The Sweetest Spell

by Suzanne Selfors

  “Where are you taking me?”

  He stuck the remaining loaf on a stick and held it over the fire. “Word will spread quick like fever. It won’t take long for the Oaks to figure out I’m the one who took you and killed their boy. There’ll be a price on my head. We’ll have to hide until the time is right to sell you.”

  “Sell me?”

  “A dirt-scratcher girl is worthless,” he said, a curl to his lip. “No one wants anything to do with a dirt-scratcher. That’s why the Oaks were keeping you hidden. But that’ll change. I’m risking my life on the wager that you’re gonna be famous. And I’m gonna be the one who sells you to the highest bidder. I won’t have to peddle no more.”

  “I’ll never make chocolate for you or for anyone who tries to buy me,” I said. “I’d rather die.”

  Peddler slowly turned the bread. The warm, toasted scent filled the air. “You don’t want to die. Even though you got that bad foot, you tried to run away. You want to live just like everyone else.” Then he smiled wickedly. “You’ll make chocolate. You make it and you’ll live.”

  Silence filled the clearing, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the horse’s deep breathing. Through all the hardships I’d faced, I’d never wanted to die. I’d never thought of ending my life just to escape the melancholy of the Flatlands or the ridicule of being unnatural. But I wasn’t about to help Owen’s murderer get rich.

  Peddler pointed to the bread that lay at my feet. “Sit down and eat. It’s the only meal you’ll have today.”

  I could barely control the hatred that filled my entire being. I wanted to lunge at him. I wanted to scratch his face, wrap the rope around his neck, and …

  I took a deep breath. Then I settled on the ground, wiped pine needles from the chunk of bread, and ate.

  I’d need strength to kill this man.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Four days passed on the road with me gagged and bound. Four days stuffed inside the tented wagon like the other objects Peddler would sell. Each day carried me farther away from Oak Dairy.

  If I’d died the way I was supposed to, an unwanted babe at the edge of the field, Owen would still be alive.

  The days dragged on, filled with tormented thoughts and restless sleep. Early in the journey, Peddler hid the wagon deep in the woods. With Owen’s belt in hand and a basket of trinkets, he abandoned me for a few hours while he rode to a nearby town for supplies. I listened hopefully for the sound of someone. Anyone. A small creature climbed up the side of the tent and sat on the roof for a while, but no rescuer came.

  When Peddler returned, he brought a cloak that he threw over me. I was happy to have it because the cool night air seeped through my thin nightfrock. Unfortunately he didn’t buy me boots. Boots would have helped my hoped-for escape.

  Peddler spoke little when we sat around the fire in the evenings, but when he did, the same question was asked. “How do you make chocolate?”

  “I’ll never make it for you. Never.”

  On the morning of the fifth day, I sat on the ground next to the wagon eating a wedge of cheese. As I watched Peddler from the corner of my eye, an idea took root. I ran the idea over and over in my mind. If he had no proof of the chocolate’s existence, he’d have nothing. No one would believe him when he claimed he’d found a girl who could make the legendary treat.

  I waited as patiently as an owl for the right moment to strike. It presented itself when Peddler left the fireside and wandered over to feed a handful of grain to the horse. I struggled to my feet. Then I lunged for the wagon and with my bound hands, reached inside and grabbed the box that hid the six pieces of chocolate, each imprinted with an oak leaf.

  I crammed two into my mouth. There was no time to savor the deliciousness. The man who’d killed Owen would never profit from my chocolate. I needed to chew faster. Two more made it in before Peddler bellowed, “Stop!” He ran toward me, waving his hands. “You stupid girl!” I shoved in the final two pieces just as he seized the empty box. “What have you done?” he cried, his face contorted. He flung the box aside and grabbed my shoulders, furiously shaking me. I chewed faster. He tried to pry open my mouth, but the chocolate disappeared in a final swallow. His eyes blazing with rage, he slapped my cheek. I stumbled backward, then fell to the ground. He clenched his fists. My eyes closed, I waited for the blow that would end it all. For the thrusting blade that would stop the nightmare.

  But no blow came. Instead, cold laughter drifted toward me.

  I opened my eyes. Peddler picked up the empty box, then tossed it onto the fire, his laughter subsiding as the flames consumed that which had once held his treasure.

  My cheek stinging, I struggled to my feet. “You have no chocolate and I will never make it for you,” I said, summoning my last dregs of courage. “Let me go.”

  “Quiet!” He stood close to the fire, the smoke disappearing into his white hair.

  “No one will believe you. You have no proof.” I wiped the sweet remains from my lips. “Let me go.”

  “Not another word!” He reached inside his coat and pulled out the horn-handled knife.

  This was it. I balanced on the tip of my curled foot, trying to stand as straight as possible to face death. But with another wicked laugh, he dug the knife into a shank of smoked ham and ate his breakfast.

  On the seventh day, Peddler did something different. Instead of tying me to the post in a sitting position, he wound a rope around my entire body. He gagged me again, then rolled me into a carpet. I couldn’t move an inch. The opening at the top of the carpet let in air. I knew I wouldn’t smother to death, but that gave me little comfort. Peddler arranged the crates around me, then took his seat at the front of the wagon and whistled at the horse. The steady clip-clop resumed.

  A lot of traffic passed by that day. We must have been on a main road. Peddler stopped the caravan twice to sell something. Try as I might, I couldn’t move. Each grunt and groan was swallowed by the layers of carpet. Memories, stirred up by the pain of my imprisonment, tormented me—images of my father being carted away, of Snow disappearing beneath the water, of Owen lying motionless. I tried to cling to good memories—of my mother, of Nan’s dumplings, of Owen’s smiling face—but they slipped away just as Root had in the raging river.

  “Stop in the name of King Elmer.”

  My breath caught. My heart doubled its beat. The gruff voice belonged to a man. The wagon slowed, then stopped.

  “I’m just a lowly peddler making my way from town to town,” Peddler said innocently. “What can I do for you fine soldiers?”

  Soldiers? I pushed against the ropes. I’m in here!

  “We’re tracking a deserter from the king’s army,” one of the soldiers said.

  “When we find him he’ll be hanged,” the other soldier said.

  Owen had mentioned three ways to get out of the king’s army—buying one’s way out, injury, or death. He’d never mentioned desertion.

  “I commend you for upholding the king’s laws,” Peddler told the soldiers. “A man who leaves the king’s army is a coward who deserves no mercy.”

  I’d seen a hanging. Everyone in Root had watched the guilty man swing from the noose, his eyes bulging, his tongue dripping blood, his britches soiled. He’d stolen food from the tax-collector. I stopped fighting the ropes so I could hear what was being said.

  “We’ll need to search your caravan,” the first soldier said.

  Aye, search the caravan! They might find me. If only I could move. I tried rolling back and forth, but the rug was wedged tightly between crates.

  A pair of horses walked the length of the wagon. Then the tent rustled. “All I carry are crates filled with trinkets,” Peddler said, his words hurried. “But I do believe there are a couple of gifts back here, just for you gentlemen.” The wagon shifted as Peddler climbed inside. “How about two lovely necklaces made of pink seashells? And two bottles of rose water? I’m sure you have special ladies who would appreciate such gifts.” The wagon
shifted again as he handed the bribes to the soldiers.

  Search the wagon. Please search the wagon.

  But the bribes worked their magic. The soldiers rode away.

  Peddler patted the rolled carpet. “You should be pleased they didn’t find you,” he said. “They’d have had their way with you, no doubt about that.”

  Did he expect gratitude? I closed my eyes. It was the only way to dismiss him.

  On the afternoon of the tenth day, I sat on the ground outside the wagon, tied to a wheel as usual. I could smell my own stink. Fear changes the scent of sweat, like sickness.

  “What is that?” I asked, pointing to a rolled parchment that lay at Peddler’s feet.

  “That?” he grunted, then reached out and grabbed it. “Found it nailed to a tree. Might as well show you.” He unrolled the parchment and held it out. I rose onto my knees, staring at the drawing.

  “That’s me,” I said with a gasp. A drawing of my face, framed by a milkmaid’s bonnet, took up half the parchment. I got to my feet. The rope trailed behind as I walked cautiously toward Peddler, just far enough to take the poster from his knobby fingers.

  It wasn’t a perfect likeness, but it was very close. I’d stared at my reflection every morning in Owen’s bedroom mirror. At the way my newly brushed hair fell, at the way my face had filled out from all the food I’d eaten. Though I couldn’t read, I recognized one word: Wanted. Tax-collector Todd tacked WANTED posters to the oak tree in the village square. Thieves and murderers sometimes tried to hide in the Flatlands. Now I was the criminal. I’d broken the law by leaving the Flatlands. I pressed my bound hands against my neck, imagining the noose.

  There were more words on the poster. “What does it say?”

  Peddler yanked the poster from me and pointed to the biggest words. “It says, Wanted: The Milkmaid. A one hundred coin reward is offered but only if she is delivered, alive and unscathed, to the tax-collector of Wander.”

  “What does unscathed mean?”

  “It means they don’t want anyone to hurt you.”

  If my fate was to be hanged, what did it matter if I was hurt?

  He continued reading. “The Milkmaid was kidnapped by a white-haired old man who drives a tented wagon and goes by the name Peddler.” He crumpled the poster and threw it onto the fire. The parchment curled and blackened. Turning away from the sudden burst of heat, I wondered if the Oaks had told their tax-collector about me. Or if it had been the other milkmaid, the one who’d seen me in the butter room.

  Peddler climbed into the wagon, shuffled around, then emerged a few minutes later with a small wooden crate, which he carried to the far edge of the clearing. “The only reason the tax-collector of Wander would offer a hundred coin reward for you is because he knows you made the chocolate.” He led the horse away from the wagon and tied it to a tree next to the crate. He untied me from the wagon wheel, then tied me to the same tree. Why was he rearranging things? And why had he pulled a burning stick from the fire?

  My fate was not to be hanged? Hope flickered.

  “If you take me back to Wander, you can collect the one hundred coin reward,” I told him. “That’s the most coin you’ll ever get because I’ll never make chocolate for you. Never. So take the reward.” And when he handed me over, I’d tell the tax-collector that he’d killed Owen. I’d stand in the front row and watch him hang.

  “You might not make chocolate for me, but I’d have to be an idiot to give you up,” Peddler said, pointing the glowing stick at me. “Once word spreads beyond Wander, the reward will double. Then it will triple and triple again. I just have to keep you hidden until the price is right.” I gasped as he touched the end of the burning stick to the wagon’s tent. The fabric smoldered. The horse stomped nervously as flames fanned out across the wagon’s roof. All his trinkets would burn, including the carpet. Where would he hide me?

  With his knife’s blade, Peddler sawed at the ends of his hair until all that remained were short tufts. After scraping charcoal from a burned log, he pulverized it between his palms, then rubbed the black powder all over his scalp. Gone was the white hair. Gone was the tented wagon. Gone was that flicker of hope.

  Now, no one would recognize him as the kidnapper of the Milkmaid.

  We rode the rest of the day on horseback, following a narrow path through sparse woodlands. No towns, no houses, no people. The end of my rope was tied to the horse’s neck, making escape impossible. My cloak provided a thin barrier between my body and Peddler’s. It sickened me to sit so close to Owen’s murderer. His stale breath coated my neck, his bony fingers held my waist. I hated every inch of him.

  At twilight, the woods opened to a lonely landscape of rustling grasses. The air held a new scent, something I didn’t recognize. When the horse stopped at the edge of a cliff, I realized what I was smelling.

  The sea.

  It lay before me, a choppy expanse of blue and white. On and on it spread until it met the edge of the sky. Until that moment, the river was the only water I’d known, and it was mysterious in itself, winding to places I thought I’d never see. But the sea was huge. Endless. Amazing.

  “We walk now,” Peddler said as he dismounted. He grabbed the crate that had balanced on my lap during our ride. I slid off the horse, my legs aching as they straightened. He removed the rope from my waist but left my wrists bound. Leaving the horse to graze, Peddler pointed to a trail that led from the clifftop to the beach far below. “Go on,” he said.

  A sign, with one word painted across it, marked the trailhead. A skull perched atop the sign, the empty eye sockets collecting wind-blown dirt. “What does that say?” I asked.

  “Never you mind,” Peddler said, pushing me down the trail. Even without knowing the word, the warning was clear. Danger waited. The deadly kind.

  I stumbled as the path steepened, the holes in my wool socks collecting small stones. Three dwellings stood on the highest section of beach, built of wood that had washed ashore. The dwellings looked abandoned with their gaping roofs and caved-in walls. A ring of stones that had once held fire lay half-buried in sand. Who had lived here and where had they gone? Then I spotted the answer. Built from piled-up rock, nine graves lay in a row at the base of the cliff. In the Flatlands, it was often said that the wind carried the souls of the dead. As a breeze tickled my neck I shivered, imagining ghostly fingers reaching for me.

  The trail flattened, and we stepped onto the beach where a massive tree trunk had washed up on the shore. It must have been part of a building for its ends were cut square and four holes had been drilled into it. Peddler opened the crate and pulled out a long chain. Then he threaded the chain through one of the holes and secured it with a padlock. My heart nearly stopped beating. “No,” I begged. “Please, no.” He was going to chain me to this haunted place. I grabbed a rock. “No! I won’t let you. You can’t leave me here.” I threw the rock, hitting his shoulder. He spun around and pushed me to the sand where he quickly slid the chain around my waist and locked it in place with another padlock.

  “I hate you!” I screamed. “I swear I’ll kill you. Do you hear me, old man? I swear to God that one day I will kill you for what you’ve done!”

  He wasn’t paying any attention. He’d stepped away and was looking down the beach. I wiped sand from my face, then squinted into the distance.

  A woman stood where the beach curled around a rocky outcropping. Her skirt hung to her ankles. A knit scarf covered her head and wound around her neck, hiding her mouth. Had she seen Peddler chain me to the log? If so, she was in danger.

  Peddler picked up the crate and headed toward her. “Run!” I screamed, trying to warn her. “RUN!” But the woman stayed put. What would he do to her? Would he chain her, too? Kill her? Why wasn’t she running away?

  When Peddler reached the woman, he dropped the crate. They spoke, words too far away to catch. They never touched, keeping a few feet between them as they spoke, but it seemed as if … they knew each other. The woman nodded her head many
times. Then she picked up the crate and left, disappearing around the rocky point.

  “She’ll look after you,” Peddler told me as he returned. I lay in the sand, my entire body betraying me with its exhaustion. “But you must never get close to her. And you must never touch her.” Then he knelt and removed the cord from my wrists. Before I could ask any questions, he walked back up the trail.

  Leaving me alone, chained to a log, as the sun set at the edge of the sea.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Mother didn’t leave my side. She sat in the chair beside my bed, clutching my hand, her voice ragged as she begged the surgeon to save me. Peddler’s blade had slid between two ribs, narrowly missing my heart. The blood had pulsed from the wound, warm and sticky, running down my side as I lay in the dirt. Luckily Father had been woken by the horse and wagon and had rushed to my side. If he hadn’t been such a light sleeper, I’d have bled to death.

  The surgeon assured my parents that no internal organs had been pierced. “But we must hope that no fever appears,” he said. “If fever comes with the morning, then the wound is corrupted.”

  “I’ve got to go,” I murmured through a haze of pain.

  “Steady,” Father said, as if gentling an injured horse. “Steady.”

  “Keep him still,” the surgeon said. Father sat on the bed and held me down. With his assistant at his side, the surgeon mixed up some sort of paste and smothered my wound. The stinging was unbearable. Then he wrapped it tightly, just as he had wrapped my once broken rib.

  “Emmeline,” I whispered. “I need to find Emmeline.”

  Something bitter was poured into my mouth. “Brew this tea three times a day,” the surgeon told Nan. “Give it to him each time you change the poultice.” Then he leaned over me, his dark eyes piercing with concern. “You stay in bed, Owen Oak. Those are my orders. I can’t cure you if you don’t follow my orders.”

  I closed my eyes against the pain. Stay in bed. My bed, which still smelled like her.