I told Mal that the name sounded more suited to a den of thieves and he ought to think of a more respectable moniker for an herbalist’s shop. Mal only laughed and replied that respectability had never been of great concern to the Hawkridges.
Extreme poverty was not the only thing that drove people to live in Misty Bottoms. Some chose to settle here for murkier reasons. The heavy mists, the maze of lanes and the proximity to the border made it an ideal location for those engaged in activities that would not bear close scrutiny by the law. My friend Mal fell into this category.
A Closed sign hung in the shop’s window, but I ignored it, hammering loudly on the door. As I did so, I had the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. I knocked again while looking nervously around me.
“Rrreow.”
A low growl caused me to glance down into the yellow eyes of Mal’s sleek black cat. This creature had taken a marked dislike to me. It glared at me, arched its back and hissed. I hissed right back at it and started to knock again when the shop’s door swung open.
“Can’t you read? The sign says—” Mal snapped, then broke into a broad grin. “Ella, what an agreeable surprise.”
I was likewise surprised, but I cannot say I found it agreeable. My friend Mal was a lean man of medium height and possessed of a rangy, almost catlike grace. His face was one of sharp, hard angles, softened by a pair of melting chocolate eyes. He had a wicked smile that I suspected had been more than one maiden’s undoing, despite his receding hairline. As usual, he wore a stained apron over his breeches and open-necked shirt.
He was also wearing a thick black wig styled into a pompadour.
I just stood there gaping at him, until Mal reached up and smoothed back a dark wave from his brow. He gave a self-conscious chuckle and asked, “Well, what do you think? Do you like it?”
“No,” I said bluntly. “It looks like you scalped that wretched cat of yours and stuck it on your head.”
Mal’s hand dropped back to his side and he scowled at me. “I have told you a hundred times. Ebony is not my cat. She belongs to the witch next door.”
Mal was not being insulting when he referred to his neighbor thus. Delphine really was a witch, although most likely an unlicensed one.
“If that cat doesn’t belong to you, perhaps you ought to tell her that.” I pointed down to where the cat had insinuated itself between us, rubbing up against Mal’s legs and purring. Before he could prevent her, the cat bolted past him into the shop. Mal swore and tore off after her, leaving me to follow and close the door behind me.
The cat had streaked up the stairs to the upper floor with Mal hard after her. I could hear him stomping about, alternately calling, “Here, kitty, kitty. Nice Ebony,” and muttering, “Frapping cat.” Perhaps I should have gone to help him, but I knew from experience that if anyone ended up being scratched by that demon cat, it would be me. I deemed it wiser to wait below.
The main floor of the herbal shop was warm and dim, dominated by a long counter upon which were laid out the tools of Mal’s trade: mortar and pestle, a silver scale, empty vials, ladles, funnels and wooden spoons. Behind the counter were shelves, every inch covered with bottles and jars containing liquids in a rainbow array of colors, anything from clear to blood red to the vilest hue of black. The bottles on the upper shelves required a ladder to reach and were the cloudiest-looking, coated with a thick layering of dust.
Nothing was labeled and I often wondered how Mal kept from confusing potions for curing warts with the poisons for killing off weeds. But Mal had a phenomenal memory and he declared he knew right where to lay hands on the potion he needed, as long as no one else touched anything.
The beams on the ceiling had hooks that hung bundles of drying herbs. Usually the shop was redolent with a fragrant blend of marjoram, fennel, basil, mint and other spices. But Mal had some golden liquid bubbling in a small cauldron suspended over a fire on the hearth. Whatever the potion was, it emanated a cloyingly sweet aroma that overpowered every other scent.
Before I had a chance to inspect this brew more closely, Mal tramped back down the stairs with the cat clutched in his arms. Ebony set up a loud purr, rubbing her head beneath Mal’s chin, but he ignored her. Opening the door, he chucked her out, saying, “Shoo. Go home to your mistress and don’t come back.”
I heard Ebony’s reproachful meow before Mal slammed the door shut.
“Oh, Mal, how can you be so unkind?” I teased. “Your kitty clearly adores you.”
“Frapping cat! She’s forever sneaking over here and bringing me gifts of dead mice. If any tax collector ever sees her, I will probably be accused of owning a working cat and have to pay a huge fine. One of these days, I really will scalp her.”
“In case you need a spare hairpiece?”
Mal glowered at me. “So did you come here today just to insult me or is there some other reason for this unexpected visit? If there isn’t, you’ll have to excuse me. I am quite busy.”
It was not like Mal to be so abrupt, either with the cat or me. I feared I had hurt his feelings with my usual tactlessness. Sidling closer, I said, “I am sorry if I was unkind.”
I brushed a kiss against his cheek and smiled impishly at him. “But if your closest friend doesn’t tell you when you look ridiculous, who will?”
“Humph,” he said, but the taut set of his lips softened a little. “Does it really look that bad?”
“Yes, I am afraid it does. Why all of a sudden did you decide you need a wig?”
“It is not a wig, Ella.” He bent closer, adding eagerly, “I managed to grow real hair. Go on. Touch it.”
I reached up and gave his hair a gentle tug. Unfortunately, a clump of it came loose in my hand.
Mal reared back, protesting, “Not so hard.” He combed his fingers through his hair in an effort to repair the damage and only succeeded in dislodging another handful. He emitted a deep sigh. “Apparently I need to refine the potion a bit more.”
“Why would you even bother with such nonsense? You are an attractive enough man just as you are.”
“Oh, you think so, my dear?” Mal leered, leaning closer with a mock growl. “I had no notion you found me so irresistible.”
“Idiot,” I said, giving him a playful shove.
Mal straightened with a grin. “While you might be smitten with my semi-bald head, alas, my customers are not. I have had several ladies tell me they find it difficult to believe in the skills of a sorcerer who cannot even manage to devise a potion to grow back his own hair.”
“You are not supposed to be any kind of a sorcerer, Mal. With or without hair. You have no license to practice magic.” I had lost track of the number of times I had reminded Mal of this and the equal number of times he had ignored me, just as he did now.
The cauldron on the hearth gave a loud hiss, threatening to bubble over.
“Oh, frap!” Mal exclaimed. Rushing over, he snatched up a long rod with a hook on one end and used it to swing the cauldron off the fire. He seized a wooden spoon and bent over the iron pot, stirring the golden liquid. I pulled a face at the sticky sweet aroma.
“Is that your hair potion?” I asked. “Besides looking like you skinned a cat, you are going to smell like a rose garden.”
Mal paused in his stirring long enough to give me a disgruntled look. “No, this is not a hair tonic. It is something far more powerful.”
When Mal showed no inclination to explain further, I drew closer. He scooped up a spoonful of the liquid and blew on it to cool it. He sniffed and took a cautious taste with the tip of his tongue.
“Ah!” He nodded, looking satisfied.
“Mal, what is that stuff?”
His mouth tipped in a mysterious smile. “Something I am planning to call the Elixir of Love.”
“You are trying to brew up some sort of love potion?”
“Yes, there should be a great demand for it, don’t you think? With this royal ball in the offing and so many ladies hoping to win the heart of the prince,
our golden hair apparent.”
I groaned. “Oh, Mal, not you too!”
When he regarded me with surprise, I flung up my hands in exasperation. “All day long I have been surrounded by people going berserk over this ridiculous ball. First, my stepsisters wailing they will die if they do not get to go and then I was nearly run over by those stupid pumpkin coaches with the ladies from the Heights racing to be the first at the Silk Emporium. I was almost crushed in a riot over ribbons and beads and even the poultry man is out of control. The one person I counted upon to be untouched by all this royal ball insanity was you. And now I find you as caught up in the madness as everyone else.”
“Calm down, Ella. I totally agree with you. This ball is ridiculous, but I would be insane not to try for a little profit from it. I imagine many women will pay quite handsomely for a potion that will give them an edge over their competition.”
“Shame on you for seeking to trick them. You know as well as I do there is no such thing as a true love potion.”
“No, there isn’t. And that is not what I am offering them.”
“Then what is it?”
“A belief in possibilities.”
When I rolled my eyes, Mal said, “Let me ask you a question, Ella. Have you ever observed that it is not always the fairest woman in the room who attracts the notice of every man present? That often a woman who is less beautiful is the one who receives the most attention. Now, why do you think that is?”
“She has a large fortune?”
Mal laughed. “No, my dear cynical friend. What she has is a complete belief in herself, in her looks, her power of allurement, her worthiness to be loved. That belief communicates itself in the way she walks, the way she smiles, the way she carries herself. You probably have no idea how much courage it takes a man to woo a woman, his innate fear of making a fool of himself. The lady who can meet his gaze boldly and knows how to encourage him with her eyes will win out over the timid beauty almost every time.”
While he spoke, Mal fetched a ladle and scooped up some of the liquid, pouring it into the bottle. Holding the golden liquid up to the light, he concluded, “The women who buy this potion will think that it has the magic to make them totally desirable and if they truly believe that, they will be. What I have brewed up in this bottle is confidence.”
“No, what you have conjured up there is trouble. I don’t care if your Elixir of Love works or not. If you are caught peddling that stuff, you are going to end up arrested for practicing magic without a license. Do you realize that Commander Crushington has you in his sights? He is just waiting for any excuse to lay charges against you. He told me so himself.”
“When were you discussing me with the Crusher?”
“Just this afternoon. He actually warned me to stay away from you.”
“Oh, don’t worry about him. Do you think I cannot handle the Crusher?”
“What I think is you have been sniffing the fumes of your own potion and suffer from an overconfidence that is going to get you arrested or even killed one of these days.”
Mal just grinned. “Recklessness has always been a characteristic of Hawkridge men. It is part of our charm.”
I scowled at him and added hesitantly, “There is something else Crushington told me. I know this is going to sound unbelievable, but it appears that the commander has developed some sort of fondness for me.”
To my indignation, Mal burst out laughing.
“I don’t see what is so amusing about that.”
“What is amusing, my dear, is how completely obtuse you are. I cannot believe you never noticed how smitten the Crusher is with you. One time, he craned his neck so far for a glimpse of you, I thought he was going to fall off his horse.”
“I never noticed that and I am glad I didn’t. I am sure I never did anything to offer him the least encouragement so I cannot imagine why he should have become so enamored.”
“Can you not? You should try looking in a mirror sometime, on one of those days when you have found the time to wash your face and brush your hair. But you are also completely oblivious to how beautiful you are.”
“If I am that attractive, it is no merit of mine. I did not create my face and I am sure I am no prettier than scores of other women.”
“I could debate that with you, but I know it would be of little use,” Mal said. “In any event, I do not know why you are so distressed about the Crusher. It could prove of great advantage having a Scutcheon commander infatuated with you.”
“No, it couldn’t. The commander is not the sort of man to allow his feelings for anyone to sway him from his duty. Even if he were, I am not the sort of woman to take advantage of his infatuation.”
Mal smiled and cupped my chin. “I know you aren’t. That is why I am rather madly in love with you myself.”
“Oh, be serious, Mal,” I said, pushing his hand away. “I did not come here to talk nonsense.” I fetched a wearied sigh. “What I could really use is a cup of tea.”
Mal swept me an exaggerated bow. “Your every wish is my command, milady. Allow me to escort you to the parlor.”
Mal led the way through the curtain at the back of the shop. I followed him into his kitchen and tried not to cringe. When Mal’s grandmother had been alive, the place was warm, cozy and so clean you could eat off the floor. Mal, on his own, was a total disaster. Dirty dishes were stacked everywhere, in the sink, on the counter and on the small oak table. When I walked across the hardwood floor, I could hear the grit crunch beneath my shoes. I had to skirt around a tumbled pile of wood that Mal had never gotten around to stacking in the log basket.
Mal chucked a few pieces of wood into the stove furnace to stoke up the fire. While he filled up the iron kettle, I tried to clear away some of the dishes, empty bottles and books from the table.
“Just sit down,” he commanded. “I’ll take care of that.”
Mal swept the table clean by dumping everything into the empty log basket. I sighed, but said nothing. But when he squinted at the bottom of a stained teacup and began polishing it clean with the hem of his apron, it was more than I could endure.
“No, you sit down and I’ll prepare the tea,” I said.
Mal voiced his usual token protests, but in the end was pleased to surrender. Mal enjoyed being taken care of and he truly missed his grandmother. I have often suggested he at least engage a charwoman. Mal insisted he could never trust anyone to clean as well as his grandmother had. What he really meant was, he did not want any stranger in the shop, stumbling upon some of his more dubious activities.
While I gave the teacups and saucers a proper scrubbing, Mal removed his dirty apron and lounged back in one of the kitchen chairs. It amused me to notice him tugging at his neckline and scratching. Obviously more of his hair had fallen out and slipped down inside his shirt. It was a loose-fitting garment with full sleeves that closed up with laces that Mal never pulled too tight.
I have never known Mal to wear anything resembling a cravat. He said it was because something that constricted the neck was an uncomfortable reminder of strangling, which was the current method of execution in our realm. Our king had such a horror of shedding his subjects’ blood, that all condemned prisoners met their fates at an appointment with the Lord High Garroter and his thick, knotted rope, deep in the Dismal Dungeons.
This individual seldom ever came into town, but I do recall seeing him once when I was about nine years old. He was a giant of a man with thick beefy arms and hands the size of dinner plates. He had come lumbering into the sweetmeats shop where Imelda was treating me and my stepsisters to marzipan. Imelda had turned pale and hustled us all out without buying anything. Amy began to cry, but was sharply hushed by her mother, who declared we had to get away from “that evil man.”
I was surprised because I didn’t think that huge man looked evil, only rather sad and lonely. It was sometime later before I realized who the mournful giant was, the Lord High Garroter who had executed Imelda’s first husband.
/> When the kettle came to a boil, I scooped some loose tea in the china pot and added the hot water. The tea leaves must have been reasonably fresh because a fragrant aroma issued from the teapot. It was a pretty piece of crockery that had belonged to Mal’s grandmother. The teapot was painted with vines and roses, but had to be treated carefully because there was a crack in the handle where it had been glued back together.
This was not owing to any carelessness on Mal’s part but to the time Grandmother Hawkridge had chucked the teapot at her husband’s head. The teapot likely would have shattered altogether but Granny had good aim. She hit Grandfather Hawkridge square between the eyes, but he managed to catch the teapot before it fell to the floor so only the handle was damaged.
I can only imagine what sort of skullduggery Mal’s grandfather must have been planning to inspire his patient wife to such violence. I often felt the urge to bounce something off Mal’s head if I’d thought it would do any good.
As I took my place at the table and served the tea, I was tempted again to try to dissuade Mal from bottling and selling his “Elixir of Love.” But he would never listen and I was already wearied of anything to do with the royal ball. I had come here to escape from any further discussion of it.
I took a soothing sip of my tea and relaxed back in my chair, feeling some of my tension melt. I nudged the sugar bowl closer to Mal, smiling as I watched him ladle spoonsful into his cup. His grandmother used to scold him for that, declaring Mal might as well just take the sugar bowl and wet it down with a bit of tea.
I have such good memories of many cozy afternoons spent in this kitchen with Grandmother Hawkridge bustling about, ironing bed linens, pulling fresh bread from the oven, dumping another bun on my plate as she insisted I was getting too skinny. She would often pause to brush a stray curl from my brow, just as my own mother used to do. The recollection brought a lump to my throat. Mal was not the only one who missed his grandmother.
I took another swallow of tea as Mal popped open a tin and offered me a gingerbread man. I regarded the treat with suspicion and surprise. But the little cake men looked neither moldy nor hard as rocks. I accepted one and cautiously bit off a leg. It was delicious.
Disenchanted Page 6
