Never Be Younger: A YA Anthology

by Rachel Bateman

  That’s not at all the question I expected. I open my mouth, but he cuts me off.

  “Not your favorite color, necessarily.” He leans in and the lantern light catches his eyes. “If you just pick your favorite…well, that’s cheating.”

  I play out his painted scenario in my head, glancing across the dining room and trying to imagine everything devoid of its usual hue, everything ashen. Trees in the nearby forest, all gray instead of their rich brown trunks and green, verdant growth. Or a garden, washed blank, where the roses are burned instead of a riot of brilliant scarlets or luscious pinks.

  And to my total surprise, I draw a blank. Only one color? How could anyone possibly choose just one when so many are beautiful in their own way?

  “You’ve raised quite the dilemma, Mr. Rutledge,” I say.

  His mouth quirks. “I would think you were never perplexed, Miss Aravale.”

  “Then you have a lot to learn about me.”

  “I hope to.”

  My pulse escalates. He blinks lazily, the corners of his mouth still twitching.

  I’m so distracted I hardly notice Argento approach our table. My stepfather clears his throat.

  “Please excuse the interruption, but we must be going. Perdita?” Argento offers me his hand.

  “Of course,” I say, trying to figure out how to breathe normally again. I shake myself and stare up at Argento’s kind, aged face. Right. Home. It’s a long way back up the mountain.

  “Thank you for your company, Mr. Rutledge,” I say, standing. Cove stands as well, straightening his jacket though it does the article no good whatsoever. It’s like he went rolling down hills before deciding to come to a party. “It was nice to meet you.”

  “I hope to see you again soon,” says Cove. In a swift motion he takes my hand and bends to kiss my knuckles. His fingers are soft, and he raises his eyes to me mid-gesture. Heat flushes up to my hairline. It’s all I can do not to pull away.

  Argento hands me my wrap, and we step out into the night. A horse whinnies, and the smell of manure filters across the breeze. Argento helps me up into the wagon, takes the reins, and urges Ivory and Brecker forward through the bustling crowd of comers and goers.

  “What did Sir Tomsin want?” I ask, repositioning my wrap. I struggle to harness my thoughts, but Cove manages to take over each one. The feel of his lips remains on my hand, and I shudder, remembering his low voice and easy manner.

  “Details on the sheepherding industry. It appears I am the man with all the answers in that area.”

  “Of course you are,” I say, shivering and peering back at the inn growing smaller behind us.

  It’s strange that even though I can no longer see him, Cove’s glance trails behind me. The attention is beyond tangible.

  I hope to see you again soon.

  I suspect his parting words were more than just a common pleasantry uttered out of politeness. Something tells me Cove Rutledge is rarely polite for the sake of it.

  * * *

  “It has a woman’s touch,” says Christabel Attwater, examining the cast-iron spoon I’d sculpted earlier. Curls frame her face, and her beautiful skirts sweep the dusty floor of my shop.

  I cringe. Why does she always dress so fancily when visiting me here?

  “Others don’t take the time for these curves, these details. You have a gift, Perdita, my dear.”

  She places the spoon onto the filthy wooden table covered in ashes and bits of metal. Next, she examines a small stew pot.

  “Stunning. Absolutely beautiful work.” Ignoring the black smudges the pot has left on her hands, she looks directly at me. “Don’t let anyone tell you it’s odd for a woman to blacksmith,” she says.

  “I never do,” I reply, lowering my hammer. My hands and shoulder throb under its weight.

  All of Bohemia thought I was crazy when I chose this for my apprenticeship. Four years ago, I studied with Pavel Brooks down in the town, sleeping above his shop and working early and late hours to learn the skill. By the time I turned sixteen, Brooks said I’d learned all he could teach me. Argento had been kind to allow me to turn his tattered barn into a smithy.

  “I’m stronger than any man because of it,” I add.

  Christabel smiles, accentuating the lines around her eyes. “I can firmly believe that. And yet I saw you the other evening. No man would balk at you in a dress, that’s for sure.”

  Heat rises to my cheeks. Instantly, I think of Cove Rutledge. Before I can thank her for her compliment, she goes on.

  “I’d love to show you the world, Perdita. You have such a talent for the rougher things of life. I’d like to introduce you to a much finer side. How would you like to accompany me to England in a few months? My daughter is expecting her first child, and I mean to be there. You’ll be much better company than my footman there.”

  She gestures to Harrison, waiting by the elaborate carriage parked outside. He tips his hat in response. Christabel laughs.

  “What do you say? I’ll introduce you at balls, we’ll buy you more of those pretty dresses, you’ll have the time of your life!”

  My pulse takes off, ready to leave this instant. I’ll go, I’ll pack right now!

  “I’d love to, truly,” I say, compelling myself to speak deliberately. “But I can’t afford such a trip.”

  The dresses, the fare for passage, not to mention room and board…I’ve been saving for a while, but I doubt I have that much, not when a lot of my income helps Argento keep the sheep farm afloat.

  Christabel waves me off. “No need to fuss about that. I was your caretaker, Miss Aravale. You’ll be my guest, no expectations necessary.”

  It’s too much. I can’t accept it. If she were family, maybe. Then again, this woman practically raised me, so she may as well be.

  “Just the same, I’d like to pay my own way.”

  Christabel purses her lips. She examines the spoons once more. “I’ll make you a deal, Perdita. Make me a set of these, and you’ll have your passage.”

  My smile spreads. Now that I can do. “Thank you, Christabel.”

  * * *

  I pound the key until the final piece chips off, leaving just the right amount of space for the gap between the key’s teeth. I wipe sweat from my brow, wishing I could clear it from my arms as well, and lay my hammer down. The lock rests on the table near a clustered pile of metal pots, pans, and spoons—test subjects to practice on, really.

  “Please let this be the one,” I mumble, inserting the key into the lock’s hole. With a turn, the latch releases with a satisfying clink.

  “Impressive,” comes a voice behind me.

  I wheel around. “Mr. Rutledge,” I say in surprise, instantly aware of the sweat and smudges on my face, not to mention the hair escaping from my loosening braid. What is Cove Rutledge doing here? It’s been just over a week since I met him.

  Cove is wearing a tailored tunic and knee-length boots over slightly creased pants. He leans against the door post. “I finished my duties early, and I heard this was the place to come when time became such a commodity.”

  “Who told you that?” I say in disbelief.

  “You did. The minute I met you, in fact.”

  I’m speechless. I stand there, forge blazing at my back, lock in hand spewing out its heart-shaped key.

  He rests his hands behind his back and peers around my shop. “So why blacksmithing, Miss Aravale?”

  I can’t believe how at ease he is. He acts as if we’ve known each other for months instead of minutes.

  “It keeps me busy,” I say, turning away from him and reaching for a long piece of metal lying on the coals. I place it on the anvil. The tip snarls orange and yellow—the combination makes it appear almost white.

  “There’s more to it than that,” Cove says, removing his gloves and placing them on my filthy table. “I’ve never met a girl blacksmith before.”

  A girl blacksmith. I knew there was more to his attentions than he let on. I pick up my hammer and force
away a wince as the pressure rises to my shoulder. The sun has already set. I’ve been at this long enough today. Argento is probably waiting for me to come in for supper.

  “Herding sheep won’t get me out of Bohemia,” I say, securing the scorching metal with a long pair of tongs.

  “You wish to leave?” Cove ambles around to get a better view. I wipe sweat from my brow again and lower the hammer. But I pause. I’m not used to having an audience. At least, not one who looks like Cove Rutledge.

  Heat from the sweltering forge blazes hotter than ever, adding a glow to his face and firelight in his eyes. Small beadlets of sweat collect along his temples. He can’t be comfortable. And yet he stands here. Talking to me.

  Me. The girl blacksmith.

  I grit my teeth.

  “Why?” he prods. “Why do you want to leave your home?”

  Forget it. I plunge the half-molten spoon into a bucket of water. The metal lets off a resounding hiss. I wipe my brow once more and remove the gloves, nursing my shoulder and stepping out to the open end of the barn.

  The cool air is a welcome change, and I breathe it in, allowing it to soak through my lungs and clear out some of the congestion of being dipped in the heat of the smithy. I nurse my right shoulder, rolling it a few times.

  Cove joins my side. He waits in silence for my response. The valley spreads out before us, and several nearby sheep let off vacant baas. Lights from homes below speckle and flicker, a wagon rickets past down the hill, and I take in another clean breath.

  “See that moon?” I say.

  He nods, keeping his glance on me.

  “Growing up, Argento surrounded me with books. I was enticed by tales of the ocean, of forests, of vast, glistening lakes that mirror the mountains they border. Cities larger than I can imagine… I’ve read of them all.”

  “But reading isn’t enough,” Cove finishes.

  I bask in the brisk air, hands aching while the pocket of pain still gnaws at my shoulder.

  “That moon shines on those other places, just like it does here in Bohemia. I want to see it from somewhere else. To see what it’s like, knowing something so constant is with me no matter where I go.”

  Cove stares at the moon. After several moments he says, “I have something I’d like to show you. Will you come for a ride with me?”

  “What, you mean now?”

  He laughs. “Yes, now.”

  “But I’m—” Sweaty, dirty. Dreadfully behind on this order. If I have any chance of going with Christabel in a few weeks, I’ve got to step it up—I haven’t even started on her pots yet.

  Cove takes my hand and, as with last night, I’m instantly aware of how smooth his skin is against the rough spots on mine. I slip mine away.

  “Please, Perdita. Ride with me?”

  “Why?” I ask. “Why me? Why now?”

  “Would it be enough to say I enjoy your company and want more of it?”

  I analyze him. No boy has ever said he enjoys my company. And I’m sure it’s no secret I return the sentiment.

  “We won’t be gone long,” he adds, gesturing to his horse, who paws the ground feet away.

  “Very well,” I say, wiping my hands on my apron. “Give me a moment.”

  I dash into my house—grabbing a bucket of water and a clean cloth—run to my room, rip off my clothes and begin scrubbing furiously with homemade soap. If only I had time for a proper bath. As it is, I dry off, toss on fresh clothes and spritz some rose water.

  “What’s your hurry?” Argento asks when I scramble back down the stairs, tying my hair into another quick braid.

  “I’m going for a ride with Cove Rutledge.” On his horse. Oh heavens, I’ll be on his horse. With him. “We won’t be gone long.”

  “This late?” Argento asks, rising from his chair near the fireplace. “Is the forge still lit?”

  “Blast,” I say, wheeling around. Not enough time. Will he wait for me to douse it? Ugh, and I just changed—that means I’ll have to change again…

  Argento hobbles to the door and slips into his coat. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Thanks.” I sneak in and peck him on the cheek. “We’ll be back soon.”

  “Mind yourself, Perdita,” he says with a warning sort of tone.

  “Back soon!” I yell.

  I scamper up the path and startle. Cove stands beside not just one, but two horses.

  “You saddled Ivory for me?”

  He gives a slight bow, offering her reins. While the courtesy isn’t lost on me, I can’t help the disappointment settling into my chest.

  “To get to where we’re going,” he says, stroking his stallion, “it will be easier riding Ember together. But I thought I’d at least offer, if you’d prefer to ride separately…”

  Chin high, I take Ivory’s reins and lead her back to the barn, tying her to the post and sliding her an apple in mute apology. Then without looking at Cove, I pass him, pat Ember’s nose, and mount.

  Cove’s mouth fights a smile. “I guess that takes care of that,” he says, climbing up. I scoot back so he has room to fit on the saddle in front of me, and thrill as my hands rest at his waist.

  I’m touching a boy. I’m touching. A boy.

  “I tried to hurry,” I tell him. “I couldn’t very well join you covered in ashes.”

  “Suits me,” says Cove over his shoulder. He takes my hands and secures them tighter around his waist. “I’d hold on. We like to go fast.”

  * * *

  Ember gallops across the valley. Wind whirls my hair, and I hug Cove tightly through the horse’s rapid progress. Just when I’m wondering exactly how far we’re going, Cove pulls the reins and the horse slows to a trot, bouncing us with every step.

  A lake rises along the edge of the brush below. Rocks jumble and bar the way to the sand and the abandoned building looming several hundred feet away.

  Cove dismounts. “This ground is too rough for old Ember,” he says, offering me a hand. I dismount, foot slipping on an uneven rock.

  “Careful there,” Cove says, steadying me, hands at my waist. I’m aware of his touch like he’s an extension of me. He stares down, his expression soft, all while my stomach cinches into a tight wad.

  The horse dithers for a moment and lets out a low chuff.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, clearing my throat.

  Cove blinks in the moonlight before inclining his head and offering me his arm. “This way.”

  He leads me down the rocks bordering the lake’s shore. My progress is slow—I’m relieved when my feet sink into the sand instead of the corrugated rocks. The old water wheel attached to the abandoned building sways, letting off an eerie chorus of creaks. Empty window frames gape at me, devoid of even a trace of glass.

  The roof, likewise, is missing, baring the empty framework that once protected the old mill. Frogs croak amid the rattling panels, echoing, reminding me how far we are from civilization.

  “What is this place?” I ask, mounting the entrance’s crumbling step. Plants have overtaken the interior of the roofless structure, which has been gutted save for the exterior walls. Cove enters first, and I follow, opening my arms and twirling with the moon in view so it circles me like a giant eye.

  “Incredible, isn’t it?” Cove asks. “Imagine what it would be like if we all had no roof and could examine the sky at will.”

  “We could just step outside, I suppose,” I say.

  “Ah, but there’s your dilemma again, Miss Aravale.” He rests a boot on the vacant windowsill and stares out. “We haven’t traveled far, really. Yet seeing the moon in an unusual place is so much more intriguing than seeing it from the same perspective every time.”

  I glance at the broken timbers, the exposed rafters, at the luxury of being indoors and yet outdoors all at once.

  “I’ve never thought of it like that before,” I say, wondering where he’s going with this. “Is that why you brought me here?”

  “I wanted you to see the moon from here. Bu
t now that you mention it, there’s something else. Come this way.”

  Cove crosses the space toward a darkened corner I hadn’t noticed. He retrieves a lantern from the shadow and, with the sound of a striking match, lights it. The beam illuminates a staircase in the open chasm below.

  I clench. A dark, open building with no roof is one thing. An even darker passage leading to who knows where is another entirely.

  “What’s down there?” I ask, joining him to peer into the darkness.

  He rests a hand at my back, gesturing with the lantern. “You’re safe with me. I promise.”

  I hesitate. A royal surveyor’s son—probably not likely to ravish a maiden while in a town where his father is on duty. Curiosity itches down my spine, and I follow Cove down the stairs.

  * * *

  The descent takes far too long. I have a huge desire to bolt back and run for it. Girls go missing in situations just like this. Charmed by handsome young men and then never heard from again. What am I doing here?

  But we reach the room below. It fills with a soft yellow glow, and I gasp.

  A statue stands on a pedestal directly in the center. It’s a woman, tall, stocky yet graceful, draped in cloth. A wreath of flowers encircles her head. Her face holds an unfathomable sorrow and she stares as though fending off some great loss.

  “She’s beautiful.” I circle the statue, noting the single word marking the base. Beloved. “Who was she?” I wonder aloud.

  Cove remains in the shadow near the stairwell. “They say she was the queen, banished and publicly shamed by her husband for a crime she did not commit.”

  “What was the crime?” I ask, examining the details in the flowers she holds.

  “I suppose no one really knows any more. Adultery. Murder. Something scandalous, probably. She was cast into prison for it, only for the king to discover her innocence too late.”

  She died in prison. Thrown in there by her own husband for something she didn’t do. I shudder and stare into her stony, sad eyes. I can only imagine the time it must have taken for someone to carve such pain, to immortalize it in stone.