mary?” Master Morland waved his hand across his eyes in the warding against evil. “She might make a few odd bits of clothing here and there, but that’s not magic. She’s no stinking witch from the fens.”
“I’m sure that’s not what Prunella means,” said Barnaby soothingly. “Everyone knows Uplanders don’t do magic. It’s just the curse, right? You can see that there’s an evil magic on poor Mary?”
I hesitated.
That did make more sense. But if the curse magic was drifting away, why wasn’t Mary getting better? I shook my head. “I don’t know…It’s hard to tell. Everything’s so different here.”
Master Morland appeared only slightly mollified. Barnaby whisked me out of the shop on a tide of praise for Mary’s work and wishes for her quick recovery.
We walked on in silence. Mary Morland’s eyes haunted my thoughts. What was going on? Was it a curse?
“You’d better be careful what you say,” Barnaby grumbled. “It’s not as if that outfit’s going to blend into the cobblestones.”
“Whereas no one will notice you at all,” I said dryly.
“It’s good to be noticed if it’s in the right way,” Barnaby said, stretching out his arms so that the green velvet and gold braid shone in the afternoon sun. He tipped his feathered cap to a passing girl, who smiled back over her basket of freshly washed linens.
“So where’s this Drunken Possum of yours?” I asked. Whatever was going on with this supposed curse, we wouldn’t find answers here. I quickened my steps.
“It’s called the Tipsy Coon.”
“Whatever. Just as long as the food’s as good as you say it is.”
We entered the swinging half-door beneath a placard depicting a dancing raccoon balancing a potbellied jug on its head. Inside, Barnaby chose a table set into an alcove near the hearth. A man wearing a stained leather apron and gold rings in his ears took our order of sausage and rice and molasses pie. There was a full pot of hot-leaf tea to wash it down. Barnaby took his with milk, but I liked it better straight, so that my nose tingled with each spicy sip.
As we ate, I studied the tavern. It didn’t look like much: dark, smoky, and peopled with sour-faced men and women who might have given even Grandmother a turn.
“The food’s tasty, I’ll give you that,” I told Barnaby, around mouthfuls of pepper-flecked sausage. “But isn’t this place a little rustic for you?”
“If you go back and get the blue dress and take all that clutter out of your hair, we can stay at the Peacock’s Rest,” he offered. “They’ve got a palm garden and porcelain teapots.”