Gerall's Festivus Bride

by Rebekah R. Ganiere

  “That’s right. I know all about you and your father.” He twirled a lock of her long hair. “You can leave your hair down to cover those pointy ears all you want, but I know the truth.”

  She slapped his hand away.

  “I can be nice. I can offer you protection from those who would otherwise see a nice fae girl get thrown out of town. I can save you from the same fate your father suffered. It must have been a terrible way to die. The oven exploding like that.” He ran his hand down her arm, his gaze falling on her chest.

  Eloa jerked away from his grip. “I’d rather proclaim who I am for everyone to see than have you ever touch me again.”

  Anger burned so bright inside her she thought she might catch aflame. He reached for her, and without thinking, she grabbed his hand, letting her magick flow down her fingertips, zapping his skin. There was no way she would be treated like a common whore.

  His jaw locked, and he gritted his teeth.

  “I said .Don’t touch me.” She released his hand, and he jerked it toward his chest.

  Trent spat at her feet, and she fought the gasp that threatened to escape. His disrespect was enough to have her wanting to reduce him to ash right there in front of everyone.

  “Are you sure you want to push me? That little caress isn’t even close to what I can do.” Her fingers twitched.

  He massaged his hand and licked his lips before looming closer. “You think I’m scared of you, sweetheart? I’ve dealt with vampires and werewolves and trust me, they’re a hell of a lot tougher than you.” He picked up two mini pies and bit into one.

  Eloa’s jaw clenched tight as did her fists. She fought to keep from unleashing her magick on him.

  “I’ll be by at the end of the week for the first payment. And if you even think of trying to rat me out to your new beau Gerall Gwyn, I’ll slice him from ear-to-ear.”

  Trent grabbed one last pie and headed toward the stage.

  She watched him go, and a wave of nausea washed over her. How many years had this been going on? Trent and Charlie threatening the shopkeepers if they didn’t comply? The other townspeople watched Trent walk off and then turned to her with sympathetic gazes. She looked at each of them in turn, swallowing down the bile in her throat. She refused to be seen as weak. Trent had as much as admitted that he’d hurt her father.

  Papa! She took off like an arrow across the knoll back toward her house. She raced around the back of the hut and threw her magick at the door, and it flew inward and hit the wall.

  She ran toward her father’s bed. He wasn’t there. Panic swept up her neck.

  “Papa? Papa?” She ran into the kitchen, and a wash of relief flooded her as she found him sitting at the table, staring down at a lump of dough. He’d removed the bandages from his arms, and the bright red scarred skin stared back at her. Blood dripped from his hands and smeared the dough.

  “Papa.” Eloa ran and threw her arms around him.

  “I’m useless. Useless. I just wanted to make some bread. I can’t even do that anymore.”

  Eloa lay her hands over her father’s cracked and bleeding ones and let her magick flow into him.

  “Don’t,” he protested. “Don’t waste your magick. You need it.”

  “Hush.” She wouldn’t let him stop her. Not this time. She let magick bathe his hands until the bleeding ceased and the cuts scabbed over. It was as far as she’d ever been able to get him with her magick since she’d never been trained in healing. The sudden drains on her magick left her light-headed. She threw her father’s arm over her shoulder.

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get you wrapped back up.”

  “But the Festivus—”

  “Can wait.”

  She needed to find a real healer, or he wasn’t going to make it.

  Gerall carried baby Marcus while Flint and Zelle followed close behind. With so many people in town, Flint needed extra help steering through the crowd. So, with Zelle by his side and baby Lucia in the pram Jamen had built for Kellan, Flint concentrated on appearing normal. They walked past store after store, trying to make it to the common green where the festivities were being held. People passed them, nodding, bowing, and curtsying. Gerall picked small pieces of horsehair and dirt from his tunic until Scarlet’s hand fell lightly on his arm. He looked down at her sweet, smiling face.

  “Stop fretting. You look handsome.”

  Hass came up behind him and squeezed his shoulders. “Don’t worry, if she doesn’t go for ya, I’ll be sure to step in and take your place.”

  “Yeah, with baking like that I don’t even care what she looks like.” Ian laughed.

  A group squeezed by them, bumping into Flint.

  “Stop it,” Flint growled after the group had passed. “Gerall has a right not to be bothered by the blathering idiocy of you two dimwits.”

  Gerall glanced over at Flint. Zelle stopped walking and whispered in Flint’s ear.

  “Did he just insult us?” asked Hass.

  Ian shrugged. “Who knows. I don’t listen to half of what he says.”

  “I think he called us dumb.”

  “No. He said we were dimwits.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “I don’t know.” Ian laughed. “I’m too dimwitted to understand.”

  Flint rounded on the pair.

  “All right,” Zelle interjected. “Why don’t I take Marcus and Flint and pop into the tailor’s shop for a minute. I wanted to get Flint a few new tunics, and Marcus has almost grown out of all his baby clothes.”

  Gerall laid his sleeping nephew in her arms.

  Zelle looked pointedly at the twins. “You all go ahead. We’ll meet you in a little bit after the crowd on the street dies down.”

  Gerall motioned for Hass and Ian to keep moving. The brothers took off with Jamen, Scarlet and the other two babies toward the village fountain.

  Zelle, Gerall, and Flint moved to the edge of the sidewalk closest to the buildings. Another group passed by them, nodding and curtsying. Flint stepped into the shade, took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were his normal, sightless black color. He laid his large hand on Gerall’s shoulder as comfortable as if he’d seen it there.

  “I’m sorry I snapped.”

  Gerall squeezed his big brother’s hand. “There is no need to apologize. It’s hot, bright and over-crowded. Your overly sensitive hearing must be picking up every nuance.”

  “I haven’t been out among this many people in so long. Even before the loss of my sight...”

  “Would you like to go home?” Zelle asked. “I can get Lucia—”

  “No.” Flint pulled her close and hugged her. “You’ve been cooped up in the manor house too long. You deserve some days in the sunshine.”

  Zelle smiled and laid her head on his chest. “I’m happy just being with you and our children. You know that.”

  Flint kissed her head.

  Gerall’s ribcage squeezed. The happiness that Jamen and Flint had found overjoyed him. But it also seemed to emphasize his loneliness.

  “I’ve got him, Gerall,” said Zelle. “You go on ahead. We’ll catch up after we see the tailor.”

  Gerall nodded. “If you need anything, just send someone and I’ll come right away.”

  Flint smiled at Gerall. A sight Gerall hadn’t seen in so long that it warmed him. “You’re a great man, Gerall. Gods above know you’re better than me.”

  “Nah. I just learned from you and Erik.”

  Flint shook his head. “You’re a great man, but a terrible liar. Now, go find your bakery girl.”

  Gerall inclined his head to Zelle before turning to go.

  Butterflies swirled in his stomach, the closer he drew to the green. Only once had he seen Eloa, and yet the prospect of seeing her again made him feel like a ten-year-old boy.

  Gerall crested the hill to the grassy knoll, and the swarm of people below made his gut twist. It seemed everyone in Westfall had come out for the beginning
of the festivities. Music and dancing drew a crowd toward the stage. Children swarmed around a puppeteer at a small theater. Jugglers and minstrels perused the masses. The maypole wound with little girls in colorful frocks and little boys pitched balls at a stack of wooden pins. There had been years where he’d thought he’d never get a chance to be a part of it again.

  He scanned the crowd for Jamen, Hass, and Ian. He found them by the food vendors. Seeing them out there, laughing and having a good time, gave him hope for their future.

  When they were young, his mother and father used to be at the heart of the Festivus every year— judging the pie contest— crowning the Festivus queen. Watching the performances and offering flowers to every young girl. A happier time. A simpler time.

  Gerall spotted Eloa’s table piled high with pastries. People milled about it and pointed at the various items, but Eloa wasn’t there. He scanned for her, but couldn’t see her anywhere. He headed for the table, weaving through the crowd.

  “I don’t know,” someone said.

  “I haven’t seen her yet today,” said another.

  “What do we do?” asked a third. “I’m hungry now.”

  Gerall ducked behind the table and faced the waiting customers. “I’ll help.” He glanced around the table and did a quick calculation of everything she’d set out. “Mrs. Pince, what can I get for you this morning?” he asked.

  Mrs. Pince blinked several times and looked around the crowd. The woman next to her shrugged.

  “I’ll take a dozen of the gooseberry muffins please, Lord Gwyn.” She gave a slight curtsy.

  Gerall laughed. “Please, I’m just Gerall. And as it turns out, today I’m not even a Gwyn, I’m a baker.” He spotted a stack of bags and baskets in Eloa’s cart. He grabbed a basket and picked out twelve of the muffins and handed the basket to Mrs. Pince.

  “That will be two silver pieces, please.” He held out his hand for the money.

  “Two?” she questioned.

  Gerall threw on his best smile. “Trust me. They’re worth four for how they taste. If you’re dissatisfied, I’ll refund you personally.”

  She pursed her lips and then opened her money satchel and handed him the coins.

  “Enjoy.” He dropped the coins into a small box on the table. “Who’s next?”

  The townspeople practically clamored over one another to be next. Gerall helped each in turn, smiled, and thanked them for coming. But every chance he got, he stole glances toward Westfall. He hoped Eloa was all right.

  Eloa raced down to her table, almost tripping over her gown in the process.

  “Sorry,” she shouted. “I’m sorry.” She pushed through the crowd to find Gerall standing behind her table, giving change to a man as well as a bag of goods.

  “Now be sure to come back soon, or it might all be gone.”

  The man tipped his hat to Eloa, and she fought to catch her breath. Her cheeks flushed with heat as Gerall smiled down at her and pushed his glasses up his nose.

  “The festival started thirty minutes ago.”

  She nodded several times, still trying to still her pounding heart. “I got caught up at home and lost track of time.”

  “Excuse me,” said a woman. “I was next.”

  Gerall smiled. “Of course. What can I get you?”

  “Oh, you needn’t do that, Lord Gwyn. I can do it,” Eloa replied.

  He raised one eyebrow and smirked at her. “Are you saying I can’t handle a table of sundries?”

  Heat flushed her cheeks hotter. “No. Of course not. That’s not—”

  He chuckled. “I’m teasing. There are dozens of people waiting. Why don’t I help you until the crowd thins a bit?”

  Eloa looked around, and sure as day, dozens of people waited to buy her goods. Nervousness lodged in her stomach. “Thank you.”

  Gerall turned back to a woman, and Eloa watched him until someone else caught her attention and placed an order.

  Side by side, they filled baskets, boxes, bags, and pockets with sweets. Minutes turned into an hour and the hour turned into two before there were hardly any pies, cakes or tarts left on her table.

  Gerall treated everyone with patience and kindness—even the pushy ones. And he refused to allow anyone to undercut or try to bargain her down. He possessed a quiet strength she envied. When it came to pressure, she froze or panicked. But not him.

  He ran his hands through his immaculately styled hair, the color of strong tea, and made it stick up all over. “I think that you have officially won over the entire village and no other baker would dare stand a chance of opening a shop now.”

  She fought the urge to giggle at his hair. “I do believe that this rush on my bread was due in large part to you, Lord Gwyn.”

  His eyes widened in surprise. “Me? I did nothing.”

  “Truly? So, you didn’t mention my goods to the magistrate? Or the glassmaker or the stable hand yesterday?”

  He gave her a crooked, sheepish grin. “Perhaps I mentioned what an incredible lunch I had. But this. This was all you. I simply helped with advertising.”

  She looked over the table, gathered up the few remaining broken items, and placed them in a basket.

  “I’d expected to be here all day, but with it only being noon and my wares being sold, I’m not sure what to do with myself,” she said.

  “Surely you planned on enjoying the Festivus. The wishing well cleansing will happen in a couple of minutes. There’s entertainment and food, and tonight there will be dancing.”

  “It’s been a long while since I’ve danced.”

  “Then, it is decided. You shall stay for the rest of the day and enjoy yourself.”

  Her gut clenched, and she glanced over her shoulder toward the bakery. She’d rebandaged her father and put him back in bed, but who knew what kind of mischief he could be getting into.

  “Is something the matter?”

  She looked back to Gerall. “No. Nothing.”

  “I could help you take your cart back if you’d like.”

  “No.” The words came out too forcefully. “I mean. No, thank you. You’ve helped quite more than you ought to have.” She smiled and pulled a haypence from the box Gerall had kept the money in. “Besides. I owe you a wish.”

  His thick brows furrowed.

  “When I was younger, you did me great kindness. Your father had just cleansed the well for the festivities, and all the children gathered around to make wishes. I had not a haypence to make a wish, so you gave me one.”

  His head cocked slightly to the side, and then he smiled. “Braids. Your hair was in braids like this.” He grabbed her hair and began to lift it.

  She jerked away from him reflexively.

  His expression fell. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  She tugged on her hair, flattening it to ensure it covered her ears. “No, it’s… it’s fine. I was just unprepared.”

  “Anything left?”

  Gerall’s twin brothers walked up.

  “We thought about pushing everyone out of the way and taking it all for ourselves, but we didn’t want to upset the regular folks,” said the other.

  She looked between them, unable to see a single difference in their tanned faces. With blond hair and boyish rugged looks, and wide frames, they appeared so different from Gerall.

  “I’m Hass.” The first stuck out his hand. “I’m the handsome one.” He turned his brother’s head and pointed to a missing piece of the other twin’s ear.

  Eloa shook Hass’ hand.

  “And I’m Ian. The smart one.” He stuck out his hand, and she shook that as well.

  “Eloa.”

  Both brothers looked to Gerall. “Yes, we’ve heard.”

  Eloa bit her lip and looked at her toes. Had Gerall mentioned her?

  “Have Flint and Zelle arrived?” Gerall asked.

  “Yeah. Everyone is waiting on you—”

  “For the wishing well ceremony.”

  Eloa looked between th
e twins and grinned at how they finished each other’s sentences.

  Hass leaned in on the table and wiggled his eyebrows. “I could escort you to the ceremony if you’d like.”

  She snickered, and Gerall took a step closer to her. Hass looked up at Gerall and then straightened again.

  “But if Gerall has everything under control then I’ll let him escort you.”

  She looked up at Gerall, who held out his arm to her.

  “If you’d care to go, I’d be happy to escort you.”

  The twins elbowed each other and made strange faces.

  “I’d be honored, Lord Gwyn.” She went to slip her hand through his arm, but he pulled away.

  “I can’t take you unless you promise to call me Gerall.”

  So practical. She loved the fact that he had no need for pretense. “Of course. Sorry. Gerall.”

  “Wow, if it takes that little to get him not to escort you, I think you should stick with me,” said Hass.

  “I wouldn’t refuse to take you even if you stabbed me in the eye with a fork,” said Ian.

  She laughed and gave the twins a small curtsy. “I thank you both, but I think Gerall asked first.”

  “He did?”

  “I don’t remember it that way.”

  She slid her hand over Gerall’s arm and rested her other hand atop it. “Shall we? I wouldn’t want you to keep everyone waiting.”

  Gerall threw her a crooked grin that made his oak brown eyes crinkle. She dropped her eyes as heat flushed her skin.

  Together they walked across the green and back toward the town square where a crowd had gathered for the wishing well cleansing. Eloa refused to look away as the townspeople stared at her with Gerall. But when she met Trent’s eye, a chill raced up her spine. He elbowed Charlie, and they both leered at her and tipped their hats.

  That problem needed to be handled. Quickly.

  Chapter Five

  Eloa stood with the women of Gerall’s family while he and his brothers walked to the front of the wishing well for the ceremony.

  “We haven’t been formally introduced,” said Flint’s wife. Her beauty was both foreign and unparalleled, with flowing silvery hair and large purple eyes. She stuck out her hand, awkwardly from beneath her sleeping baby. “I’m Rapunzelle. Everyone calls me Zelle, though.”