Dearest (28 page)

They did not include Lord Death in their recounting. No one would have believed it anyway.

King Christian gave Tristan and Friday his blessing, both to be together and to leave, with the condition that they postpone any sort of formal wedding until the Green Isles was ready to host a proper celebration. Standing side by side with ribbons wrapped around their entwined hands, they had agreed.

“Are you ready to fly without wings?” Friday asked him when she handed him the bauble.

“I’ve been flying since I met you,” said Tristan, “my girl with a heart as big as the moon.”

Friday let Tristan be the one to tell Rumbold and Sunday the details of Mordant’s defeat. Rumbold congratulated them on their triumph and promised to send aid to the Green Isles as soon as possible. Sunday expressed their extreme sorrow at Philippe’s loss, and ordered white candles lit in all the windows of the palace in his honor.

Friday and Tristan made their own pilgrimage to the top of the sky tower. They lit their own candle there and said a prayer to each of the Four Winds and all the Elemental Gods. Without Elisa’s magic to keep the wind at bay, Friday used her own strength to maintain the candle’s flame. The wax glowed a deep red while the stones below it glowed indigo. The flower petals they tossed were instantly caught up in the drafts and carried far, far away.

From the moment they’d set foot in Arilland, Friday had not been able to stop thinking of the towerhouse. Her home. She wasn’t sure how to go back to her quiet life, the one she’d had before Saturday had torn the world in two, but she did miss it. Tristan promised to milk cows with her or cross-stitch in the queen’s solar, whichever she preferred. Friday loved him for every word.

But first, of course, Sunday had to throw another ball.

Thankfully, Friday still had Monday’s giant white chiffon gown in her rooms.

Tristan was another matter. “Perhaps you might be able to fashion another shirt for me?” he asked sweetly. “If you have the time, of course.”

Friday kissed him on the cheek. “You know I will. Even if I have to cut my own dress in half for the material.”

The shirt Tristan had worn while in the islands and all the way home had, in fact, been made of the extra patchwork skirts she’d brought with her on the voyage. She’d taken the time to unpick the hems, salvage the thread, and use it again to make a shirt for him that covered his body but still left his wings free to move. It had been a challenge. Even with the proper supplies, it still would have been a challenge of which her mentor would have been proud.

“I meant to ask, who was it that made your shirt for that first ball?” Friday would remember that ball—and that kiss—for the rest of her life, as would anyone who had journeyed with Friday on the
Seven’s Seas.
She would also remember that strange, haphazard shirt he’d worn with all the buckles.

Tristan gave her a dazzling smile. “Did you like it?”

“It was . . .” What was the best way to be judicious? He looked so proud; Friday had seen the same smile often enough on Michael to recognize it. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “. . . quite creative.”

“I was similarly impressed. The guards’ tailor whipped that up for me in almost no time flat.”

“Who?” Friday had never heard of such a person. Since when did the guards have a tailor? Had one arrived with the refugees and not made himself known to her?

“He said his name was Grinny.”

Friday couldn’t help herself. She burst out laughing so hard she doubled over from the effort.

“What my eloquent sister is trying to tell you,” Peter said helpfully, “is that Grinny Tram isn’t the tailor. He’s the hostler.”

The look on Tristan’s face was priceless. It sent Friday into paroxysms of laughter all over again.

“That shirt of yours was pretty much his equivalent of saddling a horse,” said Peter. “Only upside down.”

Tristan looked as if he was giving the matter serious thought. “It did look rather saddle-like, now that you mention it.”

“And the
buckles!
” Friday giggled, tears springing to her eyes.

Peter slid his arm deftly over Tristan’s wings and draped it around his shoulders. “Grinny’s
true
talent is the creation of one seriously potent honey mead.”

“You’ll have to fetch me a dram sometime,” said Tristan, “and we can toast my incredible fashion sense.”

With that, Peter led Tristan off to the men’s quarters, while Friday scrambled to fetch material and trimming for her new projects. She wanted to find him emerald green satin and gold buttons, if there were any left to be had in the palace. She could use the remnants to trim her own white dress. With any luck, the splash of color would tone down the overwhelming feeling that she was disguising herself as a cloud of fog.

She finished the shirt and had Conrad deliver it to Tristan’s room while she finished her dress. In the remaining time, with her remaining fabric, she sewed a new green coat for Mr. Humbug. He deserved so much more; perhaps, in time, her family might one day truly repay him.

If the people of Arilland had been happy about the last fete, they were positively joyous now. Most of the refugees had gone home to their farms and families, but some had stayed, and were welcome. New alliances had formed. Customs and recipes had changed hands. Within a fortnight Arilland had become a hub of commerce, where men and women came to do business while they reunited with the friends they had made during their stay.

Best of all, the farmers had gone home to full harvests and more fertile ground than ever before. Cook’s pantry burst at the seams with the surplus of fresh goods. She sent a great deal back to the Temple of the Goddess with Sister Carol. The orphans helped her manage everything—they were Sister Carol’s army now. Friday missed them, John and Wendy and Michael most of all.

Sunday’s ball was the first reunion of the Arilland refugees. Adults and children alike wore their finest finery—though it was not rare to see a patchwork item or two scattered proudly throughout the crowd. Goods were exchanged, as well as many, many gifts, so many that Friday was overwhelmed by the bounty. The air was filled with laughter and love and hope for the future. Friday let her heart rest in the ease as her hand rested in Tristan’s.

His shirt looked amazing, though her gaze rarely strayed from the blue of his smiling eyes. One day, perhaps those eyes would not remind her of Philippe and all they had lost that day.

In the midst of the celebration, there was a fanfare. Sunday and Rumbold appeared at the top of the Grand Stair to address the crowd below.

“It is my great pleasure,” said Rumbold, “to pay tribute tonight to a man to whom I, my family, and, dare I say, my country would not be whole without. Honored guests, let us please raise a toast to the esteemed Mr. Henry Humbug!”

There was another fanfare. Conrad brought Friday the green silk coat she’d made for Mr. Humbug. She clutched it nervously, wondering whether or not he would like it.

“Mr. Humbug, would you please step forward?”

The crowd fell silent. Everyone began looking this way and that, but the man was nowhere to be seen.

“Search the castle,” she heard Rumbold whisper to his guards. “Be discreet.”

The coat weighed heavy in her hands. Friday hoped nothing terrible had happened to Mr. Humbug—too many people in her life had disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Perhaps he had simply anticipated this moment and chose not to be called out in front of so many strangers . . . but somehow, Friday doubted that.

She bade Conrad return the coat to her rooms and leave it on her bed; she would give it to him in the morning, or find a way to send it to wherever he’d gone.

Sunday raised her glass and made a toast anyway. “To the absent man himself,” she said. “And other absent friends.”

“Hear, hear!” echoed the crowd, and the revelry resumed.

This time, Tristan tried his best not to let his new friends manipulate all of Friday’s time. He begrudgingly allowed Peter to cut in and dance with her. Once. Papa attempted to ease Tristan’s overdramatic suffering with a flagon of freshly brewed ale. Friday danced with Conrad and Rumbold and several others after that, so she assumed Papa’s peace offering had been successful.

It was with great reluctance that Friday retired to her rooms, still smiling and humming to no one while she danced herself down the hall. Conrad opened the door for her and she walked through dreamily—and then stopped.

“Conrad, where is the coat I made for Mr. Humbug?”

“I laid it on the bed,” he told her. “Just like you asked.”

Friday walked over to her bed. On top of the sheet where a coat might have once laid was a silver coin. It was not currency, but the kind of coin that couples threw in a well and wished on to keep their love forever. Beautifully inscribed on the coin was the word “Bliss.”

“I will always wonder what happened to the donkey,” said Conrad. “His name was Bobo.”

Friday smiled into the magic of the moment. “Good night, Conrad.”

“Good night, Friday.”

Friday changed into her nightdress and slipped the silver coin under her pillow. With her heart full of happiness, she slept the most restful, dreamless sleep of her life. She was home. She was loved. And she would do great things.

With a family like the Woodcutters, it does not take a village to write a book.

It takes a kingdom.

Thanks to my beloved cousin, Jamie Feddersen (he would like me to tell you that he’s my
favorite
cousin), a wildlife biologist for the Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission. Jamie was instrumental in that initial “swans or geese?” conversation.

Thanks to Dr. Theda Kontis, Dr. Dave Tunkel, and my other-favorite-cousin Alexandra, who whisked me away to a convention where I was neither a guest nor a star . . . just a niece and a cousin. You will never know how much that meant to me.

Fishy kisses to my Waterworld Mermaids: Carlene Love Flores, Dana Rodgers, Denny S. Bryce, Diana Belchase, Kerri Carpenter, Kimberly MacCarron, Masha Levinson, Pintip Dunn, and Susan Jeffery. My sanity thanks you.

A million thanks to Fairy Godeditor Reka Simonsen and everyone at Harcourt; my tireless publicist Jennifer Groves and her team; Christine Kettner; Julie Tibbott; Joan Lee; Emily Holden; Lisa DiSarro; Jessica Yodis; Daniel Nayeri; and Adah Nuchi.

As always, essential was the magic of my Fairy Godagent Deborah Warren; my Fairy Godfamily: Joe, Kassidy, and Ariell; my OF: Dad, Soteria, Cherie, and West; and my mother, Marcy Kontis, who read every chapter of this as I wrote it. Thank you, Mom, for cheering me on since elementary school.

And thank you, my friends and fans who are like family to me, for reading this series, and for sharing our love of fairy tales with the world. May you all live Interestingly Ever After.

1

M
Y NAME IS SUNDAY WOODCUTTER
, and I am doomed to a happy life.

I am the seventh daughter of Jack and Seven Woodcutter, Jack a seventh son and Seven a seventh daughter herself. Papa’s dream was to give birth to the charmed, all-powerful Seventh Son of a Seventh Son. Mama told him seven girls or seven boys, whichever came first. Jack Junior was first. Papa was elated. His dream died the morning I popped out, blithe and bonny and good and gay, seven daughters later.

Fortunately, coming first did not stop Jack Junior from being a wunderkind. I never knew my eldest sibling, but I know his legend. All of Arilland’s children grew up in Jack’s shadow, his younger siblings more than most. I have never known a time when I wasn’t surrounded by the overdramatic songs and stories of Jack Junior’s exploits. A good number of new ones continue to spring up about the countryside to this very day. I have heard them all. (Well, all but the Forbidden Tale. I’m not old enough for that one yet.)

But I know the most important tale: the tale of his demise, while he served in the King’s Royal Guard. One day, in a fit of pique or passion (depending on the bard), he killed Prince Rumbold’s prized pup. As punishment, the prince’s evil fairy godmother witched Jack Junior into a mutt and forced him to take the pup’s place. He was never heard from again.

They say my family was never the same after that. I wish I could know my father as tales portray him then: loud, confident, and opinionated. Now he is simply a strong, quiet man, content with his place in life. It is no secret that Papa harbors no loyalty to the royal family of Arilland, but he would not say a word against them.

My second-eldest brother’s name is Peter. My third brother is Trix. Trix was a foundling child whom Papa discovered in the limbs of a tree at the edge of the Wood one winter’s workday before I was born. The way Mama tells it, Trix was a son she didn’t have to give birth to, and he made Papa happy. She already had too many children to feed, what was one more?

My sisters and I
—

“What are you doing?”

Sunday’s head snapped up from her journal. She had chosen this spot for its solitude, followed the half-hidden path through the underbrush to the decaying rocks of the abandoned well, sure that she had escaped her family. And yet, the voice that had interrupted her thoughts was not familiar to her. Her eyes took a moment to adjust, slowly focusing on the mottled shadows the afternoon sun cast through dancing leaves.