by Cynthia Hand
The bartender eyed him. “What do you want?”
“I—” G had never needed to admit to not having money before. “I don’t suppose you have any work that needs doing around here?”
“Work?” This fellow clearly had not so much brain as ear wax.
“I could clean the tables or scrub the floor.”
The bartender pointed to a haggard-looking serving wench, who scowled at him. “Nell here does that.”
“Or I could peel potatoes. Or carrots. Or onions. Or any root vegetable, really.” G had never peeled anything before, but how hard could it be?
“We have someone who does that, too,” the man said. “Why don’t you push off. This isn’t the place for you.”
G would have suggested yet more menial tasks he’d never attempted, but at that moment, he put together the hints: the wet-dog smell; the fur on everyone’s clothes; the defensive/protective behavior when he, a stranger, entered.
That, and they were eating beef.
Cow.
Possibly that village’s only cow.
All at once, he knew. This was the Pack.
“Er, yes, perhaps I should be pushing off, as you suggest—” he started to say.
“Rat!” Someone near the door lurched from his chair, making it topple over behind him. “There’s a rat!”
It couldn’t be Jane, he thought. He’d told her to stay put.
“It’s not a rat, you daft idiot,” cried another. “It’s a squirrel!”
“It’s some kind of weasel!”
Bollocks. It was his wife.
“It’s dinner, that’s what it is.” That was the man directly to G’s right. “And he’s a spy. Asking all those questions about vegetables.”
“She’s clearly a ferret!” G yelled as he lunged toward the dear little creature dashing about on the floor. But Jane was too far away and everyone was suddenly moving, weapons in hand as they rushed toward G. He tried to dart to one side, but the man who wanted to eat Jane for supper threw out his arm and caught G in the throat. G immediately dropped and gagged.
Over the thunder of footfalls on hardwood and shouts of “Get the rat!” Gifford heard the most terrifying sound of all: a loud shriek, followed by silence.
Someone had stepped on Jane.
G shoved himself up and pushed through the group until he reached his wife, who looked like she was preparing for another good scurry. Nothing broken, then. Probably. Hopefully. G grabbed her up in his arms.
From the exit, a series of loud barks sounded: Pet.
G tucked the ferret against his chest and turned to flee. There were a half dozen people in the way. He curled his shoulders around Jane and ran head-on into them, barreling through the press of people and—after a few bright bursts of light—dogs and wolves. If there’d been any doubt before that this was the Pack, it was gone now. But somehow, in spite of the various daggers and swords they slashed at him, G finally made it to the door.
Pet was on the other side, snarling and biting at those who would follow (gosh, we love that dog), and she stayed back to give G time to escape. He ran as fast as he could as a man, and after a few minutes he found himself alone in the forest, just a shuddering Jane against his chest. He let himself slow down. It was then that he finally registered the stabs of pain in his arms and legs. He must have been cut during the scuffle.
G dropped to one knee to catch his breath, and relaxed his hold on Jane. “Well, at least no one will ever say that our married life has not been exciting, right, my dear? But I thought we agreed that it would be for the best if you stayed in the woods.”
She didn’t respond.
All at once he became aware of the blood soaking the front of his shirt and how unusually quiet she was.
Jane was never quiet.
She was hurt.
G threw off his cloak, laid it on the ground, and placed the ferret on top. It was too dark for him to see anything besides the outline of her small body and her breath coming in fast, short gasps. He ran his fingers down her side and discovered a long, deep gash. He tore a piece from his shirt and wrapped the cloth around her, hoping to stanch the flow of blood.
“Jane?” His voice shook. “Tell me you’re all right.”
Of course, ferret-Jane couldn’t answer. She just looked up at him, limp in the bundle of the cloak. A tiny whimper escaped her.
Brush crackled and G whirled, but it was Pet.
In a flash of light, she was a naked girl. “The other dogs won’t follow.” She flashed into a dog again, came over, sniffed at Jane, and whined. G closed his eyes and bowed his head.
“Jane. Jane, you stubborn girl.” He carefully picked her up and cradled her against him. “I’m going to get you to Helmsley. Don’t leave me before then, Jane. Don’t leave me. Go, Pet!”
The dog took off and G followed her, running like he’d never run before. He ran flat out for at least ten minutes, and then he kept on running, because Jane was depending on him, and now it was his turn to save her life.
TWENTY-TWO
Edward
A dog was barking. Stupid dog.
Edward had been lying awake for hours, trying to sleep, but he found his bed uncomfortable, and his head full of women: Mary with her great velvet-encased rear end upon his throne, which irked him. Jane shut up inside a cold, dark room somewhere, weeping because she thought he was dead, which—okay, well, Edward liked the idea of Jane mourning him more than he would have admitted out loud. It did seem appropriate that she would grieve for him; she was his best friend, after all. But the idea of Jane locked away in London and him here, helpless to go to her, nettled him. And then there was Bess with her complicated plans that all seemed to come down to Edward entreating the King of France—one of his least favorite people—for help, which felt an awful lot like begging, and kings did not beg. Plus Gran with her disgusting tonics and her razor tongue and the infuriating way she had of making him feel like a boy who had only played as king.
And Gracie. Gracie, Gracie.
The way she’d said she liked his smile.
The surprising roughness of her hand against his when she’d given him the little wooden fox.
Her trousers, because she was too stubborn to wear skirts like a proper female.
Her finger against his lips back in the barn, her eyes full of danger and fun.
Her untamable hair.
Her laugh.
Of course she was always laughing at him, it seemed. Mocking him. Knocking him onto his backside. Disobeying his commands, even the simple ones like, Call me Edward. How hard could it be to call him Edward?
Edward was vexed.
The dog was still barking, a sound that bounced off the stone walls of the old keep, loud and constant. Edward turned over onto his side and yanked at the tangled covers. The mattress was lumpy, stuffed with a combination of wool and straw. In the palace, he’d slept on a feather bed with fine sheets and the softest of furs. He’d never had to clean his own shirt. Or see to his own chamber pot. Or subsist on rabbit stew for three nights in a row.
Bark, bark, bark, went the dog.
And let’s not forget the women. He found himself suddenly overtaken by women, and not the demure and silent young ladies that fawned over him at court. Oh, no. He had to be surrounded by opinionated women who delighted in bossing him around.
Aggravating, unkissable women.
And still the blasted dog would not stop barking!
Even the dogs here are ill-mannered, he thought as he crammed a pillow over his head and pressed it to his ear. In the palace, the dogs never barked all night. That was not allowed. Pet certainly never barked, unless there was something wrong. Something urgent. Pet never—
Edward sat up.
Of course at that exact moment the barking stopped. The night fell so silent that he was afraid that his eardrums would burst, he was straining so hard to listen. Then he heard a door bang somewhere in the keep, and muffled voices in the hallway. Alarmed voices.
; Edward got out of bed and quickly put on his pants and boots. More doors were slamming downstairs, and there was the scrape of heavy furniture being dragged across the floor. The castle could be under attack—it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. If Mary caught on that he was alive, she’d send soldiers to dispatch him straight away.
Edward looked around for a sword, but all he could find was a butter knife and his half of the broken broomstick, which would have to do. He stuck the knife in his boot, tightened his grip on the broom, threw open his chamber door, and stepped out into the hall.
Immediately he was hit with an invisible wall of Gran’s skunk stench, so strong it could have knocked him over. Another ominous sign.
Edward crept down the stairs, his heart thundering, his hair practically standing on end. The entire population of the castle added up to seven people: Edward, Gracie, Bess, Gran, a cook, an old lady-in-waiting who served as a housekeeper, and an ancient man-at-arms who could hardly lift his sword. If they were set upon by soldiers, they were done for. His head would be delivered to Mary in a basket, come morning.
The main hall was deserted, not even the fireplace flickering, but Edward could hear voices. He followed the sound to the kitchens. Banging. Yelling. Carefully, he pushed open the door a crack.
What he saw through the crack was Gran. The old lady was moving with uncharacteristic swiftness around the kitchen, lighting candles, followed closely by a drawn and grim-faced Bess.
“Yarrow, that’s what I need,” Gran said to Bess. “It’s a purple star-shaped flower. It should be in my storeroom hanging from the rafters. And horsetail, if you can find it. Go!”
Bess darted out of the room through the back door, which led out into the ruined courtyard. Then Gran put her foot up on a chair and hiked up her gown, showing a purple-veined leg. She started to hack at her underskirt with a kitchen knife. Edward must have made a sound then, because Gran looked up.
“Get in here, boy,” she barked.
Edward obeyed. No one else was in the kitchen. The long table in the center had been cleared off, and in the middle there was a cloak, and something on it—something dark and furry. An animal of some kind.
“Are you cooking something?” Edward asked stupidly. “What’s happening?”
Gran tossed him what was left of her undergarments. “Here. Tear this into strips.”
Before he could form a coherent protest, the door to the courtyard burst open, and Gracie and a stranger came in, lugging a large bucket of water between them. They went straight to the fire and poured the water into the cauldron that hung over the flames.
“Good. Now go to Elizabeth in the storeroom and help her find what I need. You know something of plants, I think?” Gran said to Gracie, who nodded and slipped out again.
“You,” Gran said to the man who’d helped Gracie bring in the bucket. “Sit down before you fall down. I don’t want to be stitching up your head tonight, as well.”
The man swallowed like it would hurt him to attempt to speak. He was sweat-stained and unwashed, and he looked exhausted. He pulled a chair over to the table and sank into it, gazing down at the tiny creature. It was a mink, Edward thought, similar to a pelt his sister Mary wore as a scarf around her neck in the winter months. Beautiful, soft fur. But why all this fuss over a mink?
The man reached out a hand to stroke the small head, with such tenderness that Edward’s breath caught. But the creature didn’t stir.
The man’s lips moved, a word that resembled please.
“Edward. The linens,” Gran snapped.
The man looked up at Edward and met his eyes.
It was Gifford Dudley.
Jane’s husband. Here. The look on his face like his heart was being rent in two. Like the little mink on the table meant more to him than anything else in the world. Like it was him dying.
Edward’s breath left his lungs.
“Is that Jane?” he gasped. “Jane! Is that Jane?”
Gran grabbed him by the collar and dragged him away from the table. “Yes, it’s Jane, and she’s hurt, and I’m really going to need those linens, boy.”
Immediately Edward set to tearing up the linens, all the while watching Gifford, who kept his eyes on the table—Jane! Jane!—his expression so miserable and so lost that it was no wonder Edward hadn’t recognized him at first.
What had happened to them?
The water in the cauldron was hot. Edward finished tearing up Gran’s underskirt, and Bess and Gracie returned with the herbs. Gran brought a candlestick over to the table and peeled the bandages back to reveal the mink’s long, blood-streaked body. Edward’s heart was in his throat as Gran peered at the small form.
“She was wounded in this form, not as a human?” she asked Gifford gruffly.
Gifford nodded. “We were trying to . . . I don’t know what happened, really.” His voice faded. “It was so fast.”
Bess handed Gran a bowl of the paste she’d made from the herbs, and a basin of hot water. Gran began to clean Jane’s wounds. Within moments, the water was pink.
Edward felt light-headed. And also like he might lose his rabbit-stew dinner.
“Edward,” Gran said quietly, her eyes never leaving her work. “You sit down, too.”
He sat and took some deep breaths until he felt marginally less queasy. “Jane’s an E∂ian,” he whispered as he watched Gran tend to the little creature.
“So it would seem,” Gran said.
“All this time, it’s all she ever wanted, to be an E∂ian. What . . . what is she, exactly?” Edward asked.
“A ferret,” Gifford answered tonelessly. “She’s a ferret.”
“She’d be better off a girl, right now,” Gran said. “If you’re hurt as a human, the wound will be less in your E∂ian form—not gone, mind you, but less. If you’re in the animal form when you come to harm . . .” Her lips tightened as she stared down at ferret-Jane. “It would be better if she were human. I could see her wounds more clearly without the fur, for one thing.”
“Can’t we get her to change somehow?” Edward asked, his voice cracking.
Gran shook her head. “The body will stay in whatever shape it feels safest, which is typically the animal. There has to be a conscious decision to overcome the fear, and prompt the change. No. We must wait for her to wake up.” She drew the cloak up over the ferret’s body like she was tucking a child into bed. “We must wait,” she said again.
But what if she doesn’t wake up? thought Edward, but he didn’t say it. He couldn’t.
Gran put one hand on Edward’s shoulder and the other on Gifford’s. “It’s late. I don’t suppose I’m going to convince either of you to get some rest?”
They both shook their heads.
She sighed. “All right. You watch over her, then. Come wake me if anything happens.”
It was morning, the sun not yet visible but lighting the eastern sky, when Jane changed. Edward would not have believed it if he hadn’t seen it—the ferret one moment, his cousin the next, lying curled under the cloak. He jumped to his feet and ran to fetch Gran, but he’d only gone a few steps when he heard Jane moan a name.
“G,” she said.
Gifford. Her husband, he remembered with a pang. Gifford was her husband because Edward had asked her to marry the young lord, even though she’d begged him not to make her go through with it. She’d listened to Edward. Which was why she was lying there now in bandages.
It was all his fault. He was a terrible best friend.
He turned. Gifford was holding Jane’s hand. He brought it to his face and pressed it to his cheek, then kissed her palm. “Jane,” he whispered. “Wake up.”
Her eyes moved behind her eyelids, then fluttered open. “G,” she said again, and the corner of her mouth lifted in a smile. “I thought I might not see you again. . . .”
“You’ll have to work harder than that to be rid of me,” Gifford said.
Edward suddenly felt like he was intruding on something intimate. He
took a step backward toward the exit, and his foot shuffled against the rough stone floor.
Jane looked over Gifford’s shoulder and saw him.
“Edward,” she breathed, her brown eyes widening. “EDWARD.”
She gave a choked cry and reached out. Of course he went to her. Gifford straightened and moved out of his way so that Edward could sit beside her and clasp her hand in his.
“You’re alive,” Jane said. “I kept asking to see your body, but they wouldn’t let me, and I thought that perhaps it was all a ruse and you weren’t really gone, that they were lying to me, that you were out there somewhere, and that meant that I wasn’t really the queen and I shouldn’t be there, but it felt like wishful thinking.”
All of those words seemed to exhaust her, and she whimpered and sank back on the table. He noticed, then, that there was blood seeping through the cloak. He turned to ask Gifford to go get Gran, but Gifford had already gone. Gran came hustling through the door, rolling up her sleeves.
“Gran,” Jane said. “We found you, after all.”
“Be quiet, dear,” Gran said. “Rest now.”
Jane sighed and closed her eyes. Gran smoothed the red hair back from Jane’s forehead and started to draw the cloak away from her. Then she stopped and glared at Edward.
“Out with you,” she ordered. “You, too, horse boy.”
Edward turned to see Gifford standing in the doorway, his expression tight. They went outside together, where the first rays of sun were touching the highest stones of the keep.
“I have to go,” Gifford said. “Will you . . . ?”
“I’ll stay with her,” Edward offered.
Gifford lowered his head and nodded stiffly toward his chest. “Thank you.”
Then he was moving away from Edward in long strides across the grass, shedding his clothes as he went, until a light flashed and he was no longer walking, but galloping across the field.
Edward sat down on the ground next to the door and leaned against the wall, drawing his knees up to his chest. He was cold, and he was tired, but he didn’t care. He’d be there for Jane the minute Gran allowed him back into the room.
