“What happened?” he whispered to anyone.
“She fell in through the back door,” said a waif with flour on her cheek.
“There was a riot in the courtyard,” said a freckled scrap of a boy.
“Who started it?” asked Rumbold. “Have the guards apprehended anyone?”
But for the bubbling of tureens, the spitting of roasting flesh, and the crackle of fire in the ovens, the kitchen was silent.
“They are all asleep, sire.” The black, bald, and barrelchested butcher towered above them all. His voice came from deep within that chest, like the bottom of a steel drum. The words stepped crisply off his tongue, as if common speech was not his first language. He punctuated the statement with a definitive chop from his enormous cleaver. “Every last one. Fast asleep.”
Rumbold stood slowly, so as not to lose his balance, and still had to look up at the man. “You are familiar to me,” he said, relieved to be on the verge of an actual memory. “What is your name, sir?”
The butcher wiped the blood from his hands onto his already massacred apron. “Jolicoeur, Highness.”
“I need you to carry her, Mister Jolicoeur, for I have not the strength to do it myself. Would you do that for me?”
“Yes, sire.” The giant knelt and easily lifted Sunday in his arms. Her face was so pale against the butcher’s dark skin. Rollins led the way to the closest guest chambers. The mousy-haired girl followed behind Jolicoeur, swallowed in his shadow. Cook, with her meaty hands and determined strides, caught up with their strange parade as soon as she had restored order to her demesne. A giant, a waif, a cook, and a scrawny prince: Sunday would have enjoyed this motley crew.
Rollins threw back a dusty velvet coverlet and patted the silk sheets beneath. “Set her down here, please.”
“Awfully clean sheets for one awfully dirty girl,” said Jolicoeur.
“They can be washed,” said Rollins. “I’ll fetch a few more ladies with fresh water. And bandages, just in case.” As he breezed past, Rumbold heard him mutter, “And a dress. She’ll need a dress.”
Rumbold stood with Cook at the foot of the bed while Jolicoeur gently settled his battered angel on her ivory cloud. The mousy-haired girl slipped silently under the butcher’s massive arms and continued tending to Sunday’s face with her now-dirty rag and no-longer-clear water.
“As terrible as circumstances are,” Cook said to the prince, “I’m glad I’ve the opportunity to thank you in person, sire.”
“ Thank me?”
Cook indicated the mousy-haired girl. “She is my new herb girl, per your command, Highness.”
Rumbold understood now. “You saved my life, what wretched little there was left worth saving.”
“I merely have a good memory, Highness. And a long one.”
“Would that more had your memory and put it to such good use.” He took her strong, pie-and-vinegar hand and kissed it.
Cook blushed. “I like you better than the reckless sod who used to live in your clothes.”
“As do I.” Rumbold turned back to the mouse. “What is your name, child?” His question was met with silence.
“Forgive her, sire,” said Cook. “She is mute. Quick of mind, though, and enthusiastic. I’ll take those qualities over a nightingale any day.”
“Did the orphanage have her name?”
“There was no record, sire. I took her out to the garden and told her to pick me a flower to be her name.”
“Let me guess,” he addressed the mouse. “Iris? Lily? Are snowdrops still in bloom? Oh dear, you’re not Skunk Cabbage, I hope.” The mouse rewarded him with a smile.
“Nothing so dramatic.” Cook laughed. “Rampion. It will do.”
“Thank you, Rampion. Welcome to our band of misfits.” Rumbold studied the soul beneath the rags and the skin and bones of her. She was older than he’d first imagined, closer to Sunday’s age.
“If you don’t mind, sire, Mister Jolicoeur, Rampion, and I are needed elsewhere.”
“Yes, of course,” said Rumbold. “Thank you.” He bowed to the mouse-girl, then took the giant man’s hand and grasped it firmly. “Thank you all so very much.”
“She will heal,” said the butcher. “All of us heal in time. The strongest are born again.” He placed a hand on Rumbold’s upper left arm. “We only keep the scars we choose to keep.”
Visions surged through Rumbold: a knife at Rumbold’s throat, a whip at his back, the sting of salt in his eyes, and beneath Jolicoeur’s palm, the burn of a blade as it tore through the flesh of Rumbold’s arm. A fight? A sea voyage? His frustratingly elusive past lay just there beyond the veil.
Rollins returned with two women: not sequined ladies’ maids but women whose statures spoke of years of hauling about everything from firewood to reluctant youngsters. With startling efficiency, they hefted a steaming basin of water to Sunday’s bedside, followed by one armload of towels and another of shimmering gold he could only assume was a dress. They closed the bed curtains around them to work. Rumbold paced.
When the curtains finally slid back, the light that shone from the figure on the bed dimmed all other lamps in the room. The simple golden gown suited her coloring; it would have matched her hair were that not darker from being slightly damp. Somehow, her face showed neither cut nor bruise. He was relieved to see her unblemished.
“She needed no bandages, sire,” said the woman on the left. The black- and blood-streaked rags she bundled in her hands indicated otherwise. She tossed the ruined scraps into the tub of dingy water between them.
“With your permission, sire,” said the woman on the right.
“Yes, of course, you may go. Thank you both.” Why wasn’t Sunday awake yet? He dared to touch her hand, warm and pliant, not cold and stiff as the mask she wore. It was sleep, then, and not death. But an enchanted sleep? Who had done this to her? What exactly had happened in that courtyard?
Rumbold forced the impatience back down his throat. He would have all of his answers when she woke. And perhaps—he fingered a stray lock of her hair and ached to touch the lips that might one day say his name—when she awoke, he would tell her the truth. She deserved that. They both did. She would be happy that her friend the frog was still alive, happy that she had saved him, happy that ... that Fate had bound her forever to a man her family despised.
No. He clenched his fists. If Sunday was to walk that path, she should do it because she chose to, not because the gods had bound and gagged and marched her down it. Sunday deserved the truth, but she also deserved a life. She deserved the freedom he’d never had.
“Is it this one?” Rumbold heard Erik before the door was flung open. The guard paused only long enough to let Rollins through with his contraption: a wheeled chair for invalids.
“Rollins, you are a genius,” said Rumbold.
“I thought some fresh air might do her good,” said Rollins. “And neither you nor I are Mister Jolicoeur.”
“Bah,” said Erik. “I could have carried her. Is she all right?”
“She sleeps,” the prince said. “Other than that, I believe she’s fine.”
“They’re all asleep,” reported Erik. “The entire courtyard. Anyone whose feet were touching those cobblestones when the ruckus started simply fell in their tracks.”
“Was it my godmother?”
“If it was, then she orchestrated it all blind. She is resting up in her rooms, same as last night.”
Which meant that she had once again passed her blood, her energy on to the king. “I take it my father is attempting to regain control over the situation?”
“With the same vigor he applies to everything,” Rollins said judiciously.
“And a sledgehammer,” added Erik.
“Right,” said Rumbold. “Best we stick to the gardens, then.”
***
Warm in his arms, Sunday slept on. Beyond the thick hedge, Rumbold could hear the muffled commotion from the courtyard, and his father’s voice, bellowing above them all. Rum
bold pretended the king’s bark was wolves howling through the Wood and that the chatter of guests was the chirp of sparrows and chickadees as they discussed the evening. He laughed at himself, for he couldn’t remember the last time he had done anything so ridiculous and innocent. He kissed the top of Sunday’s head in gratitude for her influence.
“What is this place?” she said into his shoulder. His heart soared at the sound of her voice. When she turned to smile up at him, the garden, the palace, and the whole world smiled, too.
“Welcome to my sanctuary,” he said. “I find myself despising crowds of late.”
“They will hate me for making you miss your own ball.”
“The hellions should be grateful I did not call off the evening altogether,” he said. “Witnesses said they had never seen such savagery.”
“The female of the species...” Sunday chuckled, and then coughed. As Rumbold suspected, only her external wounds had miraculously healed.
“It is my fault for singling you out.”
“It is my fault for wanting to be singled out,” said Sunday. “The curse of an interesting life: there are either very good times or very bad times.” She winced as she shifted in his arms. “Tonight was the price I paid for yesterday.”
“Do not attempt to justify their actions.” He smoothed her hair with his hand, and she did not tell him to stop. “This will not happen again tomorrow.”
Sunday lifted her head from his shoulder. He saw a trace of pain in her eyes, but not enough to worry him. “There can be no tomorrow,” she said. “Surely you realize that.”
“There will be a tomorrow, just as there will always be a tomorrow that follows today. I will send a carriage at sundown, and my guardsmen will accompany you and your family to the entrance. You have my word; no harm will come to you.”
“But...”
“Please,” he said. “It’s the least I can do.”
“What of my mother? And my sisters?”
“They are welcome, too.”
“No, what of them now? Where are they? Are they all right? Were they—?”
Rumbold moved her body so that she could sit beside him on the bench and converse properly. He took her hand so that he could keep touching her for the short time they had left together. Here in the garden under the stars was the perfect place to tell her the truth of his enchantment. But when he opened his mouth, he said only, “They are fine, I think.”
“You think?”
“They’re all asleep.”
“Asleep.”
“As you were. By all accounts, everyone in the courtyard just fell asleep.”
Sunday covered her mouth with her free hand. “This is all my fault.”
“I am as much to blame as you,” said the prince.
She pulled her other hand away; he refused to let her see how much it wounded him. “You don’t understand,” she said. “I did that. I put everyone to sleep. Me. I am—”
“Good,” said Rumbold.
Sunday halted mid-rant. “Good?”
“It stopped the riot. It stopped anyone else from getting hurt.” He touched her hair again. “It stopped them from killing you.” And me from having to kill them.
“It was all I could think of. I didn’t even know what would happen, or if anything would happen at all. I was only thinking of myself. I could have hurt someone.”
“I’ve hurt a lot of people,” he admitted, “and never for anything so noble as saving my own life. So tell me”—he lifted her chin—“which of us is more selfish?”
The bellowing and murmuring beyond the hedge grew louder. Erik coughed and then appeared through the gate. “They are waking up, sire.”
“Please,” said Sunday. “I can’t face them.”
“As you wish,” said the prince. “But you have nothing to fear.”
“I fear myself,” she whispered.
“I do not fear you,” he whispered back.
She smiled. “Perhaps you should.”
“Erik, please secure a carriage for my honored guest. The evening has taken its toll upon her and she must rest”—he winked at her—“so that she may return tomorrow.”
“Of course, sire,” Erik said grandiosely.
“Discreetly, friend,” said Rumbold.
“Like a thief in the night,” said Erik.
“Thank you,” said Sunday.
“I will convey your whereabouts to your mother and sisters and offer them a carriage as soon as they wish to leave,” said Rumbold.
“Thank you again.”
“And if they wish to stay, I will woo your mother and dance with your sisters until every other woman in the room is green with envy. Now, would you grant me the honor of pushing your humble contrivance to the gate?” He gestured to the wheeled chair.
“I’m sure I can walk.”
“If I were stronger, I would ignore your protests and carry you to your carriage,” he said. “I am the prince, after all.”
She swatted his arm. “You are a beast.”
“I have been called such before, but unfortunately I don’t have the energy to live up to that either. So I will only offer you my arm and hope you will take it.”
She did. He led her to the carriage Erik had called to the north gate, away from the courtyard, and helped her in. Before he shut the door after her, he kissed her hand. “Good night, my Sunday.”
“Good night, my prince,” she answered, and the carriage bore her away into the night. My prince. One day soon, he would not have to watch her leave him again.
“Come on, lover boy.” Erik clapped him on the shoulder. “Were needed to save an innocent barrel of wine from a lecherous duke’s son.”
***
Considering the volume of alcohol needed to make a haefairy like Velius as well and truly drunk as he was, it was a wonder there was any wine left in the castle.
“He’s been like this since they discovered the sleepers,” said Erik. Rumbold helped him pour Velius onto a bench at the edge of the courtyard. Slumped over like that, his angelic face pressing into the stained wood, his cousin looked about fourteen. Velius obviously still felt responsible for whatever he’d done to bring Wednesday to the king’s attention. “It got even worse after they woke up.”
“I would know who started this rabble.” Rumbold scanned the sea of victims and servants until he found his father addressing the Woodcutter household.
A woman wearing a silver-pink dress and a circlet on her brow held Seven Woodcutter’s hand. Princess Monday, Rumbold recalled. With her long golden hair and bright eyes, she was a vision of what Sunday might look like sitting beside him on a throne one day. Her skirts were pristine; of course she and her husband would have rooms at the castle. She wouldn’t have been in the courtyard when the riot had happened. Monday said something soft and beautiful enough to deflate the king without annoying him. The king actually stepped back, accepting Seven’s reticence and ignoring the trembling Friday, who hugged herself tightly and kept her head bowed.
But there was one Woodcutter sister who was not afraid of the king. Wednesday met the king’s eyes as blatantly as she had the night before, and then completely ignored him while she twisted her hair into a knot and fixed it into place with ... some sort of knife? Rumbold felt sure he had seen a wicked gleam flash from it. Wednesday’s dress tonight was a shroud of tears and trouble, a symbol of the emotions that hung, invisible but palpable, above the courtyard. When she raised her arm to silently indicate the instigators, it was as if they had been marked by Death himself.
There were seven of them, reluctant, regretful, and resigned, and they were brought before the king. Each of them wore at least one bandage. Most of them limped. A line of blood still trickled down one girl’s cheek. The Woodcutter sisters had all fought back. Proudly, Rumbold squinted at Wednesday’s hair again. Perhaps that was a knife.
“What would you have me do to them?” the king asked Wednesday. His voice carried on the cool night air down to the water, the Wood, and the ne
xt kingdom. “What should be their punishment? Lashes? The stocks? Or perhaps”—his eyes gleamed—“they should be placed naked in barrels staked with nails and dragged through the streets by two of my best chargers.”
What had gotten into his father? But Wednesday was not ruffled. “They know their crime,” she said. “They know their shame.”
“It is not enough for me,” said the king. “It is not enough for what they would have done to you, what they have already done to ... the woman I love.” On the humble cobblestones he knelt before her, and the crowd gasped. “Now that I’ve found you, I don’t know what I would do without you. Dear Miss Woodcutter.” He took her pale hand. “Wednesday. I have this kingdom and riches aplenty at my disposal, but my life is as empty as my heart. I can’t remember the last time I was as happy as you made me last night.”
Can you not, Father? Rumbold wondered if his father had said similar words to his mother, or the woman before her.
“I would be honored,” the king continued, “if you deigned to stay and further your efforts toward my happiness.”
“For how long?” she asked. Every breath held, though each soul already knew the answer.
“For as long as we both shall live.”
“Yes,” Wednesday said without hesitation, though Rumbold suspected her haste was more due to expectation than emotion. “Yes, I will marry you.”
A cheer rose from the assembled crowd, the population of which had more than trebled since the mishap. Hands clapped and feet stomped and wine poured, and three violinists struck up an impromptu jig.
There were some who did not cheer: Rumbold, Erik, the still-not-drunk-enough Velius, and the seven women whose punishment had been postponed long enough for their small insurrection to become attempted murder of the future queen.
After kissing the hand of his wife-to-be, the king addressed the accused. “These women will remember the harm they have caused for the rest of their lives,” he said. “I would have the rest of the world know their dishonor as well. Call for the pigkeep.” A servant scurried to obey. “Each of their forearms will be branded with the royal seal as a reminder of the debt they owe to the crown.”
Enchanted Page 16
