Chapter Ten
I worked the shop all afternoon. Mother never joined me, staying home to tend to the dirt-scratcher girl. Between filling crocks with butter and jugs with milk, I wondered how the girl was doing. But honestly, I thought more about the upcoming fight. It didn’t help that Bartholomew kept stopping by, reminding me of the event, his irises pulsating with greed. I wanted to get it over with, wanted to defend my reputation. I’d avoid any hits to my face and Mother would be none the wiser.
So right after closing, I stood barefoot on the dirt floor. My vest, shirt, and boots lay outside the fight circle. But I kept the snakeskin belt around my britches, a reminder of my previous victory. The circle had been raked and its perimeter marked by a thick line of flour—an expensive boundary, but cost was no issue to Bartholomew Raisin. He offered the best barefist fights in all the Wanderlands. His building had been erected solely for that purpose.
The crowd grew by the minute as men pushed inside the building. No women, though. It wasn’t that women weren’t allowed, but if one should happen to step inside, she would risk irreparable damage to her reputation. But Bartholomew had long ago discovered that many of the merchants’ wives loved to gamble, so he’d visit them and take their wagers in secret.
It was normal for my stomach to tighten just before a fight. No win was guaranteed. A scrawny man could surprise everyone with unexpected strength. A short man could possess an unnerving ability to soar through the air. But landing face-first in the dirt wasn’t something the one-eyed man had expected. And now he was furious enough to demand a rematch even though his forehead was being held together by the surgeon’s stitches.
I stretched my fingers, trying to ignore their bruises. I liked to wait at least a week between fights so my hands could heal from the blows they’d delivered. But this time I’d broken my own rule.
When the one-eyed man stepped into the circle, anger boiled in his good eye. Sweat glistened on his broad, hairy chest. It didn’t worry me that my chest was half the size and hairless. Advantage came not from size or age, but from nimble feet and quick reflexes. The anger worried me though. Fighting an angry man was tricky. Angry men tended to ignore rules, their only intent to inflict pain.
He cracked his knuckles and glared at me. I took a deep breath and scanned the crowd. Bartholomew Raisin was collecting the final wagers. “Owen, Owen,” a few men called. I grinned and nodded at them, trying to push away the doubts about my sore hands. The drummer pounded three times—the signal that the fight would begin.
“You’re gonna lose,” the one-eyed man called from across the circle. His words were slurred. He wobbled, as if about to fall over. Was he drunk? He staggered forward, pointing. “I’m gonna …” He staggered from side to side. “I’m gonna …”
My father had fought in his youth, before marrying my mother. He’d always told me, “Never fight a man who’s clouded by drink. He’s as likely as an assassin to pull a knife on you.”
“I’m not fighting him,” I called. “He’s drunk. I’m not fighting him!”
“What’s this?” Bartholomew asked as the crowd quieted. He hurried into the circle.
“He’s drunk,” I repeated. “I’m not fighting a drunk.”
“Coward,” the one-eyed man said, spittle dribbling on his chin.
“Look at him. He can barely stand up.” I motioned with disgust.
Bartholomew grabbed my arm and whispered in my ear. “Do you know how much coin I’ve collected? Do you know what I stand to lose?”
“I don’t care about your profit.” I pulled my arm from his grip. “I want a fair fight.”
Bartholomew grabbed my belt buckle and pulled me close. “Who cares about a fair fight?” he hissed between clenched teeth. He looked over his shoulder, smiled, and waved at the restless crowd. Then he turned back to me. “You agreed. You accepted the fight. One punch and you’ll knock him right off his stupid drunk feet.”
“Quit talking and fight,” the one-eyed man bellowed. Then he lumbered across the circle, pushed Bartholomew aside, and swung at me. I darted out of the way. The man growled. “Running away, are ya? Too scared to fight me?” He swung again, a slow awkward punch that I easily sidestepped. This would be no match. On the third swing, the man tripped over his own feet and landed face-first into the crowd. A roar of laughter filled the air.
Humiliation bloomed in the man’s reddening face. Twice he’d ended up on the ground, twice he’d been laughed at. This humiliation would fester and feed his anger. I needed to calm the situation. “Sober up and I’ll fight you tomorrow,” I told him, loud enough so everyone could hear. “You’re a worthy opponent when sober.” I was about to reach out my hand to help him up, but changed my mind. It was too much of a risk. The crowd made way as I left the fight circle.
“Owen!” someone yelled. “Watch out!”
I swung around. The one-eyed man lunged like a bull, his head ramming into my chest. Something cracked and pain shot up my side. I tumbled backward, the man landing on top of me, pinning me to the ground. I couldn’t breathe as he grabbed my throat. Looking into eyes reddened by drink and fury, I tried to pry the man’s fingers loose, knowing it was only moments before my windpipe would snap. As his fingers tightened, an odd sense of calm came over me. This was how I was going to die.
“Help him!”
Voices rose and the crowd rushed into the circle. Onlookers pulled the man off and held him as he flailed and clawed the air. I should have jumped to my feet, should have made my exit. But I couldn’t move. With each shallow breath, pain shot across my chest and down my legs.
“He broke the rules. He attacked when his opponent’s back was turned. Get him outta here,” Bartholomew ordered, and the one-eyed man was dragged from the building. Then Bartholomew leaned over me. “You want me to reschedule the match?” he asked. “We don’t want to miss out on this opportunity. I think we could make double the coin if we reschedule.”
“Shut up,” I snapped. “And get me the damn surgeon.”
As shouts for the surgeon rang across the building, I stared up at the wide timbers that supported the ceiling. It wasn’t the broken rib or the surgeon’s instruments of torture that worried me at that moment. It was the pain my mother would feel when she learned I’d been fighting.
Chapter Eleven
Voices drifted in and out. Light pierced my eyelids, then faded. Sleep kept a tight hold on me, like a cocoon around a caterpillar. Warm. Cozy. Safe.
I opened my eyes.
I’d never slept on anything so soft. The bed was wider than my outstretched arms, and my body melted into the mattress. I slid my hands over the blanket. No moth holes, no itchy fibers. Where had such a smooth blanket come from?
I turned my face toward the light. From the gentle way it streamed through the window, I guessed it was morning. As my eyes adjusted, the outline of the window came into focus, as did the plaster wall, the corner chair, the little table with a vase of honeysuckle.
This was not my room. This was not our cottage.
I sat up. Pain shot down my leg. My lungs burned when I breathed. My head felt heavy, my thoughts as thick as mud. I raised the blanket and peered beneath. The white nightfrock did not belong to me. Where was my work dress? Someone had stolen my clothes. Who would want a stained dress in exchange for this beautiful frock? I raised the blanket higher and gasped. My boots were gone. My feet, bare.
Both feet.
My heart fluttered. What was going on? Where was I?
I tried to scoot to the edge of the bed, but the pain in my leg was unbearable. I pushed off the blanket and pulled up the nightfrock. A strip of fabric wound around my right leg, knotted just above the knee. The flesh beneath ached. I untied the knot, then unwound the fabric. A jagged wound, held together with black thread, crossed my thigh. That’s when I noticed the bruises on my other leg. More bruises dotted my forearms.
A wave of dizziness pushed me back onto the pillows. I almost called for my father, but then I remem
bered.
My gaze raced back and forth across the beamed ceiling as the events played out. Father had been taken away to fight in a war. The farm had flooded. Snow had died. The river had grabbed hold of me, pulling me away from Root. I’d fought but the current wouldn’t release its grip. My body had turned numb as I’d struggled to keep my head above water that rushed into my ears and eyes and up my nose. Then a plank had crashed into me, come loose from someone’s barn or shed. I’d managed to pull myself onto the plank, holding tight as the current carried me on and on and on until the memory faded, replaced by darkness.
But how did I get here?
A creaking sound caught my attention. The door opened and a man entered the room. I slid low, pulling the blanket up to my eyes, my heart pounding like a rabbit’s. The man didn’t look at me as he tiptoed, his gaze set on the table at the far end of the room. His long-sleeved white shirt hung over the top of his britches, and his vest was unbuttoned. Brown curly hair fell just below his ears.
He reached for a book that lay on the table. “Oh,” he moaned, grabbing his side. Then, as if realizing he’d made a sound, he turned quickly and looked at the bed.
I snapped my eyes shut. He wasn’t a man after all. Well, he was a man, just not old like my father. He was closer to my age. I held my breath, my heart pounding in my ears. As he cleared his throat, I held perfectly still, hoping he’d go away. “Uh, I saw you close your eyes. I know you’re awake. I’m Owen. Owen Oak.”
With a shaky exhale, I opened my eyes, peering over the edge of the blanket. He stood at the foot of the bed, his hands behind his back. I’m not entirely sure why, but I immediately compared him to Griffin Boar. Maybe it was because they looked the exact same age, with the same soft stubble of beard along the edge of their jaws. But unlike Griffin, this guy wasn’t tall and broad-chested. He wasn’t short, either, just medium-sized and lean. Unlike Griffin, he wasn’t heart-stoppingly handsome. He was nice-looking in an entirely different way, with his dark eyes and high cheekbones. He didn’t sound like Griffin, either. The way he spoke was different, an accent that sounded a bit like Mister Todd, our tax-collector.
“You’ve been asleep for three days,” he said.
I frowned. Three days? How was that possible?
“I didn’t mean to wake you. I just wanted to get my book.” He held it up as proof. “This is my room, you see. That’s my bed.”
His room? His bed? Had he been the one who’d taken off my dress? My face burned.
“No, it’s not like that,” he said. “You’ve got it all wrong. You’re in my bed because you needed a place to sleep. Not because …” He shuffled. “Well, I’m the one who put you in my bed, that’s true, but only because …” He shuffled again. “Look, I didn’t take your clothes off so don’t worry about that. I mean, I took your boots off, that’s all.”
I cringed. What was that look on his face? Was it disgust because he’d seen my curled foot? Or was it pity? I wanted no one’s pity. Slowly I sat up, holding the blanket beneath my chin. “You had no right to take off my boots,” I said. Even though my leg ached, I pulled up my knees, tucking my feet as close as possible. “Go away!”
He scratched the back of his head, looking like a boy who’d been scolded. “Look, I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just trying to help. I—” He turned toward the window.
A cow pressed its nostrils against the pane. Owen opened the window and pushed the cow away. “Go on,” he said. “Go out to the field.” As soon as the cow moseyed away, Owen closed the window. “They’ve been doing that since you got here. I don’t know why they keep coming to the window,” he said. “They’ve never done that before. It’s almost as if they’re checking on you.”
I shrugged, as if it were the oddest thing that a cow should pay attention to me.
“Owen Oak, what are you doing in here?” An old woman stood holding a tray in the doorway. Her gray dress hung to her ankles, and a wooden spoon stuck out of her apron pocket. Her gaze darted up the blanket and stopped on my face. She took a sharp breath. “You know this room is off-limits, Owen.”
“I came to get my book. Father won’t let me work so what else am I supposed to do?” He held a hand against his rib cage.
“I’ll tell you what you’re supposed to do. You’re supposed to let that rib heal. Now get out of here before I tell your mother that you broke another one of her rules.” Still holding the tray, she jabbed Owen with an elbow. “First you break her heart with all that fighting and now you sneak into this room.”
“How’s a guy supposed to have fun if he can’t break a few rules?” he said with a grin.
“Out with you,” she said, cocking her head toward the door. “And tell your mother that the dirt-scratcher is awake.” She frowned, tossing another glance my way. Just before leaving, Owen nodded at me. I pretended not to have noticed.
The old woman crossed the room and set the tray on the bedside table with a loud clunk. Then she tucked a loose strand of silver-streaked hair into the tight knot at the back of her head. “Guess you can feed yourself now that you’re awake.” She grabbed a small jug from the tray and held it out. “Go on, take it. I’ve got better things to do.” She pursed her lips and shook her head—her disapproval as visible as a black sheep in a snowy field. I held tight to the blanket. “Drink. The sooner you get better, the sooner you can go back to where you belong.”
My arms trembled slightly as I took the jug. A sweet, warm scent rose from the clay. My insides felt hollow. I knew hunger, but this was worse than normal. If I’d been asleep for three days, then I hadn’t eaten for as long. Putting the jug to my mouth, I sipped.
“That’s the best milk you’ll ever taste,” the woman said, folding her arms. It was true. I gulped as fast as I could, not caring that she watched, her foot tapping all the while. With each swallow, my insides warmed. Strength flowed down my limbs. I took the final drink, then held out the jug. The woman snatched it from my hands.
“Thank you,” I said.
Another woman hurried into the room and stood at the end of the bed, her arms spread wide. Her brown hair tumbled out from her lacy white bonnet. “Oh, my dear girl, you’re awake.” A big smile burst across her face. “Get her something to eat, Nan. Get her some eggs and porridge. Bring yogurt with dewberries and cheese. Lots and lots of cheese. We need to fatten her up.”
“Yes, Missus Oak.”
Like night and day were these two women—the old one with her pinched thin face, the middle-aged one soft and dimpled. As Nan left the room, Missus Oak sat close to the bed. Her nightfrock and robe draped over the sides of the chair. “Can you speak? The surgeon wasn’t sure if you’d be able to speak. He wasn’t sure how the cold water might have affected your brain. But you’re looking at me and your eyes are alert. I think you can understand me. Oh, you’re trembling.” She reached out and took my hand. “Don’t be frightened. You’re in a safe place.”
Though the act surprised me, I didn’t draw back. No one had taken my hand since my mother’s death. This woman’s hand was warm and soft, not covered in calluses like mine. Her nails were short and filed, not jagged like mine. It was such a simple gesture to take someone’s hand, but it almost took my breath away. Why was she being so nice to me? I wondered, as two fat tears rolled down my cheeks.
“My dear, dear girl,” Missus Oak whispered. “There, there. Whatever is the matter?”
“I don’t know where I am,” I said.
She pulled her hand away and clapped. “Wonderful! You can speak.” She leaned forward. “How do you feel? Oh dear, that’s a very big question, isn’t it? How does your leg feel? Let’s start there.” She pointed to my right leg, hidden beneath the blanket. “You gashed it on a rock, that’s what the surgeon said. He cleaned and stitched it. Does it hurt?”
“A little,” I said, wiping away the tears.
“What about the rest of you? Is there any pain?”
“A few aches, but no real pain.”
“Very good.
The bruises will go away. The surgeon said they were from your trip downriver. That must have been very frightening.”
I nodded, then asked again. “Where am I?”
“You’re in the Wanderlands, just down the road from the town of Wander. This is the Oak Dairy. I’m Missus Trudence Oak. My husband owns this dairy.”
So many questions swirled in my head. “How …?” My voice felt waterlogged and weak. “How …?”
“How did you get here?” Missus Oak asked. “Is that what you want to know?” I nodded. “You were lying on the riverbank, almost dead. Then you were found and brought here. You’ve been resting for three days. Do you remember what happened?”
“The river grabbed me.”
“That’s what we thought,” Missus Oak said. “We heard about the flooding.”
“My village,” I said with a sudden surge of panic. “My father’s farm. I need to get back.”
“You can’t go anywhere, not in your condition. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal and you need to recover.” She paused, then folded her hands on her lap. “Besides, the road into the Flatlands was washed away. You must wait for the king’s troops to repair it.”
“Oh.” I sank against the pillows. “How long will that take?”
Missus Oak shrugged. “No way to know.”
I dreaded the answer to my next question. “What about my village? The village of Root?”
“I’m sure your family is fine. As soon as the road is clear, we’ll send a scroll telling them of your recovery.” She smiled weakly, obviously gentling the truth. I’d seen the destruction with my own eyes. I already knew the truth.
Missus Oak fiddled with the ribbons that dangled from her sleeping bonnet. “I’m sorry, dear girl, I’ve neglected to ask your name. How rude of me. What is it?”
“Emmeline. Emmeline Thistle.”
“Emmeline Thistle,” she repeated. “You have such a strange manner of speech. Does everyone in the Flatlands sound like you?”
The Sweetest Spell Page 6
