The foul-tempered wives with delusions of grandeur always seemed to drive the serving girls away in no time at all. Then to make matters worse, they generated false stories that the girls had fallen in love and left to get married and settle down in the country. When Merrigan tried to find the girls, certain they needed rescuing, those vicious old nobles started rumors that the girls had actually gone into their employ to escape serving her.
Well, here was one serving girl Merrigan could rescue. Technically, the tailor's daughter wasn't a serving girl, and hadn't fallen into danger yet. It was just a matter of time. Merrigan wondered if she could remember that spell Nanny Tulip had taught her, for enchanting collars so they choked their wearers at the appropriate time. She had learned that spell after her mother died and after Nanny Starling fled in disgrace, and her own sisters and brothers grew critical and ignored her. Nanny Tulip had taught her about minor magics and how a princess deserved to be treated. She helped her wreak small bits of revenge on anyone who slighted her or treated her as if she didn't have a brain in her head.
Unfortunately, Merrigan hadn't used the spell in years. She hadn't needed to, after she married Leffisand, because his courtiers knew how to give her proper respect.
In that moment, the whisper of a plan seeded itself in her mind. She chuckled, positive it would be deliciously clever and properly nasty, as the old lecher deserved. He had to be the judge who had helped cheat the miller's son.
"Are you finished, Granny?" The baker's assistant bent down to Merrigan where she sat on the steps. "Would you like more?"
"No, thank you. It was lovely." Merrigan didn't mind giving a compliment to the rosy-cheeked boy. She had seen him take the bun from the long tray fresh from the oven, when his master told him to help her as she walked into the bakery. Such kindness touched her heart. Maybe when she got her looks and her kingdom back, she would send someone with a gold coin to reward them.
That would certainly make liars of the people who called her an ungrateful brat.
She got up off the steps and made her way to the tailor's little house at the far end of the main street of Smilpotz. Her steps were slow, in contrast with her racing thoughts.
Her mother had taught her to sew, as an entirely proper occupation for a princess. She enjoyed sewing. As a child, Merrigan had loved taking scraps of cloth and bits of braid and beads, and turning them into gowns for her dolls. She had also enjoyed the admiration and envy of the other girls her age among the nobility in the court of Avylyn. Sewing in her mother's garden had been among the happiest parts of her childhood. She hadn't been that happy in many years.
Merrigan stopped in the middle of the street, startled by the single tear that trickled hot down her cheek. She blotted it with the back of her fingerless black glove and muffled a sigh.
Nanny Tulip, however, believed sewing wasn't a proper occupation for a princess. Except when used in magical pursuits, such as the choking collar. Merrigan could never reconcile the conflict between her mother's teaching and her beloved nanny's. Well, Nanny Tulip would certainly approve of the plan that slowly clarified in her mind. She had been a stickler for propriety. Judge Brimble was abusing his power. A mayor and a wedding certainly trumped a fat old lecher's desire for a new wardrobe.
"Can I help you, Mistress?" Master Twilby, the tailor, rose from his chair behind the long worktable in the front room of the house and shop as she stepped up to the open door.
"Would you have some work for these old fingers?" Merrigan held out her spindly hand, proud that it didn't shake. "I don't need much, just a blanket, some bread, and a roof over my head."
"Sorry, but even though we could use some help, it wouldn't be for long. The boy who works for me is due back in ten days."
"Oh, that would suit me perfectly. I just need a place to rest my feet, catch my breath, so to say."
"Can you sew seams?"
Merrigan most definitely did not want to sew boring seams. What she wanted was the fancy work, the ruffles and embroidery and stiff collars—especially the collars. However, she needed to get her foot in the door. Then Master Twilby would see the common sense of handing over the fancy work to her, and leave the drudgery to his daughter and apprentice. It would be easy. Peasants were so simple-minded and so easily led.
"Faster than the dawn, and straight and tight. So tight it'd take you a fortnight to rip one out," she added, tipping her head at that slight angle guaranteed to convince him she was adorable, if not slightly daft.
For some reason, everyone assumed the slightly not-right-in-the-head were trustworthy and good-hearted. Merrigan couldn't see it herself. She was positive most people only pretended to be daft to avoid doing an honest day's work, or to perform some deception. As she did now.
Master Twilby would thank her someday, when he learned the truth.
She imagined him kneeling before her, shaking in terror when he realized he had hired Queen Merrigan of Carlion to sew seams. He would profess undying gratitude for her help in protecting his daughter from that lecherous Judge Brimble. It made such a pleasant mental picture, Merrigan almost missed the quick, low discussion between Master and Mistress Twilby when the lady of the house came in from the kitchen. She had the impression the wife was far more willing to hire the old woman. Perhaps just because she was an old woman who needed work.
Just for that, Merrigan took extra pains with the test job they gave her. Let them doubt her ability to do anything she set her mind to. Master Twilby's smile and slow nod of approval, as he inspected the vest she had put together in good order, generated a warmth in Merrigan's chest she hadn't felt in a long time. Actually, she couldn't really remember the last time she had felt it.
By dinnertime, she and Mistress Twilby had done the main seams on the matching vests for the mayor and his two sons and future son-in-law. He was a minor nobleman in Carnpotz, a major city twice the size of Smilpotz. Merrigan thought the brocade for the vests entirely suitable for a wedding. The mayor's daughter had good taste. Merrigan was grateful for the subdued color scheme. After all, she didn't want to suffer eye strain the entire time she labored in the tailor shop. She intended to be given Judge Brimble's wardrobe order, as soon as Master Twilby realized he could now handle both jobs.
Mistress Twilby became almost chatty, as they put away the vests to make dinner. Merrigan faced a moment of dread. She wouldn't have to cook, would she? She had never learned, and had no interest in learning. It seemed so utterly messy, and rather alchemical. Cooking made her think of enchanters working in dark, damp dungeons, throwing together potions. Spells were fine, but potions and all the cutting and mixing and the smells and vapors made her uneasy. She would prefer to avoid magic of any kind for the rest of her life, thank you very much. After this curse on her was broken, of course.
To her relief, Mistress Twilby asked her to set the table while she and Fern, her daughter, took care of the final preparations. Merrigan learned that Mistress Twilby had assembled their dinner that morning, putting everything into an enormous cast iron pot and then sliding it into the oven to cook all day. It was a simple matter of pouring mugs of cider for everyone, cutting bread, and dishing up an amazingly delicious, hearty stew.
Perhaps there were some benefits to taking gainful employment. Hot food and sitting with the family. Welcomed by them. Included in their chatter, even if it was of plebian things like the town gossip and sewing the mayor's daughter's wardrobe. All of it was rather ... surprisingly ... pleasant.
After dinner, the sewing continued. She didn't really mind. The kitchen was warm and well-lit and Mistress Twilby provided hot tea with plenty of honey. Master Twilby praised the straightness and tightness of her seams, and asked if she would be so kind as to teach Fern the trick of it, now that the girl was old enough to move on from piecing and pinning. Merrigan didn't mind teaching her at all. In fact, it was quite easy to be gracious.
The odd, tight feeling in her chest did give Merrigan pause. She couldn't quite understand the wet warmth in
her eyes, either.
"I hope you don't mind, Mistress Mara," Master Twilby said, as he came back into the kitchen with a thick, ragged-edged book, the cover so worn she couldn't read the title. "We do enjoy some reading in the evening, especially after a good day's work and getting back onto schedule, thanks to your opportune arrival."
"Of course not. I assume this is some volume of edifying homilies?" Merrigan frowned when a giggle escaped Fern. What had she missed? The snotty little thing wasn't mocking her, was she? Such a deceptive child. Just a moment ago, Merrigan had been sure she was the sweetest, most attentive child she had ever met.
"Fern," Mistress Twilby scolded softly. To Merrigan's amazement and slight irritation, she chuckled, then reached over to pat her arm. "In some sense the stories my husband reads could be considered educational. There's always a chance of running into someone with magic, or who has been enchanted. Though the chances aren't as strong as they were in my grandfather's day. But yes, the tales could be considered educational."
"I don't care if they're educational," Fern announced with a sharp nod of her head. Then she astonished Merrigan by snuggling up against her on the long, padded bench by the stove where the three women sat. "They're fun. You like stories about magic spells and heroes and maidens trapped in durance vile? Don't you?"
"I—I—" Merrigan swallowed hard, confused by that odd, twisting, warm sensation in her chest. "I adore such stories, actually."
Granted, she had adored them more when Nanny Tulip and Leffisand hadn't been teaching her the truth behind the mask of glamour in tales of majjian folk.
To her delight, the first story Master Twilby read was one she hadn't heard before. Honestly, the lack of common sense of some Fae—blessing the goody-goody sister so every time she spoke, flowers and jewels fell from her lips? That was a blessing? And for what—for being polite and giving an old woman a drink of water? Didn't the silly child owe such kind actions to the elderly as a matter of course? Then, the stupidity of the mother, to send her more ambitious child to the well, with orders to be nice to the next old lady. So what happened when the Fae returned, this time dressed as a queen? The girl was put out because she wasn't the old lady who would bless her with an utterly inconvenient and messy gift.
Who in their right mind would consider that a gift? The girl would have to spend the rest of her life with a trough or a feedbag affixed under her mouth, to catch whatever fell out. Graces help her if she were a chatterbox! Imagine the mess during polite dinner conversation, and then the hazards to people around her on the street or during social events. Pity the people who stepped on the jewels she didn't catch. Then of course, the Fae didn't recognize that the other daughter was confused because the encounter didn't go as expected. She wasn't ready to face nobility, which Merrigan imagined could be a most unbalancing experience. The Fae proved just how temperamental her kind were, when she cursed the second girl to drop toads from her lips whenever she spoke.
Education, indeed! Merrigan wondered if such tales were more for the education of the parents than the children. If they could warn their daughters and sons to act with more common sense when they went into the woods, or stay out of the woods altogether, the world would be a calmer, more sensible place. When she was queen again, she would see if something could be done about that. If magic and majjians couldn't be controlled, perhaps all magic should simply be eradicated.
That thought gave her an odd shiver. It felt close to something she had overheard in an argument, long ago. Some insistence that magic was being wasted, and people shouldn't be allowed to fling it about as they wished. Magic needed regulation, or it would entirely run out. Had Nanny Tulip said something similar?
A distant rapping on the front door startled Master Twilby, two minutes into the second story. He stood, nearly dropping the book. Mistress Twilby went entirely still, except for her fingers, which curled and crushed the vest she had been hemming. Master Twilby hurried out of the kitchen. Only Fern seemed unconcerned.
"Who would come at this time of night?" She hopped off the padded bench and stepped over to the stove where the pot of tea kept warm. "Would you like more tea, Mistress Mara?"
"Thank you, child, that would be lovely." Merrigan reflected that it was easy to be gracious to a sweet girl with lovely manners. With the proper clothes, her hair in a more becoming fashion, she would make an enchanting little handmaiden. Merrigan sighed as she held out the large earthenware cup to be filled. By the time she regained her kingdom, Fern might be married, with children, and no longer a delightful, pretty little creature.
Fern paused in putting the teapot back on the stove. She frowned, glancing toward the door into the tailor shop at the front of the house. "Who is Father talking to?"
"Little pitchers have big ears," Mistress Twilby murmured, her hands shaking. She never looked up from her sewing, as if suddenly her life depended on finishing the hem.
Chapter Three
Merrigan focused on listening. The other man's voice was deep and too hearty. He sounded like several members of her father's court who were entirely too certain of their value in the world, their power and influence, and their right to stomp on anyone who didn't give them their way. Such people had thought they could stomp on her, when she was a child. Merrigan had taught them a thing or two and enjoyed it.
"If there is any justice in this wretched, magic-sickened world," she whispered.
"Is something wrong, Mistress Mara?" Fern asked, coming back to the bench.
"Not if I can help it." Merrigan smiled, though the effort hurt her face. How she loathed having to hide her feelings, when there was no one to tremble in the face of her anger. She put down her sewing and got up to find Master Twilby.
A man stood on one side of the long sewing table, hands braced on it, leaning over the table and making Master Twilby cower back a step. He was exactly like those odious courtiers Merrigan remembered. Big—big shoulders, big hat, big voice, big nose, big triple chin, big belly. The tone of his clothes was big as well, the colors just a shade too bright, and too many colors together, for Merrigan's taste. His tall walking stick was ebony, with an ivory handle in the shape of a lion's head. Too ostentatious for this size of town. It lay on the table in front of his braced hands, like a dividing line between him and Master Twilby.
"I don't understand why you are so unreasonable. It's a perfectly sensible solution," the man said, his jolly smile entirely too big. How could anyone talk and smile at the same time? Maybe that was what made his voice so big?
"What you are asking, Judge—"
"Ah, so this is Judge Brimble?" Merrigan swept into the room as she used to sweep into one of Leffisand's meetings with the council of lords. He had always found great amusement in her ability to interrupt the meeting at the most crucial time, intimidating the nobles dimwitted enough to resist his plans for the country. She just wished she had her full skirts and long train. The simple black dress and widow's cap utterly ruined the effect.
Still, from the widening of the judge's eyes, the straightening of his shoulders, she hadn't quite lost her touch. Maybe he had no idea why, but he felt intimidated.
This will be fun.
"Master Twilby, have you told him our plan yet?" Merrigan held out her hand to the judge as she once used to do with ambassadors and visiting princes.
Judge Brimble was just provincial enough to frown at her hand for a moment before reluctantly, with the grip of a limp fish, bowing over it. She supposed she should be grateful he didn't kiss it. No one liked being kissed by a limp fish.
"What plan is that?" Brimble said, his voice only at half the previous volume.
"I assume you have come here to ask once again about Master Twilby fitting in your entirely necessary order for clothes to befit your station, despite the previous and honor-bound commitment to take care of the mayor's daughter's wedding clothes."
"Err ... yes, exactly." His piggy eyes—the only things about him that weren't big – narrowed, and he looked her over
as he released her hand. "And you are?"
"Mistress Mara, formerly of the courts of Avylyn and Carlion. I sewed for the royal family in Avylyn and came to Carlion when Princess Merrigan married King Leffisand. With all the upheaval after the death of King Leffisand, well ... the wise flee before they can be caught up in turmoil they had no part in causing." She nodded her head once, in what she thought a sage manner.
"Sewed? For royalty?" Judge Brimble turned to Master Twilby. "And when were you going to tell me such a talented woman worked for you?"
"Did you give him time?" Merrigan asked, as Master Twilby's mouth flapped several times and no words came out. "I only arrived today. Such a pity you weren't informed. So depressing, the lack of the niceties in these provincial backwaters. But you, sir, I hear you aim for bigger and better things. Your wardrobe must reflect your potential. Master Twilby and I have been working out a plan for me to design your new wardrobe. All done as discretely as possible, so as not to incur the wrath of the mayor. Master Twilby didn't want to make promises to you, raise your hopes, before he had anything solid to offer. A man of your stature, after all, shouldn't be disappointed. Master Twilby had considered putting me in charge of the wedding clothes, but then he decided your new wardrobe had higher priority."
"Yes ... yes, of course." Judge Brimble's face brightened and he let out a satisfied chuckle that shook his massive girth. "Clever, Twilby. I appreciate you putting my feelings ahead of your profit. Shows you have more common sense than most people in this benighted town. No wonder you hesitated over my suggestion."
"What suggestion was that?" She fluttered her eyelashes at him and took a step closer, as if inviting him into her confidence.
"He wanted me to send Fern to live at his house and tend to the sewing. He thought it would give us more room to work, and save time, running back and forth." Master Twilby gave Merrigan several sidelong glances. Almost as if he feared her.
The Kindness Curse Page 4