Dearest

by Alethea Kontis

  “It’s true,” said Velius. “I never saw him again after he left the training grounds. Perhaps they’ve just gone after him.”

  “We considered these as well,” said Friday. “But—”

  “He promised,” finished Conrad. “He promised the children that he wouldn’t do anything without asking Friday’s permission first. Especially something as rash as leaving without supplies.”

  Monday clucked her tongue and took Friday’s hand. “Friday, dearest. It wouldn’t be the first time a man gave a woman an empty promise.”

  Friday wrenched her hand away. Her family meant well, but she needed to make them understand. “He wouldn’t have left me. We have a bond.” The pressure of that bond still weighed heavy in her chest. “We’re meant to be together. Papa, you wouldn’t have left Mama without telling her why, would you?” She turned to Rumbold. “Nor would you have ever left Sunday.”

  Rumbold looked deeply into his wife’s sky-blue eyes. “I might if it meant saving my people,” he said. “If it meant coming back a hero and proving myself to the one I love.”

  Sunday read all she needed to in that comment before turning to Friday. “It’s true.”

  Friday couldn’t believe what she was hearing. The Woodcutter family refused to believe in something? Could this be some part of Gana’s foul magic as well? Each of them faced her, as if they might attack at any moment. The only one standing by her side was Conrad. Thank the gods for Conrad.

  Friday took a step back. “He did not leave me,” Friday said adamantly. “Something happened to him. Something happened to them all, and I’ll bet my needle it’s Mordant’s doing.”

  “Even if it was, what could we do?” Rumbold asked.

  Papa considered the situation. “Peter and I have finished the ship.”

  Friday felt a glimmer of hope flutter in her belly, but she refused to fuel it falsely.

  “We need that ship to find relief for Arilland. Our country is on the verge of collapsing under the weight of all these people.” Rumbold sighed and turned to Friday. “Do you have any proof—hard proof—that the heirs of Kassora left under some sort of duress?”

  Other than Tristan mysteriously vanishing and going back on his word, or a curious instance of oversleeping? No. “Do you have proof that they did not?” Friday countered.

  Sunday threw up her hands. “It’s like arguing with Mama.”

  Friday raised her chin. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Papa actually chuckled at the exchange.

  Rumbold bowed his head in defeat. “I’ll send out the ship at first light. If you like, you may travel with them.”

  “And me,” Conrad said quickly.

  “And you,” added Rumbold. “But the ship’s main purpose will be to find ports from which we can acquire food and other supplies. I can’t go sending this country’s best hope of survival on some wild swan chase.”

  Then what was the point of going? But Friday had to try. She had to do something.

  “I wish you wouldn’t,” said Monday.

  “I have to,” Friday said to her. And then to Rumbold, “Thank you. We’ll be ready at first light.”

  The rest of the day was torture. Friday would have used the opportunity to catch up on all the sleep she’d lost, but she feared the horrible visions of certain death that wouldn’t stop running through her mind. She concentrated on the children, seeing to the babies and the laundry and the games and the collection of what little food was left to scavenge on the castle grounds. She did not let herself stop to rest where she usually did; the pond by the willow tree was now as empty as her heart. Nor could she bring herself to visit the guards’ training grounds, or Cook’s herb garden. When Friday needed to pause, she sat herself on a blanket out in the middle of the field where the children played, beneath the merciless eye of the sun. She figured it was best to prepare herself—there would be no shade on the ship.

  There would be little packing for this sea voyage; she didn’t own many articles of clothing these days. Perhaps Sunday would allow her some coin to trade for what she’d need when they found port. How long did it take a ship to cross to the sea beyond the Troll Kingdom? Weeks? Months? She’d bring a trunk of raw materials and spend her time wisely, sewing and mending and making herself useful to the crew.

  “I want to go.”

  Ben the Intrusive’s bark snapped Friday out of her reverie. “What?”

  “If Conrad gets to go, I’m going too.” Michael stood with his hands on his hips and his tiny chest thrust out defiantly. Ben barked again. “And Ben too.”

  “Oh, my darling,” Friday sighed. “Who said anyone was going anywhere?”

  Michael was not having any of her subterfuge. “All the children know. It’s why they haven’t been bothering you today; Elaine and Evelyn told everyone to let you alone and come to them instead if they had a problem. You’re leaving on your Papa’s ship tomorrow to find Tristan.”

  Friday considered recommending Michael to Rumbold as a spy. As it seemed he already had all the facts, there was no use glossing over the truth for him. “I’ve been invited to join the crew, yes, but the mission is to find food and supplies for our people. There is a very slim chance we’ll even hear about Tristan.” But she wanted to be there when they did. If they did.

  “Your chances are better if you bring me along.”

  Friday tousled Michael’s hair and pulled him into a hug that sent Ben hopping around them in wild fits. “I wish I could bring all of you,” she said into his neck. When she released him, she looked him straight in the eye. “I need you here, to make sure things run smoothly. I don’t know how bad this situation’s going to get, and I need you to keep everyone in good spirits.” Look at her, delegating tasks like a true leader! Tristan would be proud of her.

  “Why me?”

  “Don’t you know? The children look up to you, Michael. Because you are brave.” Friday looked down at Ben. “You even have a squire. You’re practically a knight already.”

  Michael’s face burst into a brilliant smile at this, and he galloped away on his invisible horse, brandishing his invisible sword to beat invisible foes. Friday’s foes were far less invisible. She hoped she wasn’t sending herself on a fool’s errand.

  The sun lingered in the sky, postponing the inevitable, but eventually it set itself to rest, as all things must. Friday should have been excited about a sea voyage, an adventure, a trip into the unknown, but that was Thursday’s territory. Or Saturday’s. Friday was content with . . . well . . . being content. She enjoyed her quiet little life. She was a seamstress, not a seaman. She pulled everything out of the wardrobe except the white ball gown and laid it out on the bed.

  She ate the light meal Conrad had delivered to her room, and changed into her nightdress far earlier than usual so that she could spend all her remaining time with her Darlings. She played games with John, Wendy, and Michael, wrestled with Ben, and told them a few of her favorite Papa stories. Conrad even contributed a few stories of his own, dark tales of endless sands and priceless treasures and young men who defeated demons with nothing more than their wits.

  They were all reluctant to sleep—especially Friday—but she settled her Darlings in, kissed them good night, and blew out the candle anyway. She lay in her own bed, staring into the shadowy darkness, wishing for sleep to wash her away. She imagined the Angel of Dreams descending from the moon astride a white horse, headed for her window.

  Friday sat up. Something was indeed headed for the window, but it wasn’t an angel.

  “WATCH OUT!” she managed to cry before two white bundles of feathers crashed through the casement, tumbled across her sheets, and came to a sprawling rest at the children’s feet.

  Swans.

  “Is it Tristan?” Michael tried to approach the unconscious birds, but John held him back. “Is he a swan again?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Friday. “If I had to guess, I’d say this is Sebastien and Odette.”

  Wendy crouched carefully
beside the swans and put a gentle hand on their bellies. “They are alive,” she said, “but they look really tired.”

  Friday could verify that. She had never before been able to sense the feelings of animals, but it seemed the same thing could not be said of humans trapped in animal bodies. The couple’s exhaustion was so complete that it made Friday’s limbs heavy. “They’ve come a very long way,” she said.

  “I can see why.” Conrad leaned forward to unfasten the buckles that wrapped around the first swan. Friday felt a tickle in her chest, the sense that Sebastien had been held against his will and somehow escaped, but details beyond that were hazy. Conrad unsheathed the dagger he kept in his belt and sawed at the rest of the bindings—white as Sebastien’s feathers—until they fell away.

  Friday moved to lift up the bindings and examine them. As soon as her fingers touched the fabric she knew what this was: the modified shirt Tristan had worn to the ball. Despair gripped her as a small bundle fell from the tattered shirt.

  “Why would Sebastien-swan bring us a carpet?” asked Michael.

  “It’s a mat.” John swatted his little brother. “It’s not big enough to be a carpet.”

  Wendy unrolled the mat and handed it to Friday. “It’s woven,” the girl said, “like the magic shirts.”

  From what Michael had told the children after returning from the shore that day, they now assumed all woven fabric contained magical properties. Friday hoped they were right about this one. A weaving could only mean a message from Elisa. When Friday took hold of the small mat, both her arm and the weaving glowed in the dark with a powerful blue light.

  “It is magic,” breathed Michael.

  Friday smiled into the light and a single tear slipped down her cheek. It wasn’t from Elisa. This mat was from Tristan, woven by his own hand.

  “What does it say?” asked Conrad.

  Until the messenger posed the question, Friday hadn’t considered that the weaving said anything at all. But there was the message, right before her eyes.

  “It says, ‘Red blob, white blob, green blobs,’” said Michael confidently.

  “It says we have to get this to the king and queen immediately,” said Friday. She lit the candlestick once more and handed the weaving to Conrad. “Let’s go.”

  “Right now?” asked John.

  “In our nightclothes?” asked Wendy.

  “Do you want to meet the king or not?” Michael called from the doorway. Ben was already halfway down the hall. With a hoot and a holler, Michael tore after him into the shadows. The pair made enough racket to wake half the castle, but Friday didn’t care. The five of them raced, nightclothes and all, down the corridors to the royal bedchambers. Ben barked their arrival to the twin guards who stood outside Rumbold and Sunday’s door.

  “Their Majesties are asleep,” the first guard told Friday.

  “Well, then, wake them up!” said Friday.

  Behind the guards, the oversized door shifted open a crack. “Mission accomplished.” Sunday yawned. “Friday, dearest, what is it?”

  Friday took the weaving from Conrad and thrust it in her sister’s face. “Proof!” Sunday took the mat from Friday and squinted at it. The second guard took the candlestick from Friday’s trembling hand and held it steady for his queen. “Tristan didn’t leave here willingly. He’s been captured by Mordant and taken back to the Green Isles.”

  “White blob, red blob, green blobs,” Conrad translated for Michael.

  “Where did you get this?” Sunday asked.

  “Sebastien and Odette. Tristan used his shirt to strap the message to Sebastien and buckle it tight. They’ve flown an awful long way, but I can’t say how far. We need to hurry and launch Papa’s ship immediately!”

  Sunday sighed and rubbed her eyes. “Friday . . .”

  “Tristan wove that message for me,” Friday said quietly. “With his own hands.”

  Sunday shook her head, but Friday could see a smirk hiding there. “Only you, my sister with a heart as big as the moon, could teach a prince to weave well enough to send you love letters. Rumbold!” she called back into the room. “You need to write me love letters!”

  “Yes, dear,” mumbled the sleepy voice inside the chamber.

  “Tell Mr. Jolicoeur to summon the crew and ready the ship,” Sunday said to one of the guards, and he took off running. “Collect your things,” she said to Friday. “I’ll wake the king and get his assent. May I bring this?” She indicated the weaving, and Friday nodded reluctantly. Whatever it took to convince Rumbold to let her go and take an army with her, she would do it.

  Unfortunately, King Rumbold didn’t have an army to spare. “I’m sorry,” he told Friday on their way down to the grassy shore. “We’re spread thin enough as it is. I can give you Velius and a small strike force, but that’s all.”

  “Against Mordant’s sorceress and his Infidel?” Friday prayed to the gods it would be enough. As it was, Rumbold was giving her full control of Papa’s ship when he desperately needed it for trade. Friday dared not ask for more.

  Rumbold, Sunday, Monday, and Velius all accompanied her to the ship. John and Michael carried her carpetbags and Wendy held Friday’s cloak. Conrad managed his own things. Friday held only Tristan’s weaving, tight in her frightened grip. Together they climbed the slight berm that had undoubtedly saved the palace from flooding.

  At the top of the hill, Friday froze. Beneath her stood Papa, Peter, and half of Arilland. On the water behind them floated her father and brother’s beautiful ship. It was a glorious sight to behold.

  Even in the predawn darkness, the people of Arilland were awash in colors. Almost everyone present—and their children, who were up far earlier than they should be—wore patchwork. To Friday, the fabric would always be a symbol of love and generosity, and she was touched by their kindness. Mr. Jolicoeur waited for her in the boat meant to take her to the ship, but the children stopped her before she reached him.

  “Just a moment, Princess.” Mr. Humbug’s tall hat waded through the colorful crowd. When the people before him parted, Friday noticed a patchwork handkerchief peeking from the front pocket of his coat. “Arilland has a few gifts for your journey.”

  Friday wanted to jump in the water and swim for the ship immediately, but there was the small matter of her not being able to swim.

  The young twins Elaine and Evelyn stepped forward, each holding one end of something. When they stopped before her, they unrolled the item and presented it fully: a flag. More precisely, a patchwork flag, in the middle of which swam a majestic white swan.

  “Your ship needs to fly this,” said Elaine.

  “They are your colors,” said Evelyn.

  And so they were: all the colors of the rainbow. Friday hugged the girls and a cheer went up from the crowd.

  “I have this for you as well,” said Mr. Humbug. He placed in Friday’s open hand a sphere that looked a bit like a brass bed knob. “When you are aboard the ship, cup the sphere between your hands and whisper where you want to go. This should speed your journey.” Friday hugged Mr. Humbug as well at this, and placed a sound kiss upon his cheek.

  “Well, well.” He blushed. “Don’t get too excited. It’s just a bit of conjuring. Nothing more.”

  “You have been a great help to me, sir, and my family. To all the people I love. And I thank you for that.”

  “Well, well,” Mr. Humbug sputtered again. “Good, good.”

  Friday raised her free hand to the crowd. “I love you all! I can’t thank you enough for seeing me off. I will remember this forever!”

  A freckled, ginger man—he could only be Carrot Kate’s father—wrung his hat in his hands. “I’m not sure you understand, Princess.”

  The man’s patchwork tunic was utterly charming. “Understand what?”

  “We’re not here to see you off,” said the twins’ mother. “We’re here to fight for you.”

  Friday covered her gaping mouth with a hand. Michael tugged at her skirts, and she turned to loo
k down at him. “You needed an army, dintcha? Well, we got you one.” The boy raised his arms, and the children in the crowd joined his battle cry with raucous screams. So many children on the shore . . .

  No. It couldn’t be. Friday’s shock deepened and she scanned the crowd again, this time examining each face. These weren’t just concerned citizens of Arilland, they were the parents of her children. All of them. High- and lowborn alike.

  “I—I can’t . . .” stammered Friday. “I can’t . . .” These people had children! Besides, she didn’t know the first thing about leading an army. No, that wasn’t quite right—she did know. Tristan had taught her. She could almost hear his voice in her head: The most important quality is loyalty. If they know you will fight just as hard for them, they will happily die for you. The weaving he’d sent her felt warm beneath her fingers.

  “I took the liberty of selecting the halest and heartiest of the bunch for your crew,” Velius told her. “The ship will sail at capacity.”

  “It’s already decided, Captain Friday,” said Mr. Humbug. “Your Patchwork Army awaits your command.”

  “I can’t let you do this,” Friday finally managed to spit out, but rafts and canoes full of people were already spilling off the shore and heading to the ship. High above them, two large white swans drifted on the breeze.

  “It’s out of our hands, milady,” said Kate’s father as he helped her into Mr. Jolicoeur’s craft. “We can’t disappoint our children, no more than you can.”

  Friday urged Mr. Jolicoeur to row as fast as he could; she wanted to thank each and every person as they boarded the ship. There were tears in her eyes as she shook hands and received hugs and listened to parent after parent gush their praises of her. With every person she touched, she could feel her resolve strengthening. Every person, that is, but one.

  She reached out to a tall, cloaked man as he boarded, but he did not take her hand. Confused, Friday looked up into the man’s shadowed face and saw ocean-blue eyes glaring back at her.

  “It seems we have the same destination,” said Philippe. “Just don’t get in my way.”