by Wendy Mass
Alexander says something and Father laughs. It sounds like they are right outside the door! Why will they not move on? Why choose this spot to have a conversation? As quietly as possible, I slide the lock closed.
Since I’m stuck in here, I might as well pick out a book. Father collects rare, old books, and has many that are unequaled in their beauty, even in kingdoms far larger and richer than our own. More arrive each month, too. I walk slowly around the room, careful to avoid the one window. I don’t want a gardener snipping the hedges to spot me.
“It’s really not that bad,” a voice behind me says. I am so startled that I grab on to a random book, yank it out, and hold it over my head like a club. I whirl around to find myself facing Freddy. I look from him to the still-locked door, and back again. “How did you do that?”
“Do what?” Freddy replies.
“Enter the room without coming in the door. And how did you find me?”
Ignoring the first question, he holds up a small ear of corn. “I found this in the hallway. I know you do not want to go, but it is tradition for a visiting prince to have the honor of dressing as the ceremonial symbol of the harvest.”
“I cannot wear this,” I argue, lowering the book that I had still been holding over my head.
“Now that we know it fits, you do not have to wear it on the ride, but they will expect you to put it on when you arrive at the ball. We must get back to your room now, for the royal caravan is to set out very soon.”
I shake my head. “I cannot possibly go. I happen to be right in the middle of this excellent book, and I make it a habit never to put down a book mid-chapter.” I wave the book in the air for effect.
Freddy leans forward to examine the cover of the book in my hand. He chuckles. “I have no doubt that Fairies, Goblins, and Witches of the Western Kingdoms is proving excellent reading material considering there ARE no fairies, goblins, or witches in the western — or any other — kingdoms, but I must insist you allow me to escort you back to your room to change or else you shall certainly be late.”
I redden in response to the book title. As a man of science, it is embarrassing to be caught reading such things. Or even fibbing about reading them.
He continues in response to my silence. “I beg pardon for being blunt, but what other option do you have? Hiding away in here while your father sends his best knights to find you?”
I set the book down on a small round table and attempt to fold my arms across my chest in defiance. This would work better if a butternut squash and an ear of corn were not in the way. So I stick out my chin instead, and ask, “Since when did you get so bossy?”
He laughs. “Since your mother told me that if I do not get you into the royal coach on time, she will put me on dung chute duty and make me sing for my supper.”
I shrug. “Idle threats.”
“Perhaps,” he says. “But I would rather not chance it. I sing quite off-key.”
I do not budge.
“Come now, Prince Riley. This is just for one night. A great alchemist can handle anything that comes his way. Now hold your head high and be the best symbol of the harvest King Rubin’s guests have ever seen!”
“You will make a better knight than you think,” I grumble. “You are very persuasive.”
“Thank you,” he says, relaxing his shoulders a bit. “Now let us go quickly.”
I wait until he gives me the “all clear” in the hallway before following him out. It is only once I am back in my regular traveling clothes and Freddy has left me at the coach that I realize he never told me how he entered the library.
“I am concerned that you find my ongoing misfortunes so entertaining.”
Handsome is doing a poor job of stifling his laughter as he watches me scrub my shoes in the apothecary’s sink. I try my best not to disturb the plants soaking there. “I am sorry,” he says, gulping some air. “I told you I laugh when I get the nerves.”
I point my shoe at him. “You do not seem nervous. Only full of mirth.”
“’Tis better than what that poor sap is full of,” Handsome says, gesturing to the corner of the shop. The village doctor and the apothecary are in the process of carrying the poisoned man out, where a carriage awaits to take him home.
For the first time, I allow myself to feel a powerful wave of loss for my previous life. If this were a normal day, I would be able to walk three blocks to my home, where fresh water would quickly be heated for my bath. My clothes and shoes would be properly washed clean of the guts of animal and man. Of course, if this were a normal day, I would not HAVE the guts of animal and man on my clothes and shoes. I scrub harder.
The apothecary storms back inside, grumbling about how much money the carriage ride will cost him. He stops when he sees us, as though he had forgotten our presence.
“You still want that job?” he asks wearily. “It is demanding work with no room for error.”
I nod.
“You can read?”
I nod again.
“You can grind seeds, shred roots, mix lotions, boil teas?”
“I can.”
“And you will promise not to attempt to diagnose any illness in my absence? You can see how well that worked out the last time.”
“I will not,” I promise.
“Fine. We shall try it for a week. Now go. I have a splitting headache.” He heads over to one of the many rows of small wooden drawers lining the wall and pulls one out labeled Willow Bark.
I push my wet shoes back on my feet and turn to go.
“Wait,” Handsome says to the apothecary. “You did not tell us Beauty’s wages.”
“A pound a week,” he says without turning around.
Handsome and I stare at each other, wide-eyed. We hurry out before the apothecary changes his mind.
“Life is looking up for you!” Handsome says as we head down the street toward the south end of town.
I allow myself a small smile. “Now we shall see if I truly can grind, shred, mix, and boil.”
“Something tells me you are a fast learner.”
I glance up at the sky. If we do not move quickly, Handsome will be walking back from my house in the dark. Even for a boy his age, nearly sixteen I figure, it is not safe. “We best hurry.”
“I just need to drop off this bread at the monastery, and we shall be on our way.”
The square is bustling with people leaving their jobs or buying food at the marketplace. Three shillings a day is more than enough to buy my family a proper meal. I believe I have a skip in my step. Clarissa would be pleased.
The monastery is attached to the village church by a long hallway. They are only a block away, and we arrive without any more distractions.
“I would invite you inside,” Handsome says, pulling open the heavy door, “but the monks are very private. I can go only to the kitchen and no further.”
Father used to drop books off here for the monks’ library, but we were never allowed inside. Judging from what the monks have purchased from him over the years, I imagine the library is quite grand. It’s probably best that I stay outside anyway. I worry my fib to Clarissa about the cause of the fire still hangs in the air above the last pew of the church, trapped there in the shaft of light. I do not want to go inside to find out.
He returns only a moment later, stuffing the now-empty sack into his pocket. Before he reaches me, a little girl runs out from the back of the monastery. She looks to be no older than nine or ten, with hair so yellow it is nearly white. She reminds me of a drawing I saw once of a fairy girl. Not that fairies truly exist, of course. At least, not anymore. Still, I catch myself looking to see if the tips of her ears are pointed. They are not.
“Wait, Handsome!” she calls out.
He stops and turns to her. “Hello, Veronica.” He bends down to her level. “What can I do for you this fine evening?”
“Did you find it?” she whispers.
He shakes his head. “Not today, but I shall keep looking.”
>
“Do you promise?” she asks.
He holds up his palm. “I promise.”
I wonder what the girl has lost. I have developed quite an eye for finding things. Perhaps I have seen it while combing the ground for my assorted treasures. But before I can ask, Veronica points a finger in my direction and asks, “Who is she?”
Handsome straightens up. “This is my new friend.”
She looks at me with suspicion. I give her a small wave. I do not have much experience around children. The direct way they stare you in the eye unnerves me.
“Her name is Beauty,” Handsome says. Then to me he says, “And this is Veronica.”
The girl looks from me to him and back. “Her name is Beauty? You jest!”
I stand up. “Let us go,” I snap. “I do not need to be insulted any more today.”
The little girl stands her ground. “I only meant that it is funny that you two have the same kind of name.” She squints up at us. “Are you related? Cousins, perhaps?”
We both shake our heads. “I am from a village a few hours east,” Handsome explains. “My mother gave me my name when she thought I would not live. But I surprised everyone with my ability to cling to life, and now I am stuck with it.”
They turn to me for my explanation of my naming. I shrug. “Perhaps my mother was blind when she named me.” It seems easier to joke than to tell them the sad truth.
Neither of them smiles, though. The girl does not meet my eyes. “I shall see you tomorrow,” she says to Handsome, and turns back into the building. “I was only joking,” I say as we begin walking again. “Did I offend her somehow?”
“Her grandfather was blinded in a woodcutting accident. That is why she lives with the monks. He cannot take care of her any longer.”
“Oh.” We walk in silence toward the river. “She asked if you found something. What is it she misses?”
“A pink stone of some sort,” he says as we turn to walk along the bank. “It used to be part of a necklace. I guess it’s pretty important to her.”
“I will keep my eyes open for it.”
“That would be kind of you,” he says.
We pass the mill and I glance behind me to see if the tall man in the gray cloak is still there. A few farmers wait in line by the millstone, but I do not see the man who could solve a dispute so easily. I have the vague sense that someone was looking for him, but I cannot put my finger on who it was.
We continue into the woods, where the air is noticeably cooler. Handsome asks about Papa’s job, and I tell him about all the wonderful books I get to read and how each book has its own feel and its own smell. He does not even laugh at me for smelling books. When we are about halfway to my house, I work up the nerve to ask a personal question. “So why were you not expected to live?”
He is quiet for a moment, then replies, “I had a twin brother. We were born too soon. He did not make it. No one expected me to survive, but I was a hardy little runt.”
“I am sorry,” I tell him. “About your brother.”
He nods. “I think of him sometimes. I wonder what he would have been like. He probably would have been smarter than I, and better fitting of my name!”
“You are plenty clever,” I assure him.
He shakes his head. “I cannot read without mixing the letters up. I cannot do simple addition. It is a good thing I love baking bread, for I need not do much of those things. I can memorize a recipe or simply make it up as I go along.”
I do not reply right away. If I could not escape in a book, I do not know what I would do. Then I remember the delicious bread he gave me earlier. “Did you bake that last loaf?”
He nods.
“You are truly gifted, then!”
He beams. “The baker lets me experiment with the recipe when he is gone for the day.”
“You should share it with him. I am certain he would want to make it.”
“Perhaps I will,” he replies. “Or perhaps I shall save it for my own bakery one day.”
“It is nice that you have a dream,” I say. “I have never thought much past the next day.”
“Truly?” he asks.
I nod.
“You do not dream of marriage and children?”
I shake my head. “That is my sister’s dream.”
“Then what is yours?”
I shake my head. “My future will not be of my choosing, so I see no reason to think about it.”
“I told you my story,” he says. “Now how did you really get your name?”
I take a deep breath. I have never told anyone of this before, but I trust him. “My story is similar to yours. My mother named me as she passed out of our world and into the next. I never knew her.”
“I am sorry,” he says, putting his hand on my shoulder as we walk. It feels comforting.
We are still a good distance from the house when Papa and Clarissa appear before us.
“We were worried!” Papa says, hugging me tight. “I went to the butcher to fetch you, but he waved a cleaver at me. He yelled something about me owing him a pig, but I did not stick around to hear it. Perhaps he mistook me for someone else.”
“Probably not,” I tell him. “It is a long story.”
“And who is this?” Clarissa asks, eyeing Handsome with suspicion.
“He is the baker’s apprentice. And my new friend.”
She tilts her head at me in a way that clearly says she does not believe me. I sigh. “Truly, Clarissa. I can make a friend on my own, you know.”
“Since when?” she asks.
“That is enough, girls,” Papa says. He puts out his hand. “I am Beauty’s father. And you are?”
Handsome clears his throat. I know exactly how he feels. “My name is Handsome,” he says, shaking Papa’s hand. “And before you say anything, yes, it is truly my name, and yes, I realize it is not the most fitting.”
Clarissa and Papa glance at me for confirmation. I nod at them. “’Tis true.”
“How wonderful!” Clarissa says, her eyes shining like they used to before the fire dimmed them. She gives me a hug as tight as Papa’s. “You have found your perfect match! Beauty and Handsome! I always thought I would be the first to find true love, but I am truly happy for you!”
I can feel the heat on my cheeks at her words. Love? We have just met! Love is the last thing on my mind.
Handsome laughs. “Beauty and I are a pair indeed. But not in the way you suggest.”
Clarissa places her hands on her hips. “And why not, pray tell? Is it because of our circumstances? We will be back on our feet again, I promise you that.”
He shakes his head. “No, it is not that at all.”
“Is it because of her appearance? She can be quite pretty when she combs her hair and puts on some makeup. I tell her all the time to —”
“It is not that, either,” he says.
I wish she would stop pressing him, but she does not. “Then why?” she asks again.
He takes a deep breath and says, “I cannot marry your sister because in a few months I shall marry another.”
“Oh,” Clarissa says, her bright face dimming. “Well. That is that, then.”
After an awkward moment of silence, Papa claps his hands together and turns to me. “So! What did you bring us for dinner?”
Chewing on the ginger root is not helping, and it tastes like feet. The coach has just pulled over for the third time so that I could settle my queasy stomach. Each time, my family groans in annoyance. But they can’t say I didn’t warn them. When our coach stops, the entire royal caravan has to stop, too, so no doubt there is groaning up and down the line.
We are only going for two nights, and yet besides our luxurious carriage, we have four royal guards on horseback and three coaches filled with luggage, the customary gifts, and Mother’s lady-in-waiting, a woman named Clea who has attended my mother for twenty years.
I climb back in the carriage and wrap my cloak tight around me. We pull back onto the road, a
nd the rest of the caravan follows. The guards take up their places on all sides of our coach. I gaze out at them, envious of the fresh air on their faces, the freedom they enjoy from the confining carriage.
I cross my arms over my chest, trying to ignore the ever-present sway as the carriage picks up speed. “I do not understand why I couldn’t have simply ridden along on horseback.”
“Princes do not ride outside the carriage on long journeys,” Mother replies, returning to her knitting. “It is dangerous if you veer from the road. Bandits and all sorts of ill-mannered thieves could be lurking in the woods.”
“I would not veer into the woods,” I mutter, pulling the thick curtain closed so I will not have to see the guards. I knew Mother would never let me ride outside. Even Alexander with his exceptional riding skills is stuck in here.
I could take up the argument over my outfit again, but Mother has already insisted it is an honor to have been chosen and I shall be expected to make the best of it.
Mercifully, I begin to feel groggy. The clomping of the horses’ hooves on the hard dirt road becomes muffled, like someone has thrown a blanket over them. The next thing I know, I hear a lot of yelling outside and realize I am curled up on the seat like a babe.
I untangle myself and sit up. Are we being attacked? Across from me, Alexander is sitting upright, proud as a peacock. “What is afoot?” I ask. “What is all that noise?” Alexander does not reply, he only sits there, beaming. I look to my parents. They, too, have pleased expressions on their faces. Father has even put down his book of poetry. They do not appear to be frightened, so I relax a bit.
The yelling outside grows even louder. The curtains on both sides of the carriage remain drawn, though, so I cannot see. “Please, won’t someone tell me what is happening?”
“Have a look,” Alexander says. He pulls aside the curtain and the afternoon sun streams in. It takes a moment to figure out the scene before me. Then my eyes grow so wide I fear they may fall out of my head. Dozens, nay hundreds, of people line both sides of a long, narrow road. We are in the midst of a town I have never seen. The townspeople — many in fine clothes marking them noblemen and noblewomen — are not merely watching the procession, though. They are running after the caravan, cheering as they go. In fact, they are cheering the same words over and over. “All hail Prince Alexander! All hail the future king! Welcome! Welcome!” They obviously know who we are, and that we would be passing through their village.