The king laughed in spite of himself. “I’d forgotten all about that. I never did get the darn thing off the ground.” He pouted again. “But that was entirely different! I built that balloon in the name of progress, as a princely duty. I was going to discover something, and besides, I was just a boy!”
Masha only leaned into the vegetable bin, looking for something else to peel. She came out with a large purple turnip. “Indeed? As I recall, you were precisely the age that Prince Wynston is now. And the prince certainly had his reasons for tearing off into the mountains—not bad reasons neither. He went in search of Lucy, or so her sister told the assistant to the assistant scullery maid, Teeny. I sent her by the dairy, to look for the prince. He’s rescuing a damsel in distress, and that’s a princely sort of thing, I’d say.” She looked up from her turnip. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
The king made a harumph noise, but he didn’t try to argue. Instead, he twisted his napkin into the shape of a lopsided hunting dog. He tilted his head to one side and peered at the napkin, as though wondering if it might bark. “It’s been hard these past few days, Masha. I won’t lie to you. Wynston’s all I’ve got, and I’m so muddled in my noggin that I can’t tell if he needs a gigantic hug or an enormous wallop. Lavinia, poor thing, has taken to her bed with a bottle of floofleberry schnapps. She’s been weeping since Wynston left. Nonstop.”
Masha clucked, “Poor thing. I should take her a bit of cake.”
“And all the business with the Queening has me over a barrel as well! I hate to admit it, but Lucy wasn’t far off about the twit-nits. The only princesses on the market these days are—well, a little daft. I’ll be darned if I’ll marry my only son off to a girl with the brain of a feather duster.” The king sighed three times deeply. “It does seem that Lucy is the lady for my son, but laws are laws. My poor dead grandfather, King Ponciferous III, would turn in his grave to hear of a common queen in the throne room, a milkmaid monarch! Masha, what can I do?”
“Sir, I’m just a simple cook—a servant in this house. All I’m good for is roasting and baking and saucing and stuffing and peeling and grinding and mending and cleaning and washing and overseeing the staff and planning the meals and organizing the royal festivities and such. I wouldn’t think to tell a king how to handle his son, but I’ll say this—Wynston is a good boy, and you’re a wise king, and Miss Lucy is always welcome in my kitchen, wherever my kitchen may be.”
Then the timer dinged on the stove, and Masha put on her oven mitts. The king scratched his beard thoughtfully as he repeated her last sentence slowly under his breath. “Wherever your kitchen may be?”
Now that they were almost home, Lucy and Wynston walked slowly. They practically trudged along the road to the castle, dreading what might meet them at the door. Wynston was afraid of his father, because he knew he had a lot of explaining to do. He tried to think of the best way to answer for the loss of Sprout and the bad public relations with the mayor of Torrent. He thought and thought, and came up with absolutely nothing.
Meanwhile, Lucy thought about Rosebud, still on top of the mountain, but most of all she thought about her father and her mother. She tried to think about the best way to ask a hard question. She walked slower and slower until she found herself standing still. She sat down and picked at the grass beside her. She pulled Cat from the bag. He woke up, sneezed, and then went back to sleep on the sunny patch of grass. Lucy started threading the grass blades and the clover together, to make a necklace. And she sang, but more quietly than usual.
They practically trudged along the road to the castle…
I thought I knew some things, but then
I learned I knew them wrong, and when
I found I’d made a giant mess,
I made another, more or less.
Wynston plopped down beside her and looked up at the castle looming above them.
“Almost home, Luce. It’s funny to realize that we’ve only been gone a few days. It feels like we’ve been on the mountain forever.”
“Uh-huh.”
Wynston leaned back and stretched out on the ground, chewing on an extra-long blade of grass. “Say, Luce, I’ve been thinking—”
“That’s unusual.”
Wynston ignored her snark and tried again. “No, seriously. I’ve been thinking—and I think maybe we should get married.”
Lucy sucked in a deep breath and stopped braiding the clover stems. Wynston examined his shoes, waiting to see what she’d say. Then Lucy looked over and stared down at Wynston until Wynston stared back up at her. Neither of them spoke for what felt like hours. Finally Wynston blinked.
“I win,” said Lucy, and went back to picking grass.
“No, Lucy. I really mean this.” Wynston sat up and took her hand, but she snatched it away. He grabbed for it again and held it tightly this time. “Stop playing with the grass and listen to me, Lucy!”
She tried to pull her hand away. “Ow, that hurts!”
Wynston let go. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that. Just, please listen—please?” He took a deep breath. “I don’t want things to be like they were before we ran away. I don’t want all of that royal mess, all those lessons and meetings and fittings and sizings and silly meals that take so long that I fall asleep in my dessert. I don’t want to go back to the castle after all the things we saw on the mountain, and marry some silly girl I don’t even know. I don’t want to follow rules just to follow rules…not anymore.”
Lucy stood up and brushed off her skirt. She tried to fit the clover necklace over her head, but it was too small and it sat on her curls instead. She pulled off the accidental crown and tossed it at Wynston. “This is all the crown I’ll ever need, you—you prince!” She scooped Cat into the bag and headed back to the road. Wynston ran after her.
“Wait, Lucy, listen to me!”
Lucy turned and glared at him. “No! I do not want to marry anyone just yet, and I do not want to go breaking any more laws. You may be just learning to break the rules, but it’s nothing new for me. All the rule breaking did was cause me to lose Rosebud. Besides, I do not especially care to live in that cold castle anyway!”
Wynston snapped back. “Why do you have to be so darn difficult? What if you don’t have to marry me yet, and what if there aren’t any laws broken? What about that?” Wynston kneeled down on one knee. “I’m so serious, Lucy. I really mean it. You’re my best friend. I don’t want to sound all squooshy and wooshy and weird, but I—I don’t want to miss any more Sundays in the berry patch because I’m looking for a silly princess who doesn’t go berrying because she’s afraid to scuff her shoes. Will you marry me someday, Lucy? Will you marry me if we don’t have to break any laws—please?”
Lucy crossed her arms. “Oh, get up, already! You’re embarrassing me.”
“Please?”
“Can Cat come with me?”
Wynston smiled. “Of course.”
“And you’ll help me rescue Rosebud?”
“Yes, of course. I already promised.”
“Pinky swear?”
Wynston held out his pinky.
“Well then, I suppose I will marry you someday, in about eleven or twelve years—if you don’t get any funnier-looking than you are now, and if you stop doing silly things like this!” She turned and walked off. Wynston scrambled to his feet and ran after her.
“So then, we’re engaged?”
“If that’s what you want to call it. Now hurry up!”
As Lucy and Wynston were trooping up the castle steps, King Desmond was pacing back and forth in his throne room and muttering to Lucy’s father, who was sitting nervously on the king’s throne. It was the first time he’d set foot in a castle, much less sat on a throne.
“If we shift the—and move the—then the—will be understandably—oh my goodness!” fretted the king. Every now and then he ran to the table beside the throne to consult a very large and dusty book that smelled like old shoes. He was so lost in his important royal distractions that he di
dn’t notice when Wynston and Lucy knocked at the door. Lucy’s father just pointed when Wynston walked carefully and quietly into the room. Lucy tiptoed behind him and squeezed her hands together behind her back. Wynston cleared his throat and the king whirled around.
“Wynston!” He ran toward his son, his purple robe flying behind him in a most undignified manner. His crown fell off his head as he grabbed Wynston and smothered him in a bear hug. “My son, oh, my son! You’re home safe at last. Oh my goodness, boy, wherever did you go? We’ve been dreadfully worried.”
Lucy’s father eased himself down from the tall throne, opened his arms, and Lucy ran into them.
Wynston was confused by the warm reception. He’d been expecting a different sort of welcome. “We just went—or rather, I just went to find Lucy and then we—”
Lucy pulled herself from her father’s lap to try and help explain, but King Desmond waved his hand at both of them.
“No matter, son, no matter. We have more important things to discuss. The time has come to settle this marriage business. I’ll have no more mincing about. I’ve talked with Princess Halcyon and her family, and I think—”
Now it was Wynston’s turn to wave his hand. He spoke very slowly and firmly, to keep from sounding like a little boy. “No, Dad. I’m not talking with Halcyon any more, and I’m not interviewing any other princesses either.” Wynston took the deepest breath of his life. “I don’t need to find a suitable princess because I don’t plan to be king. Not ever.” He stopped speaking and looked at Lucy and King Desmond. He waited for the shock to register in both of their faces. But that wasn’t quite what happened. King Desmond smiled ever so slightly, and Lucy spoke.
She planted both hands on her hips and said, “Don’t be a numbskull, you numbskull! That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. If I knew that was your plan from the beginning, I’d never have agreed.”
“Why is it ridiculous? Torrent doesn’t have a king—so why do we need one in Thistle? I’ll be a mayor instead, and then we don’t have to break any laws.”
Lucy looked like she’d been drinking sour milk. “Oh, and things run so smoothly in Torrent? Maybe we’ll become very civilized too, and you can wear a stupid hat or poke poor defenseless animals with spoons. No thanks, Wynston. The deal is off!”
Wynston’s face fell. He turned to look at his father but was surprised to find that King Desmond did not look shocked or angry or hurt. In fact, King Desmond looked amused.
“And why don’t you want to be king, my boy? Not good enough for you? Or maybe you’re afraid of the job,” he teased. He adjusted his crown with one hand and stroked his chin with the other. “I can see why you’d be frightened. I’ve set the bar rather high—left some mighty big shoes to fill!”
“No, that isn’t it at all, though of course you’re a wonderful king and all that! It’s just that—Dad, I’m going to marry Lucy and you can’t stop me. I don’t care what you discussed with Halcyon. I’m sorry if I’m making you look bad, but you’ll just have to tell her I’ve changed my mind. Lucy and I don’t want to break any laws, so I thought if I weren’t king—”
The king rapped Wynston sharply on the head. “That’s enough of that. What I was going to say, before I was so rudely interrupted, is that I’ve talked to Princess Halcyon and her family—and I’ve explained that there isn’t going to be a wedding.”
Wynston stood with his mouth hanging open, feeling a little foolish. Lucy tried not to giggle at him while the king continued, “Furthermore, I have examined all of the laws and bylaws concerning royal marriages, and concerning the royal residence—”
“The royal residence?”
“Yes, this castle…that’s what they call it in that book over there.” He pointed to the funny, smelly old tome and continued, “And I have discovered that while Lucy may not live in the royal residence—”
“The royal residence?”
“Stop saying that! I have discovered that while Lucy may not live here, there is no law that requires that the king himself live in the castle.”
“What do you mean? Castles are where kings live.”
The king groaned. “My boy! Must you cut me off at every turn? Think outside the tiny box, you buffoon! Just because kings have always lived in castles doesn’t mean they must live in castles. In fact, there’s no law about it at all. This, my boy, is what we call a loophole!”
At this, King Desmond leaned over and pulled a twig triumphantly from Wynston’s hair. “From the looks of you, your bed last night was a far cry from the royal chambers, and you seem to have survived it. Besides, the world is changing. Maybe a shake-up will do us all some good. Therefore, I have decided to move it all—the thrones, the books, the crowns, and the rubies—to a more suitable location.” When King Desmond said the word suitable, he snickered to himself.
“Suitable?” echoed Wynston.
“Well, suitable for a scamp who can’t seem to stay put. Suitable for a prince who prefers the company of milkmaids to the—”
“The dairy!” Lucy cried out. “You can come to live at the dairy, Wynston! Right, Dad?” Her father smiled and nodded.
The king grinned from ear to ear. “That’s it, my girl! That’s it exactly! Wynston, my boy, it seems that Lucy’s a little quicker than you.”
Lucy smirked as the king continued to advise his son. “I think that perhaps you’d better marry her. A complicated kingdom like this one requires at least one clever monarch.” He laughed at his own joke.
“But what will we do with all the cows if we move the rubies into the barn?” asked a surprised and confused Wynston.
The king paused and stroked his chin again. “Hmmm. I hadn’t thought of that, but I’ve always liked animals. I don’t believe there’s any law against cows in the royal estate, just commoners. Your aunt could use a new challenge—she’s become rather too fond of floofleberry schnapps in your absence. And just think! I won’t be expected to wear my best clothes for milking, so I’ll be able to dribble and drabble to my heart’s delight. Prickly prune gravy, here I come—” He left the throne room, whistling cheerfully to himself.
At the door, he turned and paused, then called back over his shoulder to Lucy and Wynston, “And, Wynston, here’s a good thing to know, if you’re going to be king. No good comes of breaking laws, but there are usually a few wonderful ways to bend them!”
(AFTER, AND AFTER THAT)
THE NEXT day Lucy wandered out to the barn. She took Cat with her, thinking that after his wet adventures he’d like the warmth and the smell of the hay on the floor. Together they sat. Lucy watched Cat, who watched Lucy’s papa as he milked. Lucy made sure that when Cat scrambled in the hay, she knew just where he was at all times. She brought a variety of snacks in her pockets (carrots and almonds and some cheese too), since she still hadn’t figured out what he liked to eat. But Cat chewed on a bit of hay and then pounced on a centipede instead. Lucy made a face as he chomped on the wiggling legs, but she kept him close, and quiet. She watched him explore. After a few minutes, she spoke slowly. “Papa?”
“Yep?”
“Papa, can I ask you something?”
“Yes, Lucy. But can you hold Lilac’s tail for a minute so I can concentrate?” He handed Lucy the cow’s tail.
Lucy took a deep breath. “I don’t know any other way to say this, and I know it makes you sad to think about it…but I need to know about Mama.” She heard her father suck in his breath quickly. His face tightened.
“What do you want to know?”
“Well, mostly, I want to know where she is.”
“Where she is?” Lucy’s father didn’t turn his head, and Lucy listened for a minute to the sound of milk pinging into the bucket. “What do you mean?”
Lucy felt her voice rise, grow louder. “I want to know where Mama went when she left us!”
Still he didn’t turn his head. “Lucy, she’s…gone.”
There was a beat of silence before Lucy spoke next, like the calm before
a storm cloud breaks. “Gone?” She repeated the word she’d grown to hate. “Gone?”
He continued milking. “Yes, Lucy. Gone.”
Suddenly Lucy was furious and sad and confused all at the same time. She hated that word. That word meant nothing. She didn’t care anymore about making her father unhappy. She thought about Rosebud, stranded on the mountain, and about all the dreadful things that might have happened to her in Torrent. Lucy wasn’t sorry she’d had her adventure. But all in a huge rush, she understood for the first time that her father owed her this, the story of her mother. For the first time in her life, she yelled at her papa.
“Papa!” she said sharply to his back. “Papa, look at me! Talk to me!” He turned at last. “Don’t you understand? All you’ve ever said was gone! What does gone mean? My mother means nothing more than that word. No face, no stories. She’s an empty place, gone.”
“Lucy…”
“No! I need you to use a different word, a word that means something. What happened, Papa? What happened to her?” She was crying now, hard as nails. “Why did she leave me?”
“Oh, Lucy…” Her father reached out to hold her, but she pulled away. “Do I really need to say it?”
Slowly Lucy stopped shaking, and her tears rolled silently down as she spoke in a still, small voice. “Say the word, Papa. Say it!”
“Lucy, your mother is…dead.” The word fell like the first drop in a metal tub. And Lucy stood stone still.
Then Lucy picked up Cat, who was trying to climb a rickety ladder, and she snuggled her wet face in his fur.
“How did she die?” Lucy’s voice shook ever so slightly.
“She…” Lucy’s father rose from his milking stool and turned to face her. His eyes were full of tears. “She—Nora—was the kindest, most lovely person that ever lived, Lucy. Your mother was so beautiful. We were so happy. And then there was a storm.” The word echoed in the barn, and the air felt very still.
Up and Down the Scratchy Mountains Page 14