Not something—someone.
“Emmeline!” I cried, running as fast as I could.
Peddler closed the tent’s flaps and turned on his heels. My heart pounded at my temples. Peddler was taking Emmeline! I didn’t stop to ask why. And there was no time to call for help. Fists clenched, I ran straight at him. An odd smile spread across his face. If I’d been in the fighting circle, I might have taken a moment to evaluate that smile. I might have approached my opponent with caution.
But Emmeline was my only thought.
Just as I swung my arm, the blade appeared, glinting in the moonlight. I gasped at its sting. I couldn’t breathe. Another muffled cry came from the wagon. The curtains ruffled. “Emmeline,” I said, the word lost in a blur of pain. Falling backward, my head hit the ground.
Horse hooves and rolling wheels were the last sounds I heard before darkness sucked me into its depths.
PART FOUR
Peddler Man
Chapter Twenty
It happened so quickly. One minute I was fast asleep, safe and warm beneath Owen’s blanket. The next I was awakened by something moving on the bed. I turned and saw a man kneeling next to me, outlined in faint moonlight. At first I thought it was Owen, but he didn’t smell like Owen. The man had the sour smell of unwashed clothes.
Was this the Thief of Sleep? When I was very little, my mother had told me the story about the old man who comes into the house and steals sleep from children who have been disobedient during the day. If too much sleep is stolen, the disobedient child dies, for no one can live without sleep.
I opened my mouth to ask who he was, and that’s when he rolled me onto my stomach and pressed his knees into my back. Confusion turned to sheer terror. As I started to scream, he tied something around my mouth, muffling any sound I made. I tried to roll away, tried to kick him, hit him—anything to get him off me—but he was too strong. He tied my hands together and then my ankles before lifting me off the bed and flinging me over his shoulder.
He’d come through the window, I realized, as he carried me past the open shutters. He carried me down the hallway, past the room where I’d taken my first warm bath, past the room that had once belonged to Owen’s sister, past Mister and Missus Oak’s room, and out the front door, tiptoeing with long, jerky steps.
Where was he taking me? I kicked my bound feet. I pounded his back with my hands, but his grip was strong. As we crossed the yard I screamed desperately but the rough fabric held my tongue. The worst had happened. Wander’s tax-collector must have heard that a Flatlander girl was living at the Oaks. He must have ordered my arrest. I’d be hanged for breaking the king’s law.
Just before the man dumped me into a tented wagon, someone called my name. My face hit the wagon floor but I paid no mind to the pain. The voice had been Owen’s. He was out there. “Help,” I gurgled. Struggling to my knees, I shoved my head through the tent’s flaps.
The man’s back was to me. Moonlight shone upon his head, weaving between strands of thinning, greasy white hair. Then he lunged forward and as he did, Owen’s face came into view. I rocked back and forth, desperately trying to catch Owen’s attention. But he stood, oddly frozen, staring into nothingness. Then his hand darted to his chest and he fell backward, hitting the ground like a sack of grain. He didn’t move. I called to him, the edges of the handkerchief pinching the sides of my mouth. Why wasn’t he moving? That’s when I noticed the knife in the man’s hand. The man reached down and fiddled with Owen’s clothing, pulling free Owen’s snakeskin belt. “This will fetch a pretty price,” he said.
Then the man spun around and shoved me into the tent’s depths. He climbed inside and dragged me between crates and baskets. “He’s not going to rescue you,” he hissed as he tied me to a corner post. “He’s dead.” Leaving those words to echo in my head, he climbed out the tent’s flaps. Moments later, the wagon began to move.
Cold sweat broke across my forehead and chest.
Dead?
Deep, uncontrollable trembling rolled across me the way a storm rolls across the sky. Then the tears came, slinking down my face and pooling in the soft spot behind my collarbone.
Owen Oak was dead.
Chapter Twenty-one
I huddled in the corner of the wagon, my knees pulled close to my chest. Wearing only my underclothes, a nightfrock, and socks, I shivered as cool morning air found its way through the cracks in the wooden floor.
A cord wound around my ankles, another around my wrists. A rope wrapped around my waist, holding me tight against the corner post. I’d kicked and twisted, trying to free myself. I’d fought, even as the cords dug into my skin.
But I couldn’t get loose. Now the slightest movement brought pain, as if someone held a flame to my bound flesh. The post pushed against my spine, leaving it raw and bruised.
I sobbed until my gut burned. The trembling continued, long after the tears had dried up. Why was this happening? Why did Owen have to die? I’m the one who broke the law. I left the Flatlands. Owen helped me, but he didn’t take me from the Flatlands. He’d done nothing wrong.
An eternity passed before my body finally quieted. The wagon rumbled along the road. Squeezing my eyes shut, I tried to erase the image of Owen lying dead on the ground. The man had stabbed him, had murdered him. Why? If he’d come to arrest me, why would he kill Owen? It made no sense.
In an instant, I’d been taken from a dream and thrust into a nightmare. For that is how it had seemed at the Oak Dairy—a dream come true. Such kindness and happiness I hadn’t known since my mother’s death. The Oaks had saved my life. They’d sheltered me. They’d paid a surgeon to tend to me. The wound on my leg was healed. I hadn’t felt hungry, not even for a moment. Never once had they called me unnatural. Even Nan, who despised dirt-scratchers, had looked after me.
And then there was Owen.
At first I’d hated him. I’d thought he was another Griffin Boar, the way he’d stood at the base of the bed staring at me as if I were some sort of odd creature he’d dug out of the river’s muck. I’d felt small beneath his gaze. But the days had passed with Owen stuck at home with a broken rib. Forbidden to work, he’d paced with boredom like a caged animal. Maybe that’s why he’d turned to me for company. Maybe that’s why he’d followed me around while I did chores, asking me all sorts of questions about life in the Flatlands. I’d been a distraction, nothing more.
But time spent with Owen was more than a distraction for me. No boy had ever asked me questions. No boy had ever read to me. No boy had ever paid me any attention other than to call me names or tease me. When I heard his footsteps, I got this tickled feeling in my stomach. When he said my name, I longed to hear him say it again. I wanted to throw my arms around him. I wanted him to be mine.
Of course, a Flatlander girl could never marry a boy who lived beyond the Flatlands, but there was no stopping my feelings. They grew so quickly I thought I might burst with love. Sitting at the Oak’s supper table, I began to imagine myself as Owen’s wife. And when I lay in his bed at night, I imagined that he lay beside me, his legs wrapped around mine, his arms holding me close.
If it hadn’t been for Owen, I would have never known I could make chocolate. I would have never known the wondrous gift I possessed.
Now Owen was dead, murdered because he’d tried to keep this man from arresting me. I squeezed my eyes tighter but the lifeless image floated in the blackness behind my eyelids.
It was mid-morning before the wagon finally stopped. Sunlight warmed the sides of the tent. Rattling sounded as the horse was unhitched. The man said something to the creature, and the soft clip-clop of hooves passed by the wagon. Then footsteps neared. Fear gripped my stomach.
The tent’s flaps opened and a head, backlit by sunlight, poked inside. “You’re awake,” he said. My heart pounded in my throat. The man rolled a tent flap to the side and secured it with a cord. As light filled the wagon, I got my first good look at Owen’s murderer.
He was an old man. The g
rooves in his weathered face were so deep you could store seeds in them. Thinning white hair hung to his shoulders. Wild hairs sprouted from his eyebrows, reaching for the sky as if they longed to be free of such an ugly face. There was nothing old about his eyes, however. Flashing with energy, they nearly burned a hole through me.
I stared back. I would memorize his face, take in every inch of it. I’d never forget it as long as I lived. Hatred ignited and spread through me. I’d never forgive him for what he’d done. If I lived through this, he would be punished. Even if by my own hands, he’d be punished.
“You’re a dirt-scratcher,” he said, not bothering to hide his disgust. “Well, dirt-scratcher, you’re a long way from home.”
With a grunt, he climbed into the wagon, pushing aside some crates to make room. Still gagged, I growled like a cornered animal. “Stop squirming,” he said as he reached behind my head. As soon as he pulled the handkerchief free, I screamed.
“Help! Help!”
“No use in doing that. No one will hear you.”
“HELP!”
He dangled the spit-soaked handkerchief in my face. “You want to keep wearing this?”
My mouth snapped shut. Blood oozed from the corners where the handkerchief had rubbed the skin raw. My tongue dry, my throat parched, I shook my head.
To my surprise, he untied my ankles. I resisted the urge to fight, waiting to see if he’d untie my wrists. With my hands free, I might be able to get away.
“If you don’t try to run, you won’t have to wear the ropes.” He untied me from the post but, to my disappointment, left my wrists bound. A tight grip on my arm, he dragged me to the end of the wagon, past Owen’s snakeskin belt. Then he climbed out. With his hands around my waist, he lifted me and set me on the ground. I wanted to kick him, but my moment of escape needed to be perfectly timed. I’d have only one chance.
Dizziness washed over me as I wobbled on my feet. Leaning against the wagon, I waiting for my sight to clear. Then I looked around.
We’d pulled into a sunlit clearing. Woods surrounded us, of pine and spruce. A narrow trail, barely wide enough for the wagon, disappeared into the woods. That must be the way to the road, I thought. But how far would I have to run to reach it?
A shallow creek trickled along the edge of the clearing. A black horse raised its head for a moment to glance at me, then resumed drinking. I took a long steadying breath as the man walked to the center of the clearing and crouched, his coat fanning out across the dirt. He began to collect twigs.
Fear overcame me. I had no plan, only the hope that an old man wouldn’t be able to move as fast as a girl with a curled foot. I took another deep breath, then ran.
The trail would be the easiest route, but he could follow on horseback. So I turned toward the trees, hoping to escape among the thick trunks. But with my hands bound in front, my steps were clumsier than usual and I couldn’t pick up speed. I winced as something cut into my heel, the wool socks providing no protection against roots and rocks. Despite the pain, only one thought hammered in my head—escape.
I’d barely made it across the clearing when a hand grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. Yellow tinged the whites of the man’s eyes. I kicked out with my good foot, but he easily overpowered me. His were not brittle old man’s arms, but arms as strong as a Flatlander’s. Wrapping a rope around my waist, he pulled me toward the wagon. “NO!” I yelled, falling to my knees. “I won’t go with you!”
He yanked me to my feet, but I fell to my knees again. “You want me to drag you?” he asked, glaring down at me.
“I want you to let me go,” I said, my voice hoarse. “Please don’t take me to the tax-collector. He’ll hang me.”
“Tax-collector? What are you talking about?” With a grunt, he dragged me until we reached the wagon where he knotted the rope around my waist, then tied the other end to one of the wagon’s rear wheels. “I told you, if you don’t run you won’t have to wear the ropes. But you ran.” Then he went back to collecting twigs into a pile.
“You’re not arresting me for leaving the Flatlands?”
He frowned. “Do I look like a tax-collector’s grunt?”
I could barely hold back the tears. Every inch of me hurt, inside and out. “I hate you!” I screamed. “I hate you for killing Owen!”
“Why do you care so much about the Oak boy?” he asked. “Are you sweet on him?” I said nothing. “Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it?” He pointed past the wagon. “You can do your business behind that tree. The rope’s long enough.” He broke a stick and threw it onto the pile.
My bladder nearly bursting, I struggled to my feet. Then I limped as far as the rope would take me, behind a pine tree and a patch of shrubs. If he wasn’t working for Wander’s tax-collector, then what was his reason for taking me? Was he going to force himself on me? My stomach clenched. A girl in our village had been raped by a royal soldier. She’d drowned herself in the river.
After checking to make sure my kidnapper hadn’t followed, I wrestled with the nightfrock and undergarments. Once I’d finished, I tried to loosen the rope from my waist, but with my wrists still tied together it was hopelessly impossible. Holding my wrists to my face, I tried chewing through the thick cord.
“Hurry up!” the man shouted.
Dropping my hands, I leaned against the tree. How could I get away from him? How could I get back to the Oaks’s farm? But would I be welcome there? They’d rightfully blame me for Owen’s death. If I’d never washed downriver, Owen would still be alive. Surely the Oaks would forever hate me the way I now hated the man who’d killed their only son.
Owen, I whispered to the bark. I’m so sorry.
The scent of smoke drifted around the trunk. “Get over here so I can keep an eye on you,” the man hollered.
Rage pulsed with each footstep as I hobbled back toward the wagon. A small fire now burned in the clearing, the smoke vanishing into the sunlit air. The horse had waded across the creek to graze on a patch of grass. Rummaging in the wagon, the man pulled out a basket, then set it next to the fire.
“Why did you kill him?” I demanded. “Why?”
From the basket he pulled a green apple. When he yanked a knife from one of his coat’s many pockets, I recognized the knife’s handle, made from the horn of a brown woolly. I cringed as he used the hem of his coat to wipe blood from the blade. Was it Owen’s blood? Then he crouched, his knees poking out from under his coat. As if he could feel my gaze burning hotter than the flames, he stopped peeling and said, without looking at me, “He got in the way.” He slid an apple slice between his thin lips and chewed. “I regret killing him.” The tone was casual, as if regretting not wearing a hat on a rainy day.
“Regret?” My legs trembled. I could barely get the words out. “What do you want from me?”
He cut another slice and held it between the knife and his thumb. “I want what everyone will want from you.” He chewed the slice with his mouth open, his crooked teeth glistening with bits of apple. “I want you to make me rich.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t know what I’m talking about?” He smiled wickedly, then tossed the rest of the apple to the horse. “Imagine my surprise when I rode into Wander last night, thinking I’d just be passing through on my way to Briar. But the tavern talk wasn’t about the price of mutton or the barefist fights. Everyone was talking about chocolate.”
I held still.
“I thought it was just a bunch of drunk men talking nonsense. But all of them claimed they’d tasted a piece. They said Oak’s milkmaids had handed them out. They said the chocolate had come from Oak’s dairy.” He slid the knife into one of his pockets. Then he opened the basket and took out a small iron grate that he laid over the fire. He pulled an iron kettle from the basket, filled it at the stream, then set it on the grate. “One man said he’d pay double the price if it meant his daughters could have a piece of chocolate every day. I asked him if he’d pay t
riple and he said to me, ‘I might, Peddler. I might pay triple.’ ”
I clenched my jaw. Peddler was his name.
As Peddler poked the fire with a stick, flames licked the kettle. “Mister Oak never mentioned chocolate, and I’ve spent many mornings at his breakfast table. If he’s got the only known recipe for chocolate, why wait until now to make it?” He dropped the stick. Then he crouched again and stared into the flames. “I was pondering this question when one of Oak’s milkmaids walked into the tavern, looking for her father. When she couldn’t find him, I followed her outside. A pink seashell necklace was all it took. She told me about a new milkmaid who didn’t come and go with the others, but she’d seen her in the butter room.”
I remembered the girl’s round face, her yellow curly hair, and her angry look when she’d found me with Owen.
“When I gave her another seashell necklace, she told me that she’d seen the new milkmaid through Owen’s bedroom window. The Oaks were keeping her inside the house.” He picked a bit of apple from his teeth. “For a ten-piece coin, the little milkmaid sold me the last six pieces of chocolate she had in her basket. That’s more coin than she makes in a month. I would have paid double. Triple, even. I’ve never tasted anything like it.” He flicked the apple bit into the air. “But now I won’t have to pay because I own the chocolate-maker herself.”
The horse waded back across the creek. Keeping its distance from the fire, it lay on the ground and closed its eyes. Weariness tugged at me too. But though the rope was heavy around my waist, and though my curled foot throbbed, I chose to stand, defiantly facing this evil man. “I’ll never make chocolate for you,” I hissed. “You killed Owen.”
Peddler took a loaf of bread from the basket and tore off a heel, which he tossed to me. It landed at my feet. Despite my hunger, I didn’t reach for it. “Don’t be stupid,” he grumbled. “Eat. We’ve got a long journey ahead of us.”
The Sweetest Spell Page 11
