First Light (15 page)

“How dare you!” I shouted. Sticky icing splattered across the table as the wooden spoon rapped his knuckles.

“How dare
you,
”
a
man’s
voice said. The spoon was yanked from my hand, pulling me forward. My hip struck the table, dislodging the bowl from the crook of my arm. I watched, horrified, as the bowl sailed forward, hitting one of the intruders square in his chest and splattering the icing all over him and the area where he stood.

I sucked in my breath and looked up into the shocked faces of two young men— not a gaggle of little boys, as I’d expected— standing just inside the kitchen.

The taller of the two, the one holding my spoon and without icing dripping down his shirt, advanced on me.

“Don’t.” His companion placed a restraining hand on his friend’s arm. “It’s all right, Henrie. We had no right to barge in here and take food from her kitchen. Sorry, miss.”

Technically, it wasn’t my kitchen, but I wasn’t going to argue with his very sound logic. “Apology accepted,” I said. “Now if you’ll please—”

“But look at you,” the one called Henrie interrupted, making a pinched face as he stared at his friend, covered in icing.

It wasn’t his frosting-splattered shirt that caught my attention, but the welt forming on his hand where the spoon had struck. Remorse filled me.
Only two weeks here, and I’m turning into Maggie.
I desperately needed to get out of this kitchen and get some sleep.

“I’m sorry about your hand,” I said. “I thought you were the boys who ate up all the scones yesterday, and—”

“No harm.” The young man I’d struck ran his finger down his shirt, collecting a dollop of the sticky substance, which he stuck in his mouth. “Mmm. Buttercream. Say, this is really good.” He gave me a tentative smile, and I found myself smiling back then nearly laughing. It was impossible not to— he made such a ridiculous picture, standing there in his sticky clothes, licking icing from his fingers. On impulse I grabbed a cinnamon roll from the table, stepped forward and swiped it across his shirt. Holding the now-iced roll up to him, I said, “You might as well enjoy it the right way.”

His grin broadened as he accepted the treat and took a bite. I watched, feeling utterly pleased when his clear, blue eyes closed and he leaned his head back, murmuring something about bliss.

Henrie, meanwhile, appeared highly agitated.

I studied the two of them closer and realized they also must be help from the barn— older, though perhaps not much older than myself. Both had hay in their hair, and Henrie had a large hole in his dirt-covered breeches. His friend wore an untucked shirt and appeared more of a mess with the tumble of brown curls on his head.
Likely they’ve been up as long as I have, working hard, taking care of the many animals used to support the castle household.

My earlier annoyance all but disappeared. With a blush of shame, I turned sideways and held out my hand, indicating the table full of rolls. I wouldn’t soon forget what it was to go hungry, and if these fellows suffered that as well, then I could share. “Please, take one.”

“Thanks.” Henrie leaned forward, grabbing
two
more rolls in addition to the one he’d already taken. “You gonna share that?” he asked his friend, eyeing the near-empty bowl of icing at his feet.

“Help yourself.”

Henrie stepped forward, a roll in each hand, but before he’d reached the bowl, his friend grabbed Henrie in a head lock, smearing frosting across his forehead, shoulder and shirt sleeve.

“Hey,” Henrie shouted and pushed away, but not before the damage had been done.

This time I couldn’t keep from laughing.

Henrie didn’t share my mirth, but his friend did, and in between bouts of laughter, our eyes met. “You want some help cleaning this up?” He looked down at the sticky floor.

I shook my head and tried, unsuccessfully, to get myself back in control. “You’re— the one who’s— going to— need help.” I imagined him in the barn, hay stuck to the globs on his shirt, a horse trying to lick him clean. For some reason this struck me as particularly amusing. I laughed louder and felt my eyes beginning to water.

“She definitely needs help,” Henrie said, eyeing me with concern.

“I’m fine,” I said, meaning it. Just now I felt better— happier— than I had in a very long time. I couldn’t remember when I’d last laughed like this. It was cathartic. Struggling to compose myself, I stood upright, lips pressed together in an amused grin. “In the future, if you’ll be so kind as to announce your presence, you might avoid wearing the pastries.”

Henrie ignored my not-so-subtle invitation to return, but his friend gave me a formal bow as he left.

“I’ll remember that.”

I hoped he would.

“That’s my girl, pull them up carefully.”

I paused with my hand on a turnip halfway out of the ground and looked up at the little, round woman standing over me. I had no idea who she was but most certainly I was
not
her girl. I was not Maggie’s girl— or slave— either, but somehow she’d coerced me into gathering the vegetables for this evening’s stew.

“Hello, Adrielle.” The woman beamed at me, and something about the glow on her face reminded me of… Merry Anne.

“Do I know you?” I asked, rising from the ground, brushing dirt from my hands.

“Well, um— no. Not exactly.” She looked away as if embarrassed, or only just realizing her blunder. “I’m Florence,” she said once her composure returned. You know, like the French word for
flower
.”

I knew. I had first tasted that delightful little word,
fleur,
from my father. French was one of the many languages he’d taught and expected me to be fluent in. I hoped
Fleur
ence would be as lovely as her namesake. But since leaving home I’d learned to be suspicious of most people I ran across.

“I’ve been eager to meet you,” Florence continued. “Heard all about your talent with herbs and such.”

The way she looked almost reminded me of a flower. Her cheeks and nose were a rosy red, and her near-white hair puffed out around her face not unlike the petals of a petunia. Her dress was as vibrant a green as the stem of a tulip, but the similarities ended there. Instead of being long and slender, her stalk was short and wide.

“Who told you of my skill with plants?” My suspicions increased when she fidgeted with her hands for several seconds instead of directly answering the question. “Why— the cook— of course.”

“Maggie?”
Maggie who hasn’t the slightest clue that I can do anything other than bake bread, scrub a floor, and pick vegetables?

“Yes. That’s the one.” Florence’s smile brightened. “She said you’d be out in the garden today. I’m in charge of all the grounds and gardens here.”

“Oh.”
How odd.
I knew help was scarce, but I couldn’t imagine why anyone would choose this older woman as head gardener. Florence herself had a guilty look about her, and I didn’t buy her explanation for one second. “You’re in charge of
all
the grounds?”

“Yes.” Her grin was back. “Such a wonderful job.”

Though you aren’t so wonderful at it
. I thought of the rotting orchards. “Why has no one picked the peaches?” I asked. “Most of the apples are ready for harvesting, too. If no one at the castle wants them, there are many outside its gates who would.” I dared not elaborate more, unsure just what, if anything, Maggie had told her about my presence here.

“About that… You see, I’m not allowed to interfere with—” Florence stopped abruptly, her lips pressed together in a fine line. I followed her gaze to an upper window of the castle but saw nothing. After several seconds she looked at me again. “
You
may pick the fruit in the orchards if you wish. You can even give it to whomever you like.”

“But you won’t help.” I knelt again, returning to the task at hand.
I can bake the bread, I can pick the peaches.
I was starting to feel like the Little Red Hen.

“I
can’t
help,” Florence said. “There is a difference.”

She plopped onto the ground beside me, somehow managing to fit her ample backside between the narrow rows.

“But I can help with the garden today. I know you’re tired and need a rest, so let’s not dally anymore.” With nimble fingers and a miniature spade, she began digging up turnips— at four times the rate I had. I paused my own work to watch her. In an astonishing amount of time— easily less than a minute— she’d removed at least two dozen from the ground. Perhaps she really
was
head gardener— and with reason.

“How are you…”

“Yes?” She glanced at me, her eyes sparkling.

Again I was reminded of Merry Anne. Only this time, instead of knitting needles, it was a spade that appeared enchanted. My eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Do you know anyone named Merry Anne?”

“Of course I do.” Florence started on the last row of turnips. “She’s my sister.”

“Your sister!”
At last.
“I’ve been searching for her,” I said. “We were on the same carriage to Tallinyne and she—
you
were the one who gave me the circlet of flowers,” I exclaimed, remembering what Merry Anne had said about a sister.

Florence nodded and smiled. “I thought you needed a little something. Your dress,
that
–dress—” Her nose wrinkled in distaste as she eyed my sisters’ cast-off gown. The only one I owned.

I had no time to feel concern over my lack of fashion, but felt a sense of urgency regarding Merry Anne and her link to finding Cecilia. “Thieves fell upon us and Merry Anne and I were separated. I have something of hers to return.” I pulled the bracelet from my dress.

Florence’s eyes goggled at the pearls, and she jumped up at amazing speed. Standing closer to me, her hand covered their glow. “
What
are you doing?” She cast a furtive glance around, as if someone might be watching us.

“Trying to return these,” I explained. “And I would very much like to speak with Merry Anne. I believe she may know where
my
sister is.”

“Put those away.” Florence pushed them into my hand and folded my fist over. She looked

around once more, then turned from me and began pacing up and down the garden rows. “Do you want everyone to know— Oh dear. Oh dear, dear.” As she stepped beside each plant, I noticed they seemed to grow. The carrot tops shot up a little taller, the squash grew a little fatter…

I rubbed my eyes, wondering if I was really that tired or if something else was going on.

“Please.” Realizing I’d been gruff with Florence since meeting her, I tried in a gentler voice. “I really
must
see Merry Anne.”

Again Florence glanced up at the castle. “Well of course, that’s the plan. But that will have to wait until you’re ready.”

“I’m ready now,” I said.

But Florence had disappeared. Vanished in the space of a heartbeat. She was gone, leaving only a basket of neatly piled turnips as evidence that she had ever been here at all.

The sun was near to setting, but still I lingered in the orchard, soaking up the last rays of light. The ground was far nicer than the brick of the hearth, the patches of sky above a reminder of life outside the kitchen. It was lovely to be away from Maggie and to have a few moments free from labor, but this solitude came with a price. As they did at night, my thoughts flew to home, to my parents and especially my father. I missed him with an ache that did not seem to ease, though time was passing. He and Mother were first in my mind when I rose each day, and the last before my uneasy sleep each night. I longed to speak to them once more, to tell them of my love, to show my gratitude.

Of course that wasn’t possible, yet I imagined I spoke to them and felt their presence each day. The feeling that someone was watching over me was both comforting and unnerving.
What would Mother say to me now?
I was here in Tallinyne, and that, I hoped, would please her, though I certainly wasn’t meeting princesses or mingling among the royalty.

And Father?
I felt he would be disappointed that I wasted so much time each day on menial tasks.
What are you doing with your life, Adrielle? What
good
are you doing for others?