The Sweetest Spell

by Suzanne Selfors

  “Peddler dyed his hair, you stupid—” I ducked and the soldier’s hand slammed into the wall.

  “Enough!” the tax-collector shouted as the soldier growled. “We’ll get paid less if he’s injured. And we certainly won’t get paid if he’s dead.” He smiled at me, then heaved himself onto his feet. “Lucky for you, the king is offering fifty coin for each criminal we send to the mineral fields. Otherwise, you’d be hanging by a rope.”

  He took his black tax-collector’s coat off a hook and put it on. White swans of the realm swam along the wide collar. He buttoned it over his substantial gut, then pushed his floppy hat from his greedy eyes. “Those dirt-scratchers are proving to be good workers, from what I hear. Too bad there aren’t more of them. Slavery is a very lucrative business.”

  “Slavery?” I grimaced. “Is that why they were taken from the Flatlands?”

  “You’re very lucky I’m such a gracious person,” the tax-collector said. The soldier loomed next to me, his fists balled and ready. I held back my curse. “Take him away.”

  A wagon waited outside, its bed converted into a cage. Two men sat inside. My friendly soldier opened the cage door, then shoved me. I landed on the chain that wound around the other men’s ankles. Pain shot through my hip. “If my hands were untied, I’d kill you, you louse!”

  The soldier reached inside. The next blow was the one that knocked me out.

  I don’t know how much time passed before I came to but the wagon was rumbling down a road. I sat up. My hands were free but a chain wound around my ankles. The chain snaked across the cage floor, linking me to the other two unfortunate passengers, one of whom was staring at me with his eye.

  His only eye.

  “Oh crud,” I said, recognizing him from the barefist fight. “It’s you.”

  “That’s right.” He growled like a wolverine. “You don’t have to worry about the mineral fields. I’m going to kill you before we get there.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  The baroness’s carriage was like a hollowed-out gourd, hard on the outside but soft on the inside. The seats were lined with white rabbit pelts. The black walls and ceiling curved around me like night. Sunshine trickled in through two windows. Such a beautiful carriage might have belonged to a goddess or a queen. I imagined that one day I might own such a beautiful thing. I wouldn’t have to hobble down the street ever again.

  Once we’d covered some distance, we turned onto a path made by grazing animals. As soon as the main road disappeared from sight, Griffin stopped the carriage and leaped off the driver’s bench. “I want to know what’s going on,” he said, yanking open the carriage door. “Why is there a reward for you? And why is everyone calling you a milkmaid? You don’t milk cows. You talk to them, but you don’t milk them.”

  I took a deep breath, gathered the hem of my skirt, then climbed out. I left the bonnet inside. It felt good to free my hair. “They call me the Milkmaid because the girl who saw me in the barn and told everyone about me thought I was a milkmaid.”

  “Why would she think that?”

  “Because I was dressed in a milkmaid’s dress and bonnet.” He folded his arms. “And so …?”

  “Chocolate. I can make chocolate.” His expression didn’t change. Of course not. Like me, he’d never heard of the stuff. “It’s this delicious treat that is prized above all else. It’s part of the legend about our people. It’s in a book.”

  “A book? Since when do you read books?”

  “I don’t. Owen read it to me.” His name escaped. Let loose from where I’d held it, deep inside, it floated among the grasses like a whisper. Owen.

  Before Griffin could ask about Owen, I launched into the story. I told him the legend as well as I could remember it. About Queen Margaret. About how the people loved her because she had a magical gift for making chocolate, this amazing food that tastes unlike anything else. I told him how merchants traveled from all over the world to get this chocolate and how it had made Anglund and its queen very rich. But then the invaders came, our people, the Kell. Griffin nodded, for he recognized this part of the story. Our people tried to conquer the land but were defeated. I told him how the chieftain had cursed Queen Margaret, taking away her magic. And chocolate disappeared, never to be seen or tasted again.

  He tightened his arms. “I still don’t understand.”

  “While I was at the Oak Dairy, I tried to churn cream into butter. But instead it turned into chocolate.”

  He snorted. “This all sounds crazy.”

  The narrow path that we’d taken from the road led across a field. Cows grazed in the distance. A cottage and barn sat on a gentle hill. Weeks had passed since I’d sat in the butter room with Owen. During all that time I’d wondered—what if it had been some sort of mistake? A once-in-a-lifetime happening? What if the cream had come from a special cow and had nothing to do with me? Doubt hung over me like a waterlogged roof. We couldn’t go to the king unless I knew for sure. That would be suicide.

  “I’ll show you,” I said. Reaching into the carriage, I grabbed one of the salt bags. “Go get some cream and a churning bucket. Give this to the farmer in exchange.”

  Clearly Griffin needed proof as much as I for he bolted across that field, his long legs crossing the distance quickly. The cows had noticed our arrival for they began to mosey toward the carriage. Griffin passed them on his return. “Here you go,” he said, setting a churning bucket at my feet. The cream was already inside.

  Finding a clean spot on the ground, I sat, the bucket between my knees. A warm breeze tickled my face and arms. Griffin chewed on a strip of dried meat. He’d also managed to get a wedge of cheese, a loaf of bread, and some apples. Whether the salt bag had covered the cost or whether Griffin, still wearing the soldier’s uniform, had bullied the food from the farmer, I didn’t know. Nor did I care. At that moment my father’s future lay in my hands. Could I make the magic happen again?

  “Get away,” Griffin said when the first cow arrived and nudged him with a wet nose. A few cows wandered around the carriage, a few gathered around me. “Move it!” Griffin hollered as a cow nibbled his boot.

  “Leave them alone,” I said. “They’re just curious.” I wrapped my fingers around the churning handle.

  “They’re stupid, that’s what they are. Now hurry up.”

  “Stop pestering me,” I told him. I was trying to focus my thoughts—trying to remember exactly what I’d done in the butter room.

  “Pestering you?” he snapped. “I’d be halfway to Root by now if I hadn’t run into you.”

  “You should be grateful you ran into me,” I snapped right back.

  “Grateful?” He grabbed another strip of meat and pointed it at my face. “Why should I be grateful? You almost got me killed at that inn. My family needs my help and I’m stuck here with you.”

  “Your family’s fine. I told you, they had the cows and they got out of the valley before the flood. Anyway, you should be grateful you ran into me because I saved your life.” I glared up at him. “Or have you already forgotten that little fact?”

  “Saved my life?” His face turned red. “You’re crazy. You never saved my life.”

  “That soldier was going to stab you. But I yelled watch out just before …” I closed my mouth, swallowing the words. The flash in Griffin’s eyes told me that he did indeed remember. He looked away, as did I. We would always share the memory of the two men in their shallow grave.

  Without another word from either of us, I began to churn. As the blade pushed through, the white cream swirled, twisting into graceful waves. I could hear Owen’s voice as if he sat next to me. As if we were back in the butter room. “You’re beautiful,” he’d said.

  I turned the handle faster. Griffin knelt, watching over my shoulder. The cows watched too. They even stopped flicking their tails. If this didn’t work, all would be lost. I wouldn’t be able to negotiate with King Elmer for my people’s freedom. Griffin would have no reward coin to take back to Root. I c
losed my eyes, churning, churning, churning. Griffin grunted impatiently. One of the cows mooed. I squeezed my eyelids tighter, churning, churning, churning. Please, I thought. Please let the magic work. Then a warm feeling took hold, deep inside, spreading all over my body like sunshine. The warmth traveled down my arms and into my fingertips.

  “It’s changing color,” Griffin said.

  With a huge relieved sigh, I opened my eyes and watched as chocolate formed where cream had once been. Griffin didn’t hesitate. Crouching beside the bucket, he dipped his finger and tasted. “How?” He tasted again. “But …” And again. “Nothing can taste this good.” His eyes sparkled. “I feel different. I feel … happy. I want more.” Then his eyes widened. “Is this some kind of spell? Is this black magic? Everyone in Root says you have black magic.”

  For the first time in my life, that didn’t make me angry.

  “I guess I do.” I scooped out a bit and ate it. “But it’s not black. It’s brown.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  The one-eyed man didn’t talk much during the journey, except to remind me numerous times that he was still planning on killing me. “Thanks for the advance notice,” I grumbled. “Very considerate of you.”

  A chain still wound around our ankles, linking us together. Fortunately, the third member of our entourage sat between us—a human shield of sorts. The boy was a dirt-scratcher who’d lost his family in the flood. His hair was lighter than Emmeline’s and streaked with copper strands, but still red enough to mark him from the Flatlands. I’d managed to get a few sentences from him. After the flood he’d left the Flatlands on foot, foraging for mushrooms and roots. Too young to fend for himself, he’d been arrested for stealing smoked pig’s feet from a butcher. He cried the first day of our journey, then settled into quiet submission.

  The one-eyed man, however, seethed like a caged bull. Listening to his threats was unpleasant enough, but looking at him was worse. Steady seepage from the hollow socket coated the lashes of his missing eye, gluing the lid shut. I tried to be friendly. I had enough on my mind without having to worry about being strangled in my sleep. “So, what brought you to this cage?” I asked, forcing a chipper tone to my words.

  “Murder,” he said. The response didn’t surprise me, though I’d hoped it might be something tame like pickpocketing or littering. I didn’t really want to know who he’d killed. And asking might piss him off. The dirt-scratcher boy pressed closer to me. Poor kid. Just like Emmeline, he’d been cast into a world he didn’t know. And now he was chained to a murderer. And poor me. I’d started off trying to rescue a girl and now I was headed for hard labor in the deadly mineral fields.

  Fortunately, my rib was fully healed and the knife wound had also healed. Days ago, I’d worked a blade beneath the stitches, pulling them free. But I couldn’t pull free from the feeling of helplessness that descended over me. So I tried to distract myself with conversation. Asking about the Flatlands, I gradually coaxed the boy from his silence. “When the soldiers came, they took all the unmarried men to the mineral fields to fight in a war. They took my older brother. And now they’re taking me. I don’t know how to fight.”

  The way he rolled some of his letters brought Emmeline’s voice to mind. “You won’t have to fight,” I told him. “There’s no war.”

  “But the soldiers said—”

  “They lied to you. We haven’t been at war since my greatgrandfather’s generation. They took your people to work in the mineral fields, not to fight.”

  “I know how to work,” he said with a relieved grin. “If we only have to work, then maybe I’ll see my brother again.”

  “I hope so,” I said, patting his bony shoulder. “Work is definitely better than war. And how bad can it be? We’ll dig a bit, get some gold, dig a bit more.” I didn’t use the word “slave.” Nor did I mention our impending death if we stayed in that poisonous place. Instead, I ventured into the subject that consumed me. “Do you come from the same village as Emmeline?” The boy shrugged. “She has a curled foot and walks with a limp.”

  “Oh, her. She lives in Root,” he said. “I live in Seed. But everyone knows her. She’s the unnatural girl. That’s what people say. She has black magic.”

  “Why do they say that?”

  “Because she was cast aside and she didn’t die.”

  The one-eyed man turned his head toward us, the oozing hole glistening in the daylight. He sat quietly, listening.

  “What do you mean she was cast aside?” I asked.

  “When a babe is unwanted, it’s left at the edge of the forest to die. My younger brother was unwanted because he was born too early. He died in the forest like he was supposed to.”

  “Wolves,” the one-eyed man grumbled.

  “Sometimes it’s a spirit who takes the babe away,” the boy said. It was the first time he’d spoken to our murdering companion. “Forest spirits eat human flesh.”

  I grimaced. Forest spirit or predator, it was a horrid way to die. “How did Emmeline survive?”

  “Some cows saved her,” the boy said. “That’s why everyone calls her unnatural. She talks to cows. And they talk to her.”

  The images flashed in my mind—the riverbank, Emmeline’s half-drowned body, our missing cow standing over her as if guarding her from the vultures. Then there’d been the cows with their noses pressed against my bedroom window as if checking on Emmeline’s recovery. And I’d never forget the moment when the cow who’d found her moseyed from the field to greet her and she’d thanked it. Could she have more magic in her besides the magic of chocolate? Why hadn’t there been more time to talk to her? More time to get to know her?

  I asked more questions about the Flatlands and its people. But our conversation was not appreciated by everyone. “Shut up!” the one-eyed man bellowed. As he stomped his foot, the chain tightened, burning my ankles. The boy pressed close to me again. “Or I’ll shut you up!”

  Enough said.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  I tossed the churning bucket and its chocolaty contents into a pond, hiding the evidence that the Milkmaid herself had traveled this way. Griffin unhitched the horses, leaving the baroness’s carriage on the path. He lifted me onto one of the horses, then mounted the other. Twice since my journey downriver I’d sat on a horse’s back, but each time there’d been someone with me. First when Owen brought me to his house, but that ride I didn’t remember. Then with Peddler. I shuddered, recalling his bony arms wrapped around my waist and his sour breath on my neck.

  “What’s the problem?” Griffin asked. “Why are you just sitting there?”

  “I can’t ride like this,” I complained. Because of my long dress, I had to sit with my legs draping over one side of the horse.

  “Try.” He slapped my horse’s flank.

  “I’m going to fall off!” I yelled, holding tight to the reins as the horse picked up speed and headed into the field. Griffin shouted instructions. But each gallop jostled me and I nearly slid off. How was I supposed to hang on? I yanked the reins until the horse stopped. “It’s impossible to ride this way.”

  Pulling up alongside, Griffin glowered from beneath the rim of his knit hat. “It’s not impossible. You’re not trying.”

  “I am trying.” But how pathetic was I? I couldn’t run. I couldn’t ride. Angry at myself, I lashed out. “If you’re so smart, you try to ride in this dress!”

  “Then take off the stupid dress,” he said.

  “What? You want me to ride in my underclothes?” He raised his eyebrows. “Forget that.”

  Eventually I got the feel for it, but only at a slow pace. Griffin didn’t want to go back to the road so we cut across pastures, getting directions to the nearest village from a farmer. Griffin fumed with impatience, constantly looking over his shoulder and hollering at me to go faster. When we reached the village, I hid in the forest while he rode off to play the part of the soldier. It wasn’t long before he returned with a bag full of stuff. “These are boy’s clothes,�
� he said, shoving the bag at me. “They should fit. Then you can ride like me.”

  I changed behind a tree. The shirt and vest fit fine. I’d never worn pants before. No girl in the Flatlands ever wore pants. My legs felt so light. “These are great,” I said. It was easier to hide my limp under a skirt, but I didn’t care about that. The freedom was wonderful. I spun around. “What do you think? Do I look like a boy?”

  He reached into the bag and pulled out a knit hat. “Better get rid of that bonnet.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  While I tucked my hair into the hat, Griffin changed out of the soldier’s clothing. He told me it was too dangerous to keep playing the part since everyone in Fishport now knew I was traveling with a soldier. “We can pretend we’re brothers,” I said when he’d finished.

  “You still look like a girl,” he said, staring at my bottom.

  We hid our old clothing, including the soldier’s sword and scabbard, beneath some shrubs deep in the forest. I felt terrible leaving Lara’s dress behind. It was such a beautiful dress, meant to help her forget her disease. But it had served me well and for a brief moment I felt a sense of gratitude to Peddler. I tied the cloak he’d given me around my shoulders.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Griffin said.

  We rode the rest of the day, stopping occasionally to talk to other travelers. The road was called the Merchant’s Highway and would lead us straight to Londwin City. The town ahead was called Lime. My face was plastered everywhere. WANTED: THE MILKMAID. Without the soldier’s uniform, I wasn’t sure how we were going to get food and a place to sleep. Griffin had only one coin—the same one he’d taken from the dead soldier. But Griffin could easily turn on the charm when he needed to. Even with the tight knit cap covering what remained of his hair, he was incredibly handsome. So once he’d spent the coin, a smile got us a loaf of bread from a baker’s daughter. A kiss got us a ham shank from a butcher’s wife. I’m not sure what got us the jug of ale, but the tavern girl was grinning like an idiot. Flirtation was Griffin’s skill, no doubt about it. I admired his ability. It came so easily to him. He was the opposite of me. I’d never flirted in my life.