“All right,” said Hannah. “But no more making fun of my hands or talking about my mother.”
“Mmm,” said the bird.
“And no poetry!”
The bird lowered his crest a little. “Fine . . . fine . . .”
He gazed at the sky. Hannah went back to thinning carrots.
“All right,” said the bird finally. “How’s this? Your father’s about to bring home a new wife.”
“Yes?”
The titmouse paused, nonplussed. “You don’t seem bothered.”
“Well, it’s not like I have to marry her. And the cook says it’s about time he remarried and it does nobody good to keep moping about.”
“Mmm,” said the bird again. “You may find, I expect, that it’s a little more tricky than that. Humans stay in the nest an awfully long time. But anyway. New wife, woe is you—she’ll be unkind and treat you poorly.”
Hannah scowled. “I’ll put nettles in her bed.”
“I can see,” said the bird gravely, “that you are not without defenses. But should she treat you too abominably, you must go to the tree that grows behind your mother’s grave and shed three tears and say—oh, this bit’s poetry.”
Hannah sighed. “All right, if you must.”
The titmouse fluffed out his breast and sang:
O chestnut tree, chestnut tree
Shake down what I need to me.
Hannah gazed fixedly at the carrot seedlings.
“Dryads,” said the titmouse apologetically. “They mean well, the poor dears, but they think if it’s got a rhyme, it’s high art.”
“Well,” said Hannah. “Thank you for the warning. I guess that will come in handy . . .”
“Glad to help,” said the bird. “I’m sure we’ll speak again. In factttcch tchhh tchhirp!”
He spread his wings, chirped again, like an ordinary bird, and flew away.
Hannah finished with the carrots and went to go ask the cook what the word transcendent meant.
• • • •
Hannah’s father did indeed come home with a new wife, and the new wife came with a pair of stepsisters, and things did not go as well as they could.
We will gloss over the various indignities, some of which are inevitable when households merge, some of which were particularly awful to this situation. Hannah’s stepmother was tall and lean and beautiful and her daughters were tending in that direction. Hannah, who was short and sturdy from double-digging beds with shovels that were too large for her, was given a brief stare and dismissed out of hand.
“Poor thing!” said her stepmother. “Something should be done about the dirt under her nails, I suppose, but I am far too shattered from the move to take it in hand. I suppose she is not educated? No, of course not.”
“I help out in the garden,” said Hannah.
“Yes, I can tell by the dirt on your knees. Well, I suppose it keeps you out of trouble . . .”
Hannah went out into the garden, feeling very strange and rather as if she should be angry. It is not much use being angry when you are eleven years old, because a grown-up will always explain to you why you are wrong to feel that way and very likely you will have to apologize to someone for it, so Hannah sat on the edge of the raised bed and drummed her heels and thought fixedly about when the next sowing of beets would have to be planted.
After awhile, she scrubbed at her cheeks and went to go and plant them.
The next few years went along in that vein, more or less. Her stepmother did not wish to be bothered with her and her stepsisters did not understand gardening and Hannah did not understand embroidery or boys and so they had very little to talk about.
Her stepmother instituted a “no filthy nails at the table” policy, which meant that Hannah ate in the kitchen. It started as an act of rebellion against pumice stones and nail clippers, but eventually it just became the way things were. Hannah found it much more restful.
There was talk of sending Hannah to finishing school, but nothing came of it. The joy of getting rid of her was outweighed, to her stepmother’s mind, by the exorbitant expense. So long as Hannah stayed out in the garden and made herself scarce, there was a minimum of trouble.
“It ain’t right,” muttered the cook. “She treats that girl like a serf.”
The Gardener shrugged. “We’re serfs,” he said. “We do well enough.”
“Yes, but she’s not. Her father owns the house free and clear, not the Duke.”
The Gardener was slow to reply, not because he was stupid but because he had come to a point where he considered his words very carefully.
After a time he said, “There are worse things. She’s warm and fed. No one beats her.”
“She should have pretty dresses,” said the Cook, annoyed. “Like the other two do. Not go around like a servant.”
The Gardener smiled. “Oh, sure, sure,” he said. “Nothing wrong with pretty dresses. Do you think she could keep them out of the vegetable garden?”
The Cook scowled. Hannah’s abuse of clothing was no secret. The laundry maids had to use their harshest soap on the knees of her trousers. What Hannah might do to muslin was not to be contemplated.
If anyone had asked Hannah herself, she would have shrugged. She had no particular interest in her stepmother or her stepsisters. The older stepsister was rude, the younger one kind, in a vague, hen-witted way, and obsessed with clothing. Neither understood about plants or dirt or bees, and were therefore, to Hannah’s way of thinking, people of no particular consequence.
Hannah did not have any difficulty interacting with people; she just had little interest in doing so. She went to the village school long enough to learn to read, but never particularly embraced it, except insomuch as there were herbals and almanacs to be read. People in books tended to do very dramatic (or very holy) things and none of them, while trampling their enemies or falling in love or being overcome on the road to Damascus, ever stopped to notice what was growing along the sides of the road.
There had been an incident with the priest and the parable of the fig tree. Hannah had opinions about people who did not understand when figs were ripe, even if those people were divine. She was brought home in disgrace and her stepmother spent several days having vapors about the difficulties of an impious child.
In this not entirely satisfactory fashion, they bumped along, until Hannah was seventeen and the Duke threw an extraordinary ball for his son.
• • • •
“We are going to the ball!’ said Hannah’s older stepsister when Hannah came in with an armload of vegetable marrows.
“Good for you,” said Hannah, dropping her armload on the Cook’s table.
“You should come too,” said the younger stepsister. “All the girls will be there. Everyone is wearing their very best dresses.”
The older one snorted. “Fancy Hannah being there!”
“I hear the Duke has an orangery,” said Hannah thoughtfully. She had never seen an orangery, although she’d heard of them. They were frightfully expensive and required a great deal of glass.
“An orangery,” agreed the younger, knowing that Hannah was fond of plants. She chewed on her lower lip, clearly wracking her brain. “And vast formal gardens with a hedge maze. And—oh, all manner of things! The centerpieces are supposed to be as large as wagon wheels, with so many flowers!”
“What would she wear?” demanded the eldest.
“Oh!” The younger stepsister considered. “We’d have to make her something. We could take in the hem on my green dress, perhaps—”
Hannah had not the least interest in floral centerpieces and only a vague professional curiosity about hedge mazes. She had less than no interest in hems and green dresses. But her stepsister meant well. She patted the other girl’s arm and went back outside.
She also had no interest in the ball. Balls sounded deathly dull. It might have been a good excuse to enter the Duke’s manor house, however, and perhaps there would have been tours of the oran
gery.
“But really,” she said aloud, scowling in the direction of the beans, “it’s probably not worth having to go to a ball. And she’s right—what would I wear?”
“Ahem,” said the tufted titmouse.
Hannah raised her eyebrows.
She was a good bit taller now than she had been at eleven, and so she and the bird were nearly at eye-level.
It looked like the same bird. Did they live that long?
Perhaps the magic ones did.
“I’m just saying,” said the bird, “you haven’t asked for anything. Not once.”
“I did too,” said Hannah. “I went and asked for a packet of nasturtium seeds. And received nothing, might I add.”
The bird sighed. “Dryads do not deliver the seeds of annuals,” it said, with a good bit of contempt. “Anyway, you’re not supposed to ask for anything. You’re supposed to take what you’re given.”
“I would have, if she’d given me nasturtium seeds.”
The titmouse rubbed a wing over its face.
“Just try it,” it said. “Tomorrow night, when your sisters are gone to the ball.”
“All right,” said Hannah. “If it gets me a look at that orangery, I’ll try it.”
The titmouse turned its head from side to side, in order to give her the full effect of its disapproving stare. “An orangery.”
“I want to see how it’s done,” said Hannah. “Oh, I can’t build one, I know—I haven’t the money for glass. Still, one might make do.”
“You haven’t got any money, have you?” said the titmouse.
“Yes, I do. I raise queen bees and sell them off. And I’ve been selling honey. The Gardener would normally take it but he hates going to the market. So I sell the honey for him and we split the money.”
“Shouldn’t the honey go to the house?” asked the titmouse.
Hannah shrugged. “It’s not like we don’t have plenty. And we’re the ones who take care of the bees. “
“You’re embezzling honey from your father,” said the titmouse. “Lovely.”
Hannah had no idea what that word meant. “Um. Maybe? They’re my queens, anyhow.”
The titmouse clamped its beak shut and gazed at the sky in silence.
“Look, Silas at the market gives me a dollar per jar. And I get five dollars for a queen.” Hannah was feeling a bit defensive about the matter.
“What do you do with that money?” asked the titmouse.
“Well, I buy seeds sometimes. Mostly I save it, though. It’s all in a tin. I won’t tell you where.”
“Sound fiscal policy,” said the titmouse wearily. “All right. Tomorrow night, don’t forget.”
“I won’t,” said Hannah, and the bird flew away.
• • • •
It was a long morning. There was a great deal of uninteresting fretting about dresses. Hannah escaped into the garden as quickly as possible and set about thinning the carrots.
Even so, she caught occasional snippets through the windows—“Now remember, my dears, eye contact. You must make it boldly, but when he sees you, look down and blush. No, dear, that’s a flush, it’s not the same thing . . .”
And, a few minutes later, when the carrots were thinned, “Positively no drinking. Not even ratafia. Unless the Duke’s son offers it to you, in which case you will allow yourself to be led by him. It is vital that you not become intoxicated.”
Hannah moved on to the beets, thinking that it was all very stupid. It was hardly even worth planting beets, come to that, since it was starting to get hot and they were likely to bolt, but there was a wall of the house that got afternoon shade . . .
She lugged the watering can over to the shaded bed and encountered the Gardener.
“Going to the ball?” he asked.
“I doubt it,” she said. “Though I hear the Duke has an orangery.”
The Gardener snorted. “Lot of nonsense,” he said. “You grow plants when they want to grow, not when you want them to.”
“You use cold frames,” said Hannah.
“Don’t get smart,” said the Gardener. Then he cracked a rare smile. “Ah, fine. I’d not have an orangery if you paid me—too many fiddly bits. But a little glasshouse for extending the season—well, perhaps.”
Hannah grinned and went to plant beets.
Just before the supper hour, there was a great commotion and Hannah’s stepmother and stepsisters poured out of the house in a froth of lace and seed-pearls. They climbed into a carriage (Hannah was secretly amazed that they could all fit) and drove off toward the Duke’s manor.
“And not a word to her!” Cook groused to the Gardener. “Not a word! Her blood’s as good as theirs.”
The Gardener shrugged. “She’s good with bees,” he said. “Be a shame to waste her on a Duke.”
The Cook stared at him as if he had lost his mind, but Hannah, who was pulling her gloves off, out of the Cook’s sight, heard the praise and was warmed by it.
She ate her dinner quickly and went back into the garden. The back gate was overgrown, the hinges red with rust. She climbed over it instead of trying to open it, and landed with a thump in front of her mother’s grave.
“Right,” she said. “I’m here.”
Nothing happened.
The wind sighed in the chestnut’s branches. Hannah wiped her palms on her trousers.
Nothing continued to happen.
It occurred to her that she was standing on her mother’s grave. That was awkward, but flinching away seemed even more awkward, so she had no idea what to do. She gazed up at the sky and said “Um.”
The titmouse landed on a branch and looked at her. “You have to say the words,” it said.
Hannah sighed. “Do I have to?”
“Yes.”
“They’re silly words.”
The tree gave a long, disapproving groan, as if the branches were moving in a high gale. The titmouse fixed a warning glare on her.
Hannah took a deep breath and recited:
O chestnut tree, chestnut tree
Shake down what I need to me.
The leaves rustled.
Other than that, Hannah didn’t see much difference.
“Um,” she said after a moment. “Am I supposed to close my eyes, or do I go back inside and my problems are fixed, or . . . ?”
The titmouse pointed one small gray foot over her shoulder.
Hannah turned.
Draped across the fence, looking absurdly out of place, lay a ball gown. It had enormous skirts that twinkled in the evening light. The sleeves were the color of a new leaf in springtime and belled out in enormous slashing ribbons.
“Good lord!” said Hannah, quite astonished.
“Now you can go to the ball!” crowed the titmouse.
“Um,” said Hannah. “Y-e-e-e-s. That is a thing I can do. I suppose.”
She glanced over her shoulder at the tree and the grave.
The bird beamed as encouragingly as something with a small, immobile beak can beam.
“Right,” said Hannah. She gathered up the dress. There were gloves and shoes as well, and a neat black domino mask to hide her face. Her fingers slithered over the fabric, feeling the calluses on her fingertips snag at every thread. She winced. “Okay. Yes.”
She slung the dress over her shoulder, climbed over the gate again, and went into the house.
The chestnut tree and the bird sat together in the growing dark.
“She’ll be fine,” said the bird. “I’m sure of it.”
• • • •
Late that night, the stepsisters returned. They were tired and downtrodden, and the youngest was carrying her shoes.
“A lady doesn’t go barefoot,” her mother said reprovingly.
“A lady doesn’t have blisters the size of grapes then.”
“Who was that girl?” asked the oldest, annoyed. “The one who came in late? The Duke’s son didn’t so much as glance at the rest of us after she showed up.”
; “I don’t know,” said her mother. “No better than she should be, I imagine!”
“I wish I had a dress like that,” said the youngest wistfully. “No wonder he danced with her. I’d have danced with her too, in a dress like that.”
The bird was asleep with its head tucked under its wing, but the tree jostled the branch and woke it up.
“Eh? What?”
It cocked its head, listening. “Oh. I see. Good for her, then. All as it should be.”
The tree creaked.
“I imagine there’ll be another ball soon,” said the bird. “And another gown. Was she supposed to bring that one back?”
Creaaaaak . . .
“Hmm.”
• • • •
The next morning was bright and glorious. Hannah slept late and came out to weed the turnips with her eyes dark and thoughtful.
“Well?” said the titmouse, lighting onto a rain gauge.
“It’s a magnificent orangery,” said Hannah. “They’re heating it under the floors, that’s the trick. The fire isn’t allowed to go out. You’d need three or four servants to keep it all going, though.” She sighed, gazing over the garden. “Not really practical in my situation.”
“Bother the orangery!” said the bird. “What about the Duke’s son?”
“What about him?”
“You danced with him all night, didn’t you?”
“I did nothing of the sort!” said Hannah.
The titmouse blinked.
“But . . . a girl showed up late in a beautiful dress . . . “ it said slowly. “And the Duke’s son danced with her all night . . . “
“Good for her,” said Hannah. “There were dozens of beautiful dresses there, I expect. Hope it was the servant girl, though.”
“The servant girl?”
“Sure.” Hannah straightened from her weeding. “The one I traded the dress to for a key to the orangery.”
The titmouse shot a nervous glance over its shoulder at the chestnut tree. “Come over by the beehives,” it said, “and tell me what you did.”
“Not much to tell,” said Hannah, following the bird obediently. The buzz of the hive made a gentle background to her words. “I met up with a servant girl over by the gardens. She was dead keen to go to the ball, and I had a magic dress, so I gave it to her. Fit like a glove, might I add—though she had to pad the toes on the shoes, they’re a little too large. In return, she smuggled me into the orangery.” She rubbed the back of her neck. “I hope it was her.”
Fantasy Magazine Issue 58, Women Destroy Fantasy! Special Issue Page 5
