Dearest (13 page)

“Is this what it’s like for you?” he asked François, who remembered the days but rarely spoke of them. “Is it always this . . . alive?” Tristan did not know a better word to use. Friday, so proud of her book reading, probably did.

“No.” François dressed himself in the clothes that had been neatly folded for them and ran his fingers through his short mess of hair. The brothers’ hair had never grown in all the years they’d been cursed, nor had any of them needed to shave. Sebastien’s small beard had been the same since the day the spell took hold; the rest of them had stayed smooth-cheeked.

What would it be like to brush his hair, to bathe, to dress, to feast as a man again? Tristan missed these mundane things, or at least he thought he did. Either way, he looked forward to getting back to the painful life he had forced himself to stop wishing for many years ago. There was nothing he would miss about being a swan, especially considering he remembered very little . . . except perhaps flying. Yes, he would miss flying. Especially on days like this.

“What’s it like?” Tristan asked of all those other days. “Can you explain it?”

François furrowed his brow.

Before he could respond, Christian chimed in. “Odd, isn’t it, that we’ve never asked this question before?”

“It’s never occurred to us,” said Bernard.

“We all do the same thing every day,” said Rene. “I guess I just assumed it was all the same.”

Philippe said nothing.

“But it’s not, and we know it,” said Christian. “We all know that François remembers more of these days than the rest of us, but we never think to ask why, or ask him exactly what he remembers. Why now?”

“I remembered today,” said Tristan. “Most of it. At least, I think so.”

“So did I,” said Bernard.

“So did I,” echoed Rene.

Philippe said nothing.

François’s smile was wan. “It was a good day. I’m glad this was a day your swanselves chose to remember. Some days are like this, but all too few. Some days are like dungeons, dark and cramped. The swanskin feels . . . strange . . . as if I’ve put it on wrong, or suddenly it’s too small.”

“Is it painful?” Tristan asked.

“Yes,” François said matter-of-factly. “Usually the torture is more mental than physical. I’m fine one moment, and the next I find myself trapped in this unnatural body I cannot escape, with a mouth that will not let me cry for help. Some days my arms and legs stay with me as phantoms, unbalancing me and weighing me down. Flying is hell on those days.”

For years they had wandered through this nightmare, and only François had borne the memories. Tristan felt ashamed for asking the question, and guilty that the youngest of them had shouldered this burden alone for so long. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” François’s tone shifted, and the wry grin turned to a wide smile. “Those are the days I dunk each of you under the water to make myself feel better. It’s not like you remember.”

Philippe stepped back as the twins jumped forth to tackle François and wrestle him to the ground.

“How dare you besmirch my honor!” cried Rene.

“My poor, pretty feathers!” cried Bernard.

Sebastien raised an eyebrow but did not break them up. It was good to hear laughter again, and there was no need to fear their discovery in this place.

“But why?” Christian repeated, almost to himself. “Why did we never think to ask François about this before now?”

“The curse is ending,” said Sebastien. “Its power is waning.”

Their eldest brother’s anger had waned as well these past few days, turning instead to a resigned melancholia. He, too, would have remembered this day spent with his one true love, the swan Odette. She had shared her shelter on that frozen winter’s day when they’d met, and she’d followed them ever since, migrating westward, unafraid of Sebastien even in his human form.

Odette—the name Sebastien swore she was called, though Tristan knew not how—preferred to spend her evenings in her nest of rushes down by the pond, but this night she had returned with them to the sky tower; Sebastien thought it best to bring her there to keep her safe from Mordant in the coming days. Her form was only slightly smaller than Sebastien’s swanself, but she made herself smaller still,
huddling against the crumbling wall farthest from the Elder Wood door and closest to the sky. Tristan hoped she acclimated quickly to the height and the ruckus. Sebastien kept her close, petting her gently and cooing to ease her trembling.

“I apologize to you as well, swan sister,” Tristan said to the bird. “This must be so hard for you,” he said to Sebastien.

“You will know my torment soon enough, little brother,” Sebastien replied. “You have had only a taste of what it is to have someone so bound to you that you fear losing her more than life itself.”

Tristan and Christian exchanged glances. There was another question the brothers dared not ask, about Sebastien’s intentions to free himself from the curse along with the rest of them. They knew Sebastien would never jeopardize their chances of returning to the world of men, just as they knew Elisa would weave the shirts in order to break their curse, regardless of Mordant’s arrival. The curse would be broken, for better or worse, and Sebastien would conquer those demons when they came . . . so the brothers said nothing. Instead, they left the eldest in peace and went to pull the twins off François.

Tristan would contemplate his own torment when Friday walked through that door, and not before. Now was the time for the brothers to stretch their limbs and enjoy the cool twilight. They would need their strength; there was much work to be done!

As twilight faded into evening, Tristan found himself inching toward the Elder Wood door. He had reached out for the handle, compelled to open it, when Friday walked through, hugging three sticks full of what looked like tan spider webs. Her cheeks were flushed from the march up the stairs, and the wisps that had escaped her braid made a wild halo around her face. He couldn’t help but mirror her generous smile.

“It was a good day,” she said breathlessly.

“Ours was too.”
He took the sticks from her and carried them into the room.

Elisa followed with two bulging sacks, which she quickly handed to the twins, and then turned back through the door for a bucket filled with food.

“No fancy basket this time?” teased Bernard.

Friday tucked some loose strands of hair behind one ear. “I thought it might be useful as a chamber pot, if necessary.”

“We’ve never needed one before,” said Rene.

“You’ve never eaten much as a man before, either.” Sebastien took the bucket from Friday and began laying out the food for their supper. “That’s very generous of you, princess. Thank you.”

“And not very princess-like,” Tristan pointed out. “Be careful, Miss Woodcutter. Your true colors are showing.”

Friday’s grin would have had him jumping off the tower after her all over again. What was it about love that turned men into fools? Was there a way to convince the magicked stones of the tower to at least leave him half his wits?

“Arilland is a different sort of country. We blame it on the fairies.”

“Rene blames things on the fairies too,” said Bernard. “Especially when he overindulges on minnows.”

Every one of his brothers laughed except Philippe, and the princess laughed with them. For all her earthiness, Tristan could not see Friday as a celibate, prayer-filled acolyte. Tristan felt some guilt that his dreams of the future made hers obsolete. He had lost so much in his life; he was not going to lose Friday as well.

Sebastien bowed to the princess and ordered his other siblings to attention. “François, portion out the food. Rene and Bernard, move a few stones around and see if you can’t create some sort of privy. Philippe, help Christian and me sort out the contents of these bags.”

He moved to pick up the bag by the door; in doing so, he passed within whispering distance of Tristan. “Tend to the girls,” Sebastien hissed. “See that they have everything they need. And that they eat.” As if Tristan wouldn’t have done so anyway.

There was a knock at the door; three faint beats of a fist muffled by the old wood.

“That’s Conrad,” said Friday. “I asked him to bring up some water.”

Tristan prised the door open a crack, using the Elder Wood to block his body from sight, out of habit. A thin brown arm stretched around the door with one full tin bucket, and then another.

“Thank you,” Tristan said before he thought better of it.

“Keep her safe,” said the boy, pulling the door after him.

Was there anyone in this castle who didn’t love Friday Woodcutter? The swan brothers and Elisa depended on her. Her sister the queen gave her everything she wanted. Children—both high- and lowborn—trailed her skirts like cygnets, and strange magicians popped out of thin air to aid her on her quests. This squire would probably follow her to the end of her days, should she but ask it.

It wasn’t so hard to imagine. Tristan himself had followed her right off the edge of the tower.

Without warning, the fear found him again. What if, when this was all over, Friday let him go? Tristan didn’t want someone to love right now. He wanted love like his parents had . . . like Sebastien had. Tristan wanted the freedom to care about Friday and have her care about him, without the fear of losing her forever. But now that the end of the curse seemed very real, he was forced to think about what would happen after. Before he’d met Friday, he’d wanted nothing more than to return home with his siblings and reclaim his birthright. But now she was such a part of their lives that leaving Arilland would be one of the toughest things he would ever do.

As soon as Tristan considered keeping his distance from her, for both their sakes, Friday raised her head and looked right into his eyes. His resolve shattered like the broken walls of the tower room.

Sebastien and Conrad had both warned him to take care of Friday. Who was going to let her know that he needed taking care of in return?

Friday’s chest rose as she took in a breath. A quiet tear slipped down her cheek.

He didn’t have to tell her. She already knew.

Only one of the remaining buckets had been designated for drinking water; the other was reserved for spinning. Friday had told them they could use their spit to keep the fibers of the nettle thread smoothly winding together, but after hours of spinning, Tristan found the aftertaste nauseating.

They had all taken turns with the drop spindles, learning from both Friday and one another the best techniques to keep producing the light brown nettle yarn. The princess encouraged them to recite the Common alphabet as they kicked the spindle, in preparation for their reading lessons. François took every opportunity to lord his superior knowledge over his ignorant brothers. Rene and Bernard took every opportunity to kick their youngest brother, while keeping their spindles in check.

Since there were only three staffs full of the raw nettle fibers—Conrad fetched three more in the middle of the night to replace the ones they finished; did the boy ever sleep?—whichever brother wasn’t spinning was set to sewing patchwork. Sebastien and Christian, the only ones with practical experience on the field of battle, had some rudimentary knowledge of needle and thread. Friday had assured them that was all they needed.

Every so often, as someone picked up a new square, Friday would say, “Right sides together,” and Tristan caught a faraway look in her eyes. He cursed that fey-blessed empathy for not working both ways.

And so they sat in a circle like old maids and stitched, sometimes in silence and sometimes telling stories. Rene and Bernard were the best storytellers, each trying to top the other with ridiculous—and often fabricated—tales from their childhood. Philippe remained quiet. When it was his turn to sew, he would take a pile of squares and sit against the wall beside Elisa, a companion to her intense silence.

In the darkest hours of the night, Friday asked François to read to them from the books she had brought. Sometimes the readings themselves sparked a conversation. Other times, Friday would prompt Sebastien or Tristan by asking them a question, usually about the Green Isles or their parents. Friday had shared stories about her own family as well, but only after they had assured her it would not offend them.

“Teach me how to lead an army,” Friday asked the older brothers in the wee hours.

“Why would you want to know about that?” asked Tristan.

“You offered to learn how to read,” she said. “I should learn something in return.”

Sebastien shot Friday a skeptical look, but Christian was more open-minded. “What do you want to know? Anything specific?”

“What are the qualities of a good leader? What is it that makes one man destined to lead and other men destined to follow?” She posed the questions with a genuine curiosity that made Tristan want to kiss her needle-wielding hand.

Charmed by her eagerness to learn, Sebastien’s demeanor softened. “Noble birth assigns men to their station, but there are princes who have led men to their deaths and farmers who have succeeded against all odds.”

“Father would have said the most important quality was loyalty,” added Tristan.

“To your men, or from them?”

“Both,” Tristan explained. “Your men will not respect you if you play them false. They will desert an incompetent leader at the first sign of trouble. But if they know you will fight just as hard for them, they will happily die for you.”

Friday scrunched up her nose. It was adorable. “Not
happily,
surely.”

“Proudly.” Sebastien scratched his dark beard. “Honorably.”

“The same way you would give your life for someone you love,” said Christian.

“I would,” the princess whispered.

“A leader must be kind, but strong,” said Sebastien.

Friday chuckled as she deftly folded another square into her patchwork fabric and fastened it there with tiny, perfect stitches without even having to look down. “That rules me out. I can barely lift a full bucket of water.”

“It doesn’t have to be strength of arms,” Christian clarified. “More often than not, strength of will is what sees an army to victory.”