She gives me a wry look.
“Why would he do that?”
“Your father thought it was clever and funny,” Mother answers. “He thought he could make a pet out of it.”
Galinor opens his mouth, but I hold up my hand, cutting him off. “Don’t start.”
“Anwen!” Mother gasps when I snap at Galinor, obviously thinking of his crown.
“Where is this gremlin?” I ask. “And why haven’t you killed it yet?”
Mother looks taken aback, and then she flushes and looks away. “You don’t think we’ve tried? Nothing can kill the little beast. In the end, your father gave him to a gimly just to be free of it before it could cause any more damage.”
She might as well have said the thing had been adopted by unicorns. Irving would have liked that better, anyway.
I rub my temples. “Where can we find this gimly?”
Mother narrows her eyes. “There is nothing you can do—not unless you can find another stone.”
I shake my head, knowing after speaking with Brug that it would be impossible.
“Please, Lady Galia, where can I find the gimly?” Galinor asks.
She purses her lips as she looks up at Galinor. She seems unsure. “You can’t help.”
“Let me try,” Galinor presses.
Her eyes flicker from Galinor to me, and then her shoulders sag. “He lives over the ridge, in a cottage by a lake. But he can’t help us.”
So close.
“We can still try.” Galinor turns to me. “Shall we go hunt a gremlin?”
Relief washes over me. He’s not going to leave. He’s going to help me.
“Just let me change.”
Mother, of course, argues, but in the end Galinor convinces her to let me come. She’s helpless against his smile, and I almost feel bad for taking advantage of it. Almost.
***
Frost covers the ground, and the morning air is cold. The sun just crests the horizon when we reach the gimly’s cottage.
Mother might be wrong. This doesn’t look like a magical being’s home. There are two cows grazing in a fenced pasture by the pond, chickens peck the ground, and wash has been hung out to dry. The linens should have been taken in the night before because now they are stiff with frost.
Galinor knocks on the door, and we wait. At first there is no response, but just as Galinor lifts his hand to knock again, the door flies open.
Though they are magical beings, gimlies look like humans for the most part. But I’ve never met one, so I hadn’t realized exactly how human they look. My jaw slackens as I stare at the man in front of me.
He narrows his eyes and then looks at the sun—as if he’s pointing out it’s too early for visitors. He then takes a puff of his pipe and says, “Hello, Anwen. I see you found your way back to Primewood.”
“Farmer Ergmin?” I say, shocked to see the old man who gave me the ride to Estlebrook in his wagon.
“What do I owe the pleasure?” From his tone I can tell it’s not really a pleasure at all. And though he looks mildly curious, he doesn’t seem terribly surprised to see me.
Getting right to the point, Galinor says, “We understand you are harboring a gremlin.”
Ergmin squints in the bright sunlight, which has now risen to just the right height to blind a person. “A gremlin, eh?”
“My mother said Father gave you one many years ago,” I prod.
Ergmin looks at me, sighs, and then smiles. “Ah—that gremlin.” He steps inside. “Come in.”
His house doesn’t smell bad exactly, but it is a little stale, as if the windows haven’t been open for several days. I spy a collection of cobwebs hanging over a closed shutter.
Make that several years.
There’s also an herbal tang to the air and the distinct smell of freshly turned dirt—which is an odd aroma for indoors.
“I suppose you want to see him?” Ergmin asks.
I don’t want to see him at all, but we might as well get it over with.
“Well, you’ll have to wait until I’ve had breakfast.” Ergmin plops down in a chair by a small table and nods to the fire.
I stare at him.
“Now, now, Anwen. I drove you all the way to Estlebrook. The least you can do is make me some porridge.”
I could, if I knew how to make porridge.
Galinor takes pity on me, and he drags me to the pot. It’s questionable whether it’s clean or not, but since I’m certainly not eating anything out of it, I don’t really care. A jug of oats sits on a nearby bench, and Galinor pours some in. He also finds a clay pitcher of water, and he dumps some of that in as well. He stirs it using a spoon hanging on the spit, and then he turns to me and raises his eyebrow.
“Aren’t we domestic?” I tease.
We wait for the porridge to cook, and the silence is a little uncomfortable.
“Did you sell your pumpkins, Farmer Ergmin?” I ask.
I’ve decided to ignore the fact that he’s a magical being. It’s less unsettling that way.
Ergmin’s lips twitch, almost as if he knows what I’m thinking. “I did. I had to change them to turnips first, but they sold.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
“Turnips don’t make as much gold.” He shrugs. “But what do you do?”
I turn to the pot, waiting for the soupy concoction to boil. When the porridge is done—and by done, I mean sticky—we sit with Ergmin while he eats.
A cat jumps on the table, and it startles me so badly I nearly scream. Relieved it’s not the beast, I hold my hand out for the animal to sniff. “Where do you have the gremlin contained?” I peer around the cottage.
Ergmin snorts at my reaction to the cat, and then he answers, “I’ve bound his magic. He’s harmless now.”
As if summoned, the gremlin wanders into the room. At least, I think it’s the gremlin. He has large, rabbit-like ears, and his feet are huge.
But he’s fluffy.
And cute.
When the creature sees Ergmin has company, he looks at us with big, friendly, brown eyes. His fur is silky and spotted black and white—like a milk cow.
“Is that it?” I ask, already doubting my assessment.
This must be some other strange animal Ergmin keeps around.
“Yes.” Ergmin turns to look at the creature. “Say hello, Brugo.”
“Brugo?” I ask.
The creature bounds over to me and hops on my lap. I think he’s possibly the most darling thing I’ve ever seen, but he then opens his mouth, revealing large, sharp teeth.
Looking right at me, he howls in my face.
I shriek, sweeping the gremlin off my lap. Brugo cackles and bounds around the room, squealing.
“What is wrong with it?” I demand, still trying to catch my breath.
“He’s a gremlin,” Ergmin answers, as if the problem were obvious.
Which, I suppose, it is.
“Kill it,” I say to Galinor.
Ergmin chuckles. “You can try.”
The prince is only too happy to comply. Galinor strikes at Brugo with his sword. The steel pauses only a hair away from the creature’s neck.
“Galinor?” I ask. “Why did you stop?”
Again Galinor swings, and again the blade pauses before it touches the gremlin.
Galinor grits his teeth and retracts the sword. “He stops me.”
Brugo squeals and shrieks. He jumps on the table and then off again, sending Ergmin’s bowl crashing to the ground.
Ergmin shrugs. “You can’t kill him.”
I whip back to him. “I thought you said his magic was bound?”
“It’s still in him,” Ergmin answers. “And that magic won’t let you murder him.”
I groan. “Can’t you do anything?”
Ergmin raises his hand, and the gremlin freezes mid-bounce. “I can do that.”
A frozen gremlin is far better than a bounding one, but it still doesn’t help Father.
“If we c
an’t kill him, we can’t undo the curse on my Father,” I tell Ergmin, pleading with him to think of something.
Galinor sits. “Can the creature undo the curse?”
Ergmin studies us, his brows knitting. “Perhaps if he were unbound…”
I shake my head. Who knows what trouble the thing would cause if it were free again.
Ergmin thinks for a moment, and then looks at the table. “I might be able to undo it.” He stoops to pick the broken pieces of earthen bowl off the floor.
“Really?” I almost don’t believe what he’s just said. “Will you?”
“I’ll need a few things. If you bring them to me, the curse will be lifted when you return.” He gives me a long look. His eyes are on me, but they seem far away. They come back to focus, and he nods. “Yes.”
“Thank you, Ergmin. Truly—thank you.”
“I’ll write a list.” He stands, chooses a quill and parchment, and then sits back at the table and begins scribbling.
I read it once he hands it to me. “Five kember carrots, one loin of iktar beast, two field potatoes, one bunch of fresh pansley—finely minced, and three stalks of water root. Add salt to taste.” I hold the list out. “This looks like a soup recipe.”
Ergmin smiles. “Actually, it’s a stew.”
I frown and look at the list again. “You want us to collect the ingredients for your stew, and then you’ll undo my father’s curse?”
“You bring me these things, and your father’s curse will be over.” He sighs. “I haven’t had this recipe in years. My mother used to make it.”
My eye twitches, but I know it’s not wise to argue with magical creatures. If he wants his stew, fine. We’ll make it for him.
I take a deep breath. “You’ve known about Father’s condition for over twenty years. Why haven’t you worked the counter curse before now?”
Ergmin lights his pipe again and takes a puff. “The time was never right.”
***
Galinor and I leave the cottage. I’m still humming with frustration, and Galinor seems just as agitated.
As we walk back to the manor, he plucks the list from my hands. He scowls at the parchment. “What’s an iktar beast?”
“I have no idea. I’ve never heard of it.”
“There are probably field potatoes in your kitchen,” he says. “But a kember carrot?”
I shake my head.
“Pansley?”
I sigh. “It sounds familiar, but again—I don’t know. You’ve already seen the extent of my culinary knowledge.”
Galinor looks like he’s going to crumple the list in his hands.
“What’s the matter?” I ask.
His handsome face contorts into a grimace. “It’s another scavenger hunt.”
“It’s not a scavenger hunt.” I tug the list away from him before he can crush it. “It’s a grocer’s list.”
A flock of geese flies overhead, calling in the air as they wing their way across the sky. Despite the bright autumn sunshine, the day won’t be a warm one. The brush under the pines has turned yellow, and soon the leaves will fall and leave the slender twigs bare.
“You don’t have to go with me,” I say quietly. “You’ve already helped so much.”
Galinor stops and gives me an incredulous look. “You think I would let you go alone?”
I watch him from the corner of my eye. “Probably not.”
He snatches the list back again. “Where do we start?”
“We’ll go to King Windom’s herbalist,” I say, examining the list in his hands. “He will know where to find all this.”
“How far away is the castle?”
“Less than a day’s ride.”
We reach the manor, and this time I enter without knocking. The hall is warm, but the atmosphere is hushed. Today it feels like a cursed home. Has it always been like this? Or am I only noticing it now that I know?
No, I don’t think so. The changeling stone chased away the sadness—or cloaked it, at the very least.
“Mother?” I call as we wander the halls, looking for her.
We finally find her asleep on a bench near the fire in her sitting room, her embroidery forgotten on her lap. She’s pale and looks as if she needs the rest. I hate to wake her, but I don’t have a choice. I shake her, and even though I’m gentle, she wakes with a start.
“Anwen.” She sits up, blinking. “Did you find him?”
I tell her about our morning spent at the cottage, and when I finish she asks to see the list. Her eyebrows knit as she reads. “Where will you find all this?”
I take back the list. “I have to go to Dontel. If anyone will know, it’s him.”
She nods, but her eyes are troubled. “You can’t leave now. Your father couldn’t bear to lose you again.”
My eyes flicker to Galinor’s, guilt heavy in my heart. He takes my hand.
“I have to save him, if I can,” I say to Mother. “You understand that, don’t you?”
“Of course I do. This is exactly what Ergmin said you are to do?” Her eyes search mine, and then she looks away, taking a shaky breath. “Yes, you must go.”
I stare at the list in my hands. It will kill Father if I leave, but it will kill me to watch him suffer the way he does.
I hug Mother tight. “I promise I will fix this.”
“Promise you’ll come back.” She catches hold of me before I leave. With tears in her eyes, she brushes a few stray hairs away from my face. “Know how much I love you. Never doubt it.”
She clutches me tight, as if she can’t bear to let me go. It feels like a final goodbye.
I hate that she doesn’t trust I will return. I give her one last squeeze and then let her go.
***
It’s midday when we leave the manor. Danver sits on my lap and Pika follows behind. I try to tell the glasseln to stay, but like always, it’s no use.
The castle feels empty without Irving and Marigold. I’m greeted by several people, but in a way, I feel like an intruder.
I knock on the herbalist’s door, and, almost immediately, the door swings open. On the other side is Dontel, an older man with graying hair and kind eyes. “Anwen!” He ushers us inside. “Have Irving and Marigold returned? I haven’t seen them.”
“They’re in Glendon,” I answer, pulling the parchment from my satchel. “But I’m hoping you can tell me where to find all this.”
Dontel scratches his chin as he reads over the list. “Hmmm.”
I’m impatient to leave although we’ve only just arrived. “Well?”
“Kember carrots are simply wild carrots—they grow almost everywhere. Field potatoes can be obtained in any market. Water root grows in freshwater stream banks—it’s more abundant in the northern regions, however.” He looks down at the list again. “I have dried pansley, but none fresh.”
I sigh. The room is hot from the fire, and it smells like herbs and beeswax. There are several concoctions cooling on the bench. I wonder how Dontel can stand the smell. Perhaps you don’t notice when you’re in it all day.
“I think it will need to be exactly as it is on the list,” I say.
Dontel nods. “It’s native to Coppel. You may be able to find it there, though it is already late in the season.”
“What about the iktar beast?” Galinor asks.
Dontel frowns. “You’ll only find them up north, in Errinton.”
I cringe. Of course Ergmin would send us for something that can only be found in the rockiest, coldest, most desolate of the known kingdoms.
The herbalist frowns at the list before he gives it back. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”
“You were helpful,” I assure him.
“We’ll go to Coppel first,” Galinor says. “And we’ll look for the other ingredients on the way.”
Dontel wishes us luck, and we leave his quarters. Almost to the main gates, we are stopped by Marigold’s maid, Maria. “Lady Anwen!” she declares, rushing forward. “Have you heard fro
m Marigold? She has been gone so long.”
I smile at the girl. “She is well, and I believe she will return soon.”
Maria’s eyes drift to Galinor—as all female’s eyes seem to do.
She lowers her lashes and gives him a curtsy. “Forgive my forwardness, My Lord.”
I try not to roll my eyes.
He gives her nothing more than a polite smile. “There is nothing to forgive.”
Disappointment flashes over Maria’s face, but then she excuses herself.
When the hall is empty, I turn toward Galinor. “Is this how it is? Do women trip over themselves just to speak with you?” My voice is testy though I mean it to be teasing. I bite my lip, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut.
A low, warm smile spreads across his face, making my heart pick up its pace.
He smirks. “Jealous?”
I give him a playful slap on his chest. “No.” I try to laugh, but it comes out high pitched and not very convincing.
He leans close. “You know what the most outrageous attempt for my attention has been?”
I shake my head, pretending to be aloof, and try not to think of how close his lips are to my ear.
“There was a girl in Lauramore who dumped an entire tray of cider over me just so I would notice her.”
My eyes go wide, and I laugh at the insinuation. “I did not!”
“No?” he asks. “Because I like that story.”
I stand with my mouth hanging open, gaping at him.
He laughs and sets his hand on the small of my back, leading me down the hall. “Well, Your Ladyship. Shall we ride to Coppel?”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Fresh Pansley & Kember Carrots
“But is it a kember carrot?” I ask the farmer at the vegetable cart.
He holds up the vegetable in question. “It’s a carrot.”
I look at Galinor, exasperated. He puts a hand on my arm and steps up. “She wants to know if it’s wild.”
The man scowls. “If you want wild carrots, go forage in the woods yourself. If you want high quality, farmed carrots—buy these.”
“We’ll take the potatoes,” I answer, and I hand him the coins in exchange for the roots.
It shouldn’t be this difficult to find a few vegetables. It’s our second day in Coppel, and we still haven’t found any fresh pansley. The farmers and merchants in the town squares all say the same thing: “It’s too late in the season; would you like dried?”
Anwen of Primewood Page 19
