Lubos mumbled his thanks, forcing a smile at the thought of such sticky sweetness. He was not overly fond of honey, preferring sharp spices to season his food. Nor was he fond of wine, for the alcohol dulled his wits. It did put him in mind of the gift he'd brought, though. "I brought a gift for you, too, Master Rademaker. Lord Bachmeier's best imported wine, I believe." He held out the flagon.
Rademaker laughed. "Ah, I see why the king sent out a clever man like you. You have come to uncover all the lords' secrets. I will share ours freely, for it was my wife's dearest wish to see such watermills all over the country. I hope you will take a good account of us back to the king."
How was Lubos to tell the man it was his wife he wanted to take to the king, not tales of watermills? Lubos forced down his raging jealousy and said, "Show me, and we shall see."
Rademaker ambled up the hill with Lubos, pointing out the pools that fed the millstream, and detailing the output of the mill itself. Lubos learned that the watermills did not just grind grain. They were used to process the flax that made the region's fine linen. Bachmeier had lied, or he did not know of it. Perhaps Molina had made the modifications to the mill without her lord's knowledge or permission. Lubos wouldn't put it past her.
Lubos looked over the waterwheels, turning swiftly in the current. All but one, that seemed more sluggish than the rest. "What's wrong with that one?" he asked.
Rademaker shrugged. "I don't know. It was fine yesterday, but something must have happened overnight to slow it down. Let's see, shall we?" He led the way up to the slow wheel. "What ails it?" he called.
A dark figure emerged from the other side of the wheel. Lubos' breath caught in his throat. Molina stood thigh deep in the water, her skirt kirtled up so as not to get wet. "There's something stuck in it," she said, peering between the paddles. "I can almost…there!" She dived through the paddles, into the middle of the spinning waterwheel.
"No!" Lubos shouted, leaping into the water to save her. He was soaked in an instant, but he did not care. He wrapped his arms around her waist and dragged her away from the wheel that wanted to crush her. Too late he realised that she wore nothing beneath her skirts, and her pale buttocks pressed against his groin woke up his libido in the most painful way.
Then something slapped him in the face, harder than any woman should be able to, and the girl wrenched out of his grasp.
Stunned, Lubos shook his head, trying to clear it.
"Get out of the water before you freeze to death, you fool!" she ordered. "Go, before I release the wheel and it wets you even more!"
Lubos blinked. She'd somehow stopped the waterwheel. She hadn't been in danger at all. Fool that he was, he'd grabbed her and now the iciest water in the world wouldn't return the blood that flooded his nether regions back to his head so he could think. Think about anything else but cupping that bottom in his hands as he made love to her…
"Suit yourself, then."
Lubos didn't have time to register her words before a wave of water hit him, knocking him on his arse in the stream as the wave washed over his head. He came up spluttering. Near drowning had cooled his ardour somewhat by the time he managed to struggle ashore.
Molina stood beside her father, her skirts let down to cover her lovely legs once more, as she folded her arms across her breasts.
"You'd best come up to the house, Master Lubos. Molina will find you some dry clothes while we dry yours, and it seems only fitting that you stay for dinner."
"We're having trout," Molina said, dropping to her knees on the grass. Lubos got another peek under her skirts as she leaned forward to slash her knife across the fat fish's throat before she rose, lifting the fish by the gills.
The fish had slapped him, not Molina, Lubos realised, touching his cheek.
"Quite a chivalrous creature, even if it is a fish," Molina added, as if reading his mind.
Red-faced, Lubos followed her into the house.
Ten
The witch had hair fluffier than a fresh-shorn fleece. Abraham prayed that her thoughts were not as woolly-headed as she appeared.
"Ah, 'tis the boy's father, come to call. And not to ask about the baby, or the chest pains, though I have prepared a draught for you, all the same." The woman smiled and gestured toward the table outside her cottage, and the steaming cup that sat beside a suspicious-looking, smoke-coloured cat.
Abraham had no intention of drinking some witch's potion. Her talk of chest pains made his ribs ache, though he was certain there had been no pain before.
"I did not curse you. It was another witch, long ago, who cursed your ancestor, but I promise you, the chest pains started when you turned that garderobe handle to gold. You just did not notice until now. And the draught is not poisoned. It will ease the pain so that you no longer notice it, at least for a little while."
"Do you read minds?" he asked.
She laughed softly. "No, Sir Abraham, I do not see into your mind. Instead, I see into the future of what will be, or what it might be. But you do not wish to ask me what will be, for you already know your fate."
His voice came out in a whisper: "Less than a year from now, the curse will consume me completely, and I will die, and my legacy will be to pass the curse on to the very son my wife is carrying, so that in his turn, the curse will consume him, too."
Her eyes were unusually hard in such a soft face, but they arrowed into his soul. "So tell me, Sir Abraham. If you know the future is so certain, why have you come here? What can you possibly want to ask of me?"
It was on the tip of his tongue to say that such a strong seer would surely know the words before they left his lips, but as he gazed into her knowing eyes, the urge left him. To let her speak for him was to let fate have her way with his life, and he would surrender to fate no longer.
"I have come to ask how to change my fate. To break the curse that kills my family, for a crime so far in the past none of us can remember it. A way to save my son, and fulfil the oath I made to my father."
"Save the boy, or save yourself?" she asked sharply.
Abraham did not flinch from her gaze. "Both of us, if I can. But if I can save the boy from sharing my father's fate, it will be enough."
"Would you give your life to do it?"
For a long moment, Abraham could not answer. Finally, he said, "All men die. If I do nothing, my time is already short."
She nodded slowly, as if this answer seemed to satisfy her. "Drink the draught, Sir Abraham."
He reached for the cup, clenching his gloved hand around it, and downed the contents. Heat seared his throat, bringing tears to his eyes as he coughed and…ah, now his chest hurt. But it was a small pain, too small to mention. He slammed the cup back on the table. "Satisfied?" he growled.
"It is not my good opinion that matters, brave knight, but a girl who you have yet to meet." The witch closed her eyes. "You must go to the capital, and as you cross the bridge into the city, look up. You will see a tower, and there you will find the girl. She will be in danger, though she may not know it yet. You must keep her alive, no matter what happens, in order for her to break the curse. She must break it willingly, of her own free choice, even though she does not know how to do it. She is your only hope, and if she dies, then all hope is lost."
"Does this girl have a name?"
The witch shook her head. "I cannot control the visions, Sir Abraham, nor can I know everything. You have a time and a place to be, and the certainty that she is the right person. I cannot tell you more than I can see."
Despair welled up in his breast, threatening to swallow his heart. "But I must know more. Must I leave now, or can I say farewell to my family? Will she break the curse right away, or will I have to wait? Will she do it in time to save me, or save him? What if…?"
There was pity in her eyes now. "You will leave on the morrow, and you will have time to say farewell to your wife tonight. Once you arrive in the capital, your fate, and that of your son, will be in your hands. When and how and who…are qu
estions I cannot answer, for they depend on what lies in your heart, and what you choose to do. One thing I can promise you. If you choose to stay, and do not travel to the capital, then both you and your son will die, exactly as you have foretold, and you will die an oathbreaker."
"I will not die an oathbreaker!"
She smiled. "Then perhaps your son will live to hold his own son in his arms. Oh, and one more thing. I cannot tell you more, but I can give you a gift that may make your task easier. They were a gift to me, and heaven knows I have no use for them."
She headed into the cottage, then returned a moment later with a pair of extraordinary shoes. They were made of black leather so dark, they seemed to drink the light. They were not new, for dust scuffed the toes, but they seemed hardly worn at all.
"Keep them," Abraham said, waving her gift away. "I have no need for another man's cast-off shoes. My family's curse has the fortunate result of keeping us wealthy enough to afford good boots."
"Ah, but can your good boots do this?" she asked, slipping the shoes on her own small feet. She stamped her foot three times. A hole appeared at her feet, small at first, then widening, until it was large enough to swallow her. The witch grinned, then stepped forward. She dropped through the hole, which closed abruptly behind her.
Abraham's mouth dropped open and he could not seem to close it. He scuffed his foot across the ground where the hole had opened, but it felt perfectly solid to him, as if the hole had never been.
The witch's breathy laugh came from behind him, and Abraham whirled to find her standing in the doorway to the cottage with her arms folded across her chest.
"My cellar is beneath you, Sir Abraham. Or, more specifically, my bags of flour for baking. I landed on the sacks, and came up the stairs to where I am now. Such is the magic of the shoes. Merely stamp your foot thrice while wearing them, touch your toe to the point where you want the hole to form, and it shall open. It works on walls as well as floors. It will close when you have passed through it, just as you have seen." She held out the shoes. "In all the best tales, a knight on a quest receives a magical item to help him. Make the tale a good one, Sir Abraham. One that will be remembered through all the ages, so that a thousand years from now, when the nights are long and dark, someone will start to tell the tale of the man from House Rumpelstiltskin, and how he saved a princess from a terrible fate."
Abraham bowed. "I thank you for your gifts and your sound advice, Mistress Witch, and I will do everything within my power to be the hero of such a tale." He mounted his horse, waved farewell, and headed home.
Dalia shook her head and reached out to stroke the cat on the table. "Should I have told him that when his tale is told, there are those who will think he is the villain, and not the hero, Kisa?"
"Mrow," said Kisa, angling her head to give the witch better access to her neck.
Dalia sighed. "Better that he does not know, then. The people of the future must make up their own minds, as he will, when the time comes for him to choose."
Eleven
Lubos stripped off his wet clothes, shivering in front of the fire. As if his dreams from last night weren't bad enough, now he'd have visions of what she really looked like under her dress. Even the memory of her pressed against him had him hard as rock all over again.
There was only one way to deal with this – short of bedding the girl herself, which he knew would never happen. Not now he'd made an idiot of himself twice in front of her.
He found a chamber pot under the dresser, and wrapped his hands around himself. As if in answer to his prayer, he spotted a bark sketch on the dresser, capturing in a few lines the beauty of the woman in his head. Dark hair, dark eyes, the swell of her breasts beneath her gown…
He stroked and stroked, never taking his eyes from her, until finally he groaned, "Oh my God, Molina," as he experienced that glorious release.
A breath huffed out behind him. "I'm not sure whether to be appalled or appreciative. Did you just pleasure yourself in front of my mother's picture?"
Lubos covered himself with his hands, unable to hide his flaming cheeks. Now he truly was struck dumb.
Molina stepped through the doorway, carrying a pile of clothing that she thrust at him. "You're bigger than the boys in the village. Is it because you're better fed as the king's tax collector, or is it a tribute to your desire for my mother?"
"I thought the picture was you," Lubos managed to say, then instantly regretted it.
Her lips twitched in what might have been a fleeting smile, before her frown returned. "First watching me bathe yesterday, now pleasuring yourself in front of my picture. Most men would call you crazy, Master Lubos. Especially when you're staying at the castle with Lord Bachmeier's four beautiful daughters willing to do almost anything to catch a husband. I'm surprised he let you leave the castle confines, if you are a bachelor."
"I like brunettes," he said weakly.
"So I see," she said. "Is it supposed to rise again so fast?"
Mortified, Lubos moved his hands to cover himself again.
"Get dressed, while I take these outside to dry." She gathered up his wet clothes. "They are much finer than the ones you wore yesterday. You should have corrected me when I called you a farm labourer. Or at the very least introduced yourself."
"I…I was…" He couldn't seem to finish his sentences around her.
"Struck dumb, or so you said. Yes. Get dressed. Though not as fine as your own garments, these things should at least fit. If anyone in the village were to hear I'd been alone with a nude man on a mission from the king, all the old ladies would die of shock."
She swept out of the room.
Lubos slumped. Thrice he'd made a fool of himself. He'd never be able to look her in the eye again. Let alone her husband.
When he'd managed to cover himself up enough to satisfy even the most modest old woman from the village, Lubos crept down the stairs, wondering if he could escape without anyone seeing him. He'd trade his own clothes for these happily if it meant not seeing…
"Ah, good, they fit. I was worried you might be too big for them," Rademaker said. "One of the village boys just told me about another hive swarming, that I hope to catch. Molina can show you around the mill. No one knows the workings of this place better than she does."
He stuck a hat on his head and departed, leaving Lubos to stand with his mouth agape in the dining hall.
"So, are you truly interested in the mill, or are you and my father cooking up some sort of scheme together?" Molina asked, appearing in the doorway.
"I've never met your father," Lubos protested.
Molina laughed. "You're a strange one, Master Lubos. You were just talking to him a moment ago. Remember, the miller?"
It took a moment for the gears in Lubos' head to mesh together. "Rademaker, the miller, is your father?"
"You don't see the family resemblance? I know I look a lot like my mother. Ah, but you know that already."
Lubos felt himself reddening again. "I thought you were his wife. The one who designed the waterwheels."
"No, that was definitely my mother. Her mother designed the first one, but it was Mother who replaced it with something much more suitable. I've improved on them a little, but there's little I can do there. It's the potential of what we can do with them that I want to work with. But Lord Bachmeier won't hear a word of it."
"Lord Bachmeier said he wanted to marry you." Lubos wasn't sure why he said it, but he did recognise the wave of jealousy rising up at the thought.
"Do you think me a fool for refusing?"
Her dark eyes seemed to see right through him. It should have made him feel uncomfortable, but Lubos raised his own eyes to meet her gaze. "No. He doesn't deserve a woman like you."
"Meaning he deserves better? Oh, you do have a way with words, Master Lubos. No wonder you're still a bachelor." She walked out.
"No, wait!" Lubos followed her, and seized her shoulder. "Please, Mistress Molina. That is not what I meant. Bachmeier is
a fool, with a head as empty as his daughters'. A woman like you would be wasted on the likes of him."
Molina glanced at his hand, but did not shrug out of his grasp. "For once, we agree. Tell me something, as you seem to have untied your tongue. Did you really come here to see the mill? Do you really want the tour my father is so set that I take you on?"
Lubos swallowed. "I came here to see you, and return the drawing you left up at the pools yesterday. I want to see…anything you're willing to show me. I know I've been a fool, but I wish to show you I am not as much of a fool as Bachmeier. If these waterwheels are truly as useful as you say, then I must tell the king about them."
"Good. Then I'll take you on a tour. My father thought I would have to seduce you and make you marry me before you'd agree to take word of these waterwheels to the capital."
Lubos froze, entranced at the thought of her seducing him. He wanted nothing more.
But she was already striding away, toward the spinning waterwheels, and he had to run to catch up. He didn't intend to lose her this time.
Twelve
A man who blushed! The sensible part of Molina's brain told her to run far and fast from this man, for she had no patience for fools. But the other part of her mind, the louder part, reminded her that everybody did foolish things on occasion. The village boys in particular, when courting a girl they fancied. Not that Lubos could fancy her after such a short time. Then again, she knew he fancied taking her to bed.
She wondered if his being a bigger man would make such a thing better or worse. Not that she intended to try him out just to sate her curiosity. Then who would be the foolish one?
Molina explained how the waterwheels worked, then pointed out the improvements she'd made. They might be small, but they were nevertheless important changes that her mother would surely have made herself, in time.
Spin- Rumpelstiltskin Retold Page 4
