by Wendy Mass
We find the portly innkeeper behind a large desk. He is adding up a pile of coin. It seems dangerous to me to have so much money lying about like that. I take a step closer and hear a growl behind me. A very large (VERY LARGE) man wags his finger no at me. I step back again. Now I see why the innkeeper is not worried.
When he is done counting, he slips it all into a pouch around his waist, and cinches it closed. “What can I do for you children this fine eve?”
Handsome steps forward. “My, er, cousins and I would like a room, if you please.”
I step up beside him. “My father, Alistair, is the bookseller from the village on the south side of the woods. He said you would know him and that you would give us the best room in the inn.”
The man smiles. He is missing quite a few teeth. “How is old Alistair? Fallen on hard times, last I heard.”
I nod. “He is doing his best.”
“Book business is a tough one,” the innkeeper says. “Can’t stand reading myself.” He gestures with his thumb to the huge bodyguard. “Now, Flavian here, he cannot get enough of books. Always got his nose in one.”
We look at Flavian in surprise. He just grunts and pulls out a small book of poetry from his pocket. The book practically disappears in his huge hands. Flavian seems a very fancy name for a man with a shaved head and a hoop earring, but who am I to judge whether a name fits a person?
The innkeeper holds out his hand. “For three shillings you can have the best room I got and dinner before you turn in.”
Veronica crosses her arms. “How much is the worst room?”
He winks. “Three shillings.”
“Then what is the difference between the best room and the worst room?” she asks.
“Well, those who don’t mind a little lice and fleas take the worst room.”
Veronica drops three shillings into the innkeeper’s palm. “Best, please.”
After a dinner of weak vegetable stew that did not fill any of our bellies, we settle onto our pallets of straw. The thin blanket underneath me does little to protect my back from the pointy edges. While the room is tiny and damp, and the ceiling is so low that it grazes the top of Handsome’s head, it does appear pest free.
Veronica and Handsome fall asleep as soon as they lay down their heads. I had finally adjusted to sleeping in the silence of our new house, and now I am in the middle of a busy town again and the noises are keeping me awake. It does not help that an alehouse below the inn is open all night, or that a pack of wild dogs has not stopped barking in the distance since the sun went down.
I reach for my bag in the dark and pull out the monk’s robe. I spread it atop the blanket and lie back down.
But still I toss and turn. I pull the robe’s hood up over my ears, but I can still hear the noise, both inside my head and outside the walls. At home, it used to make me feel better to embrace one of my books. Now the only books anywhere nearby belong to a giant of a bodyguard down below. He does not look like the sharing type.
I stare at the low, cobwebbed ceiling for a few moments longer before I remember that I do have a book! The one we stole! I reach into my pack again and feel around until I find it. Lying back down, I rest it upon my chest. Just the weight of it makes me feel better. I allow my hands to brush over the cover, feeling the indented letters in the leather, the still strong cord of leather wrapped around it to keep it securely closed. The book must not have gotten much use, because the covers are still soft and thick. Usually, by the time Papa gets his books, the stuffing material between the wooden boards and the fabric has flattened. But these are still quite puffy. I place the book under my head. Ah, almost as good as a real pillow. I may even be able to sleep now.
Then I jump out of bed and stand up so fast I slam my head into the ceiling. Handsome and Veronica startle awake at the noise. “What is it, Beauty?” Handsome asks as I feel around my head for blood. “Are you all right? What happened?”
“I’m all right.”
Veronica rubs her eyes. “Has dawn come already?”
I shake my head, an act that hurts. I push through the pain.
“Then why are we awake?” she snaps.
“Because I know where the map is!”
A knock on my door awakens me for the second morning in a row. “Mother?” I ask, pushing myself up as the door inches open. “Is the doctor back with the elixir already?” The door closes again, and I get a whiff of something I cannot identify. Is Mother bringing me breakfast in bed?
“It is Alexander,” my brother whispers. “Mother and Father slumber still.”
A glance out my window shows me that dawn has not yet arrived. I lie back down on my pillow. “What do you want, brother? I did not sleep well. I blame the leeches.”
“I have something for you,” he says.
“No, thank you,” I reply, turning over. “The last time you said that, you gave me the measles.”
“I was five!” he protests, pulling at my shoulder. “Sit up.”
I groan. “What is it?”
He places the candle in a brass holder on my nightstand and I hear him rustling in a pocket. “Hold out your hand.”
I am too tired to argue. He drops a small object onto my open, gloved palm. I bring it closer to my face. The faint candlelight reveals something that looks like a small bone, like a finger bone. Like a person’s finger bone. Fully awake now, I quickly yank my hand away and the hard white object drops onto my bed. It gives a little bounce before settling into a fold of the blanket. I sit up and scoot a bit away from it. “What is that?”
“It’s a finger bone,” Alexander says plainly.
I stare at the spot his voice is coming from. “Whose finger bone?”
“Some saint, apparently. I got it from the pardoner last night. It cost me forty shillings, so it better work.”
My eyes widen. “You left the castle?”
“Shh! Mother will hear you.”
My mattress flattens as he sits down on the bed. “I went to visit my horses down at the stables,” he explains. “I wanted to make certain they were being cared for properly. When I got there, I found the pardoner out front, selling pardons like they were the last plum pies on May Day. I was lucky he had any left.”
“But how did you talk to him without revealing yourself?”
“It was the dead of night and easy to hide in the shadows,” Alexander says. “The pardoner is well used to dealing with people who are unwilling to show their faces.”
“I still do not understand. Who is buying all the pardons?”
He doesn’t reply. The bed creaks a bit as he shifts.
“Alexander?”
In a low voice he says, “Everyone. And from what I overheard, it is because of you.”
“Me?”
“Not you, of course. The beast.”
“But I am the beast.”
“All right, then. It is because of you. Sorry, brother.”
“But I still do not understand.”
“Well, from what I could gather, the townsfolk want to cleanse themselves of any wrongdoings in the hopes that you will spare their lives. I watched the cobbler purchase a whole shank bone! I am fairly certain that was from a cow.”
“For what did he seek forgiveness? For making uncomfortable shoes?”
“He did not say.”
Staring at the hollow bone, I ask, “But why did you buy me a pardon?”
“I figured if the doctor’s elixir does not work, a pardon for your sins could be your only hope.”
“My sins? What sins?”
He pauses for a moment. “Well, you are not a very good dancer. And you do not always pay attention in your lessons. And, well, you eat a lot of pies and nutbread.”
I roll my eyes. “Those are not sins the last time I checked.”
“True, they are not as bad as spreading falsehoods, or thievery, but … well …”
I put my hands on my furry hips. “You think I did something to deserve this, do you not?”
&n
bsp; Silence again. It is becoming quite infuriating. “Alexander!”
“Honestly, brother, I do not know what to think. Why did the witch girl pick you, then? Why not me? Or Father?”
Now it is my turn to be without words. For I had not thought to ask that question of myself. I had figured it was simply bad luck. Could it have been more than that? Could I have done something to deserve this punishment? I did sneak an extra piece of ginger candy that Mother had laid out in the Great Hall for important guests. And I have led more than a few worms to an untimely death through my experiments. I clear my throat. “What do I have to do to earn the pardon?”
The mattress rises as Alexander stands. “You must bury the bone before dawn today. You must face southeast, whistle three times, and spit upon the ground.”
“And my sins — if I have any — will be forgiven?”
“That’s what the pardoner promised.”
“Very well, I shall do it. But how will we get outside? Parker seems not to ever leave his post.”
“The same way I did earlier,” he says, lifting the candlestick holder from my bedside table. “Through the kitchen window.”
Even if I were twice as short and half as wide, I would not come close to fitting through the kitchen window. Fortunately, the kitchen door is unguarded. Parker himself cannot watch every exit, and truly, I see no need at this point. Not one person has attempted to enter the castle since word of the beast apparently spread through town like wildfire.
“Shh,” Alexander says as I close the kitchen door behind me. “Do you have to be so loud?”
“I am not making any noise,” I insist.
“Your every step is like thunder,” he whispers. “You lumber around like a giant. A giant on stilts.”
“Yes, well, perhaps I am not the most graceful of creatures, but when was the last time you bathed? You smell like old cheese.”
“I suppose it has been a while since I filled my tub,” he admitted. “But the cistern is empty with no staff to fill it, and I would have to travel out to the well and then heat the water and lug it upstairs. Since no one but our parents can see how I look, I figured why go to all the trouble?”
“A small thing called consideration for those around you,” I reply, making a show of pinching closed my beaklike nose. “I may not be able to see you, but I can still smell you.”
“Fine,” he grumbles. “I shall bathe tonight. Now let us get on with this. The sky is growing brighter.”
I glance at the horizon, now empty of all but the brightest stars. Even without the stars to guide me, I know where southeast is. I face the carriage house, and step (not lumber!) over the dew-covered grass until I find a patch of loose, fairly dry earth. Kneeling down, I pull off my gloves and begin to dig. Finally, I have found a use for these long nails.
“Hurry,” my brother says, his breath urgent (and smelly) in my ear.
I scoop out one last pile of dirt and place the bone in the hole. “How am I supposed to whistle without anyone hearing?”
“I shall make birdcalls at the same time,” Alexander says. “That should mask the sound.”
I nod. Alexander can imitate any bird with great skill. He begins to trill like a lark, and I jump in with my whistling. Turns out my pointy nose makes an excellent flute.
“Good work,” he says as I quickly pack the dirt back into the hole. “Now spit upon the ground and let us be off.”
I do as instructed, glad that Mother is safely in bed. She cannot abide spitting. An extra glob appears beside mine.
“I could not resist,” Alexander says. “I have few pleasures these days.”
I gather the saliva in my mouth, then spit once more. “One can never be too careful when hoping to be pardoned for one’s wrongdoings.”
Once again, a glob appears beside mine. “I agree,” Alexander says.
“How long am I supposed to wait to see if it worked?” I ask.
“I had hoped it would have happened by now,” he admits.
We wait beside the buried bone, taking turns spitting upon the small mound. Nothing happens. The sun is clearly visible above the distant fields by the time we sneak back inside, our mouths dry. I am still in my beast form, but at least the ground has been watered well today.
Our room is so dark that we have no choice but to wait until daybreak to test my theory. We sleep fitfully, taking turns peeking out our window for the arrival of dawn. When it is obvious at one point that we are all awake, Handsome asks Veronica what the map will reveal, if we find it.
“I know not,” she admits, her voice sounding tired. In the darkness, it is easier to remember how young she truly is. “My mother set out northeast, with two things — a copy of the map and her crystal. She did not return, and neither did they.”
By the time dawn breaks through the shutters of our room, we are sitting on the floor, the book and Handsome’s sharpest knife set out before us. The others elected me to do the cutting since I know the most about how books are made, and am less likely to cut through the map by mistake.
With a nod from Veronica, I lift the knife by the hilt, and dig the point into the top right corner of the front cover. I have learned from experience to hold the leather away while slicing downward in one long stroke. This gives me the greatest chance of keeping the leather in one piece. I then move left along the bottom until I reach the spine. Veronica reaches over and tries to grab some of the material inside, now made visible.
“Wait,” I instruct, pulling back a bit. “Sometimes the padding is glued to the top. You do not want to rip it.”
She pulls back and lets me continue. I finish the last cut. The leather is now attached only to the spine. I hold the book out to her, and she tentatively lifts off one strip of rag after another. A few scraps of parchment with splotches of ink follow, and then we are down to the oak binding. She sits back on her heels, her eyes filling with water.
“Do not despair of hope,” Handsome says. “We still have the back.”
Before any of her tears can fall, I am already cutting into the back cover. My heart starts beating a bit faster as I go, because I can already tell that whatever hides in this side is different from the other. This side has pockets of air around the edges, leading me to believe whatever is inside does not reach all the way to the corners.
This time even I cannot wait before reaching inside and pulling out the contents of the back cover. A single piece of parchment, folded in half, comes out in my hand. I hand it to Veronica, who takes it with just her fingertips, as if she fears breaking it with her very touch. Ever so slowly, she lays it on the floor, opens it, and smooths down the crease. Handsome and I lean over. If it is a map, it is the strangest map I have ever seen. Lines lead to nowhere, halves of words dot the page, strange symbols appear in no clear order.
“Is this the same one your mother had?” Handsome asks.
“I was only two,” Veronica snaps. “I do not recall her map.” She jumps to her feet (she is the only one amongst us who can stand fully upright in the room) and begins to pace. In the case of our tiny room, this means she walks three steps, turns around, and walks three back.
I hold the map (if it is a map) up to the sunlight, now growing stronger in the room. Whoever made this used a very old piece of vellum. The fine goat hairs add to the confusion of what is drawn upon it.
Handsome leans over my shoulder and we examine it together. “What do you think this means?” he asks, pointing to a large design that takes up the left side of the page.
“I do not know. A path through the woods?”
“I think it more resembles water,” he says. “A river or a lake?”
“An underground city, perhaps?”
Veronica has stopped pacing to listen.
He beams at me. “Yes! And this large blob here with the zigzag through it? That must be a dragon guarding the gate!”
“For certain!” I say, trying to sound like I mean it.
Behind us, Veronica groans. “There be no suc
h things as dragons!”
“So evil witches and tiny gnomes and magic boots exist,” Handsome teases, “not to mention fairies. But you draw the line at dragons?”
“Just give it to me,” she says, snatching it from our hands. “I shall figure it out.”
“Suit yourself,” he replies, lying back down on his pallet and closing his eyes. “Wake me when you know where we’re going.”
Three days pass before the doctor returns. “I apologize for the delay,” he says, wiping his brow as he hurries into the library. “I had to travel far and wide for the correct ingredients. They are quite rare, you see.” No stranger to rare ingredients, I am curious as to what he used. I open my mouth to ask, but shut it when I realize that while Prince Riley is familiar with the alchemical arts and the wares of the apothecary, the beast most likely is not. I cannot risk raising his suspicions.
The dark purple, sludge-like potion certainly smells bad enough to work. Since the pardoner’s bone did nothing (in fact, upon further consideration, I am pretty certain it was a chicken leg), this is my last chance. “Cheers,” I say, and shudder as the foul liquid makes its way down my throat. And then I wait, hoping not to empty the contents of my stomach upon the fancy carpet. The doctor and Godfrey inch closer. My family probably does, too, but who can tell?
“Hmm,” the doctor says, pinching my forearm between his pudgy fingers. “Perhaps you are a bit less furry now?”
I am not.
“Your nose,” he says, the hope evident in his voice. “It is a little less pointy?”
I reach up to touch it, then shake my head.
His face falls. “I am truly sorry to have failed you,” he says, and I think he actually means it. Of course, he is probably afraid I will eat him now.
“It is not your fault,” I assure him, even as my last ray of hope burns out. “Perhaps no man can undo the curses of a witch.”