Dearest (12 page)

“Everything happens for a reason,” he said.

“Mama would love you to pieces,” said Friday. And it was true, though probably more so because Conrad was no stranger to hard work. “Would you mind starting the rounds with the children? I’ll go with Elisa to the kitchens and check on how the nettle fibers are coming. We’ll meet you by the willow tree.”

Conrad bowed to both Friday and Elisa before leaping down the last few steps and dashing off down the corridor.

Elisa raised her eyebrows and gestured with her hands. Though Friday could no longer hear Elisa’s words in her mind, she guessed what the girl might have asked.

“He’s a pure ball of energy, that one,” said Friday. “And he
should
bow to you. You are a princess, after all. Deposed or not.”

Elisa straightened her shoulders, raised her chin, and fiddled with her stringy hair in jest.

Friday laughed. “I’m sure I could find you a tiara. Just don’t blame me for the headache it gives you.” Goodness, she sounded like Mama! Elisa pulled another face, and Friday dissolved into giggles again as they made their way to the kitchens. It was good that the girl was in such high spirits. These next few days were bound to test everyone’s mettle.

The main kitchens were more bustling than usual. Men, women, and children alike worked hard on every surface, sorting berries, chopping herbs, and kneading loaf after loaf of bread. She could hear Mr. Jolicoeur, the butcher, calling to a group of men beyond the open back door; it seemed a lucky bunch would be dining on fresh venison tonight. A red-cheeked Cook sang as she tended a myriad of bubbling pots on the stove and hearth.

There were nettles everywhere.

Pots of all sizes and cauldrons and skillets were filled to the brim with dark green leaves. Bushel after bushel were stacked up along the walls and out the door. Scullery maids and kitchen boys with thick gloves separated the leaves from the stalks, sorting the pieces into several bags. When the bags were filled, each was carried to a different location. The bare stalks were then rebundled and hung over the fire to dry.

Cook was nothing if not organized. Friday marveled at the efficiency with which the short, plump woman ran her chaotic domain. Doubtless they were performing similar tasks in the subsidiary kitchens, even without Cook’s direct supervision.

“Come in, girls,” shouted Cook. “Stand close here, there’s not much room to spare.”

“Thank you,” said Friday, obeying quickly enough to avoid being trampled by a passing bag of nettle leaves.

Elisa tugged on Cook’s sleeve and pinched her nose. Friday had been so distracted by the jovial atmosphere of the busy kitchen that she hadn’t even noticed the briny smell that filled the room.

“That’s the nettles you’re smelling, strange as yonder ocean. Don’t worry, it passes. And don’t go acting all high and mighty now that you’ve skived off being my herb girl,” Cook chided Elisa. “You may be some fancy princess to the rest of them, but you’ll always be Rampion to me.”

Friday’s heart broke a little as she realized that Cook would miss this girl as much as any woman would miss her own child. Cook had saved Elisa from the orphanage, given her a purpose, and called her Rampion. Motherless Elisa, who had no other strong female figure in her life, all but worshipped the kind woman, and rightfully so. Elisa put an arm around Cook and squeezed tightly. It was enough to make Friday weep.

“Watch out, now, girl, or you’ll have me spill something.” Cook dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her apron and pretended it was because of the nettles’ steam.

“Are you very familiar with nettles?” Friday asked her.

“I am, milady—ate them at my mother’s knee. I feel quite the fool for not thinking of it sooner.”

Perhaps fate had not wanted it that way. “It is not traditional palace fare,” admitted Friday.

“In our current situation, nothing is too humble,” said Cook. “It would have been better to harvest them in the spring, for eating, but fall is almost as good. The heftier stalks will yield more fibers for Miss Rampion’s projects. I’ve got them separating off the youngest leaves for blanching and eating, and the older leaves for making tea.” She had one of the maids pour a cup for Friday.

“Watch this.” Cook dropped a lemon slice into the cup and stirred. The rich, dark green liquid changed almost instantly to a bright, cheery pink. Friday gasped.

Cook winked. “One of Mother’s tricks. Another trick is making beer—but I’ll save that for later. Here’s what you’re after.” She handed her wooden spoon to one of the maids and led Friday and Rampion to a larder just outside the heat of the kitchens.

Friday did her best not to exclaim at the empty shelves. Arilland’s situation was already so dire! Inside the larder, a group of boys were hard at work. Bundles of the nettle stalks, already dried, lined up against the bare shelves. There were a few tin buckets filled with water where some of the stalks were soaking. This concentrated stench was far worse than the fishy smell of the kitchen. Elsewhere on the stone floor, the boys jumped on drenched and softened stalks with their boots, smashing them and separating the pliable outer husk from the tough fibers inside. Those fibers they then tossed in yet another bucket lined with cloth. As they dried, the last boy laid them out and carefully wrapped them around the end of a distaff.

One single distaff. For all that they had been working through the night, there was precious little fiber to show for it.

“Don’t fret, my Rampion,” said Cook. “You’re part of our family now, and this family looks out for one another. We won’t stop until you’re free.”

Elisa wrapped both arms around Cook this time and buried her face in the woman’s broad shoulder. Friday could feel her tears. So much lost, so many years running, never staying in one place long enough to care about anyone—or have anyone care for her . . .

Cook pulled the girl out of her arms and kissed her forehead. “You must be strong now,” she said. Elisa nodded, wanting desperately to say something but bound to silence. Cook put a finger over her charge’s lips and then turned to Friday. “I’ve already sent your squire off with baskets for the children filled with whatever I could spare. And I’m to let you know your sister is meeting you out in the yard with fabric for your patchworks and a drop spindle.”

Friday curtseyed. “Thank you, chef.” Elisa followed her lead.

Cook handed Elisa the distaff of nettle fibers and waved them both away. “Now, now, none of that nonsense, please. I’ve some smelly work to get back to, thanks to a dawdling young herb girl and some clever farmers’ children.”

The rain had passed early that morning—that part had been no dream, either. The meadow before them was green and vibrant, shadowed only by the fat clouds rolling by. The children were even more full of energy than usual, if such a thing were possible, as if they’d been watered and now stretched out to the sun like sated plants. Roughly half of them still ran laundry races, while the other half were off adventuring with baskets, seeking every edible treasure they could find and presenting them to the woman who sat beneath the willow tree—a woman who was not, as Friday had guessed, Queen Sunday.

It was Monday.

The eldest Woodcutter sister sat on a large blanket, surrounded by a dozen large baskets and a sea of ivory sateen fabric. Elisa’s brothers may have been cursed into swans, but Monday was the epitome of the bird in human form, tall, flawless, graceful, and white. Judging by the limpness of her overskirt, Friday suspected that Monday’s underdressings had been sacrificed for the greater good. She did not grieve for the not-so-poor soul relegated to Princess Monday’s castoffs.

Monday planted a kiss on the cheek of a young girl with green-tinted skin—the Kate the children called “Pickle”—who presented her with a handful of fresh berries. Her slender fingers collected the berries in a beautifully embroidered handkerchief, and she sent the child back into the fray.

“Velius has released me from my nursing duties,” Monday announced. “To be honest, I’m little help to him anymore. Now that the initial rush of ocean-tossed refugees has settled, there’s not much he can’t heal on his own. So I’m here to be your loyal subject.” She raised a basket as if toasting Friday’s health. “I come bearing scads of material and sewing implements and the willingness to instruct the masses as you see fit.”

Friday blushed. Ever since Sunday’d become queen, Princess Monday had returned to Arilland from her castle in the north, eager to reunite with her estranged family. Having recently become a victim of fate herself, Friday realized it was possible that Wednesday’s spell had something to do with Monday’s presence—but Friday knew there was more to the tale.

Though their eldest sister was still by far the most beautiful woman in Arilland, Friday felt a shadow inside her, cold and swirling like a conjured mist. Something terrible had happened to Monday, something beyond the loss of her beloved twin those many years ago. It haunted her eyes and lent a mystery to her figure that only served to make her more of a legend.

No one ever mentioned her absent husband, the dark prince who had swept her off her feet and made her the subject of romantic songs for years to come. If Monday wanted to keep her secrets, that was her business. As long as she reached out to her family, Friday would reach back.

“Elisa, you remember my sister Monday.” They had been introduced last night in the presence of Mr. Humbug, but Friday felt safe in assuming that the evening had been a blur for them all. Elisa curtseyed and Monday nodded to her.

“Enchanted.”

The word made Friday smile. Ever the diplomatic princess; Monday’s greeting was so much more than a simple salutation.

“I must teach Elisa how to spin these fibers on the drop spindle. Once I have her started, I can help you sort fabric, cut squares, and collect a few of the children who might be interested in helping us.” She was afraid of insulting her perfect sister, but Friday had to ask, “
Can
you sew?”

Monday gracefully took the question in stride. “Not as deftly as you, dearest sister, but I can hold my own among the idly embroidering ladies of the court. I do not possess a magicked needle, however. I have been known to prick my finger a time or two.” She waggled those pale, slender fingers, and Friday felt her laugh at a joke that bubbled up inside that secret inner darkness.

As Monday emptied the baskets, Friday began instructing Elisa. She felt uncomfortable—who was she to be teaching anyone, when she had only just been apprenticed herself? She repeated her prayer to the gods for the safety of her mentor, and added a prayer to Yarlitza Mitella that she might forgive her brash apprentice for overstepping her bounds.

Managing the distaff and the spindle was awkward for Elisa at first, but she caught on quickly and was soon spinning like a madwoman. After about an hour she was walking around the meadow pulling the nettle fibers from the distaff and kicking the drop spindle from time to time to keep it spinning.

Elisa seemed pleased at her progress, but Friday secretly hoped the kitchen boys would be able to fill two or three more sizeable distaffs full of the stuff before sunset. They would need vast amounts of the yarn if they hoped to make seven shirts. Once there was enough to start Elisa on warp and weft, the task of spinning would pass to Friday and the brothers . . . but there could only be as many spinners as there were distaffs.

So, for the moment, frustrating as it was, Friday was allowed to sew.

Friday waved Wendy over. She told her to fetch Elaine and Evelyn and any other men, women, or children who had the patience to sit still and stitch. Friday called out to Frank and the young women watching the babies so that they could pay attention while she and Monday demonstrated the simple stitching of the fabrics.

“Right sides together,” Friday heard herself repeating as she looked over her students’ handiwork. “Right sides together.” She missed her teacher so much her heart ached. When fear and sorrow threatened to overwhelm her again, she squashed the feelings down, repeated her prayers, steeled her will, and forced herself to carry on.

In that moment she realized the exact nature of Monday’s internal shadow, though she did not yet know the reason for its existence.

For Friday, sewing the patchwork was like coming home. She lost herself in the rhythm, stitch after stitch, at the same time becoming one with her surroundings. She was the breeze that played in Monday’s white-gold hair, she was the ripples around the swans in the pond, she was the grass trampled beneath the feet of laughing children. She was the willow tree, solid yet bending. She was the sun, shining warmly down upon the world and finding it good.

She looked forward to wearing her patchwork skirts again.

As twilight descended upon them all, Monday and Friday repacked the baskets. Some of the children took their squares back to the palace to work on into the evening; so passionate were their pleas that Friday didn’t have the heart to deny them. Elisa carefully wrapped up her spindle and Conrad helped carry everything back to the kitchens, where they collected more fibers and food for the swan brothers.

Friday’s heart was so light that she almost didn’t mind the long walk to the top of the sky tower, and when she walked confidently through that Elder Wood door, every one of the brothers smiled at her.

Even Philippe.

8

T
HERE HAD BEEN
something special about this day. Tristan’s senses felt heightened—he had felt more whole as his swanself than he ever had before. He could not fly high enough or fast enough or swim far enough. The fat clouds in the sky cooled the air to a perfect temperature, and he could have glided on the delicious breezes for months without effort. The colors of the world were richer: the green grass, the brown earth, the blue pond rippling with sparkles. The wind that sang through each of his feathers invigorated him, and the fish that came easily to his beak were tasty and filling.

When the sun fell low in the sky, he was almost reluctant to return to the tower, but his brothers nudged and honked him along. The transformation was virtually painless; he shed his feathers, lost his beak, and stretched his swanskin with magical ease. He did not usually remember being his swanself, but he remembered transformation, the ache of bones, the chill from down loss, and the sense that his skin would split with the effort of expansion. This day was not like all those other days, and he wondered why.