First Light (19 page)

Hale sighed heavily as he looked up at the overcast sky. “It was not just some girl. The waif practically flew when she ran; not even my horse could keep up.”

“The missing fairy?” Nadamaris mused, a hand to her chin.

Hale shrugged. “I assume so. Both she and the carriage were gone by the time we reached the road again. She had been trained well.”

“Hmmm…” Nadamaris paced the length of the turret. “She must be good if Merry Anne went as far as Willowbie to find her.”

Hale shrugged his indifference. “What does another fairy matter? They always die rather than give you their gifts, and you admitted you cannot stop the wedding.”

“A pity, too.” The queen walked to the low wall, clenching her fingers around the stone. She stared out across the miles of treetops separating her kingdom from Canelia. “But there is to be a royal celebration the night of the wedding— a ball. The King’s guard will be down then— he’ll think Princess Cecilia safe.”

Hale sat up straight. “She will be— Once she is wed, her gifts will be forever lost to you and the curse no longer a threat.”

“True enough,” Nadamaris said slowly. “But if I can’t have her strengths, I see no reason why anyone else should.”

An odd look crossed Hale’s face. “What do you mean to do?”

“Me?” Feigning innocence, Nadamaris brought a hand to her chest. “I won’t be doing anything.” Her mouth twisted in a sinister smile. “You, however, are going to have the
last
dance with the bride.”

Cristian came into the kitchen, rubbing his arms and stamping his feet to ward off the cold morning. “Well, where is it?”

“Where is what?” I asked, though I assumed he referred to the tart he’d hinted at the previous evening. I hadn’t promised to make him anything, but I’d risen early and done just that. An extra-large, extra-sweet pie bubbled in the oven this very minute.

“The mop.” His head tilted to the side as he gave me a suspicious gaze— as if he didn’t quite believe I could have forgotten our wager.

I had. With the sudden appearance then disappearance of Merry Anne’s unusual sisters, I really hadn’t remembered that Cristian would be coming to mop the floor.

Nor, perhaps, had I really believed it. All the menfolk I’d grown up with— even my father— had always delineated clear lines between women’s work and men’s work. And while a woman might cross that line and help her man with the chores on the farm, under no circumstances did a man
ever
stoop to doing chores belonging to a woman.

“You’re serious?” I asked, dusting my floured hands on my apron.

“Were you serious when you promised to muck out a stall if you lost?”

I nodded.

“Then don’t insult me by thinking my promise was anything less. Give me the mop.” Cristian held out his hand. I pointed him to the far corner of the room where the broom, mop, and bucket were stored.

“You’ll need to sweep first. I’ll fetch a bucket of water.”

“No need. I’ll do it.” He strode to the corner and took up the bucket. Somewhat amazed at his cheerful attitude, I smiled to myself and went back to breakfast preparations.

Cristian returned a short while later, and I showed him which pan to pour the water into for heating. I kept a circumspect watch as he swept the kitchen, knowing that if the job was done poorly, it was I who’d hear about it from Maggie.

It seemed she arrived later and later each morning, and in worse condition. It was obvious to me— and anyone who came in contact with her before noon— that she’d been imbibing liquor of some sort. I longed to ask what her troubles were that made her turn so much to the bottle, but to this point my courage had faltered in the face of her harsh temper.

Cristian refilled the bucket with the hot water from the pan and began cleaning the floor. After a few strokes with the mop, he turned to me. “Am I doing this right?”

“Generally I rinse the floor
after
I’ve washed it. You forgot to add the soap.”

Cristian smacked his forehead with his hand. “Soap— that’s the stuff my mother used to tell me to wash with.” He shook his head. “Never bothered with it. Makes the once-a-month bath take too long.”

Convinced he was teasing, I laughed. “If you only bathe once a month, and without soap… then I’m really a princess in disguise.”

“I smell that good, huh?” Cristian asked, winking at me as he took the soap I handed him.

I shrugged and looked away, knowing a rosy blush flooded my face. Cristian smelled
very
good— hardly ever like a farmhand.

A second later his hand rested on my shoulder, and he gently turned me around. His eyes were soft but intense. “I didn’t mean that as it sounded. You
could
be a princess— no disguise needed.”

My eyes met his, and I was taken aback by the tender expression I saw there. “I knew we were playing,” I said, my voice quiet.

“That’s right.” Cristian’s eyes darkened. His hand slid down my arm, then dropped to his side. “Playing. That’s all.” He returned to his task, and I to mine.

But the light camaraderie of a moment before was gone. We continued our work in silence, unusual— as our conversation was always abundant and lively— but not uncomfortable.

When he took the bucket outside to empty it, I pulled his pie from the oven. It smelled heavenly and the crust was the prettiest I’d ever assembled. I fanned a cloth over it to cool it quickly, lest he had to leave soon.

Cristian returned with the empty bucket, and I spoke up, feeling absurdly shy as I did.

“I made this for you.” I pushed the tart across the table separating us.

“
Just
for me?” He seemed as genuinely surprised as I had been earlier when he’d announced his intentions to mop.

“Well, I suppose you’ll have to share it with Henrie. He does seem to like to eat.” I smiled as I met Cristian’s eyes.

Our fingers touched as he reached for the pie. “I’d rather share it with you.”

“I— I shouldn’t,” I said, though I did not pull my hands away. “I’m not finished with the bread yet, and Maggie will be here soon.”

Cristian sighed. “You’re right, of course. I shouldn’t stay, either.” He made no move to leave but leaned closer over the table.

“Have you a lot of important work to do today?” I asked. It was all I could do not to close my eyes in bliss as I felt his hands slide beneath mine to hold my fingers lightly. “For the visiting royals?” I rambled on with awkward small talk, my eyes melting in his as our heads drew nearer. “Or the wedding?”

He stopped. Our faces were nearly touching, poised in the air over the pie. I’d leaned so far forward that the table edge dug into my stomach. Being taller, Cristian had more leeway and could have easily closed the distance between us. But he didn’t. The tender expression on his face turned pained.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“Yes— no— it’s—”

“Seventy-four pints of ale in me pantry. Seventy-four pints of ale…” From the lane outside came Maggie’s loud, drunken voice.

I grimaced. If she was this bad so early, it was sure to be a long day.

“What?” I refocused my attention on Cristian.

“I’ve a lot to do today is all.” He released my hands and picked up the pie. “Thank you, Adrielle.” With a nod, he backed out the door and left.

I stared at my fingers a moment, wishing they still tingled as they had when he’d held them.

Returning to my work, I did my best to stay out of Maggie’s way as I readied the breakfast trays, then kneaded the bread dough.

And though the peculiar feeling I’d had when Cristian touched me did not return, I spent the day remembering the look I’d seen in his eyes when he’d told me I could be a princess.

A few mornings later, Maggie arrived at the kitchen particularly soused. Behind her came Rose, carrying the baskets of eggs with more care than I’d ever seen Maggie use.

“She’s going to need some help today,” Rose said to me under her breath as she pushed past Maggie and took one of the spare aprons from the hook.

“Thanks,” I said, grateful for another pair of hands and another person who might diffuse Maggie’s drunken temper.

In the weeks I’d been here, I’d learned little of Rose, but quite a bit about her son. Mason had told me more of the reason behind his name— his father had been
a mason, leaving his mother to believe their son would follow in his footsteps. It was unfortunate for Mason that he harbored no such desire, as recently she’d added to his other duties by sending him out to work on the enormous stone wall— the wall in a constant state of upkeep and repair— surrounding the castle.

As I kneaded dough, I couldn’t have been more surprised when Maggie broached that very subject.

“It’s wrong of you to send the boy out to work on the wall. It’s not where he wants to be or what he wants to do.” Maggie staggered as she hefted a kettle from the table to the fire.

“Posh,” Rose replied. “It’s about time he learned life isn’t about doing what you want.”

“For him it might be,” Maggie said. “If you’d see fit to clear the way.”

“No,” Rose said with a sad little shake of her head. “I thought I could change things once, and look what it cost me. Look what happened to Mason’s father.”

“He done climbed over the wall, that’s what!” Maggie exclaimed. “So why d’ye have your boy out there now? Do you want him doing the same?”

Rose’s answer took a moment in coming. “I want what every mother wants for her child— something better.” She glanced my direction. “And maybe that’s out there, on the other side.” There was a question in her voice, as if she suspected I might know the answer to what lay beyond the castle grounds.

Behind Rose, Maggie shook her head at me, indicating I was not to speak. I hadn’t any idea what Maggie had or had not said to others about why I was here or where I’d come from, but I’d learned enough to keep silent about it. Pretending I didn’t hear, I continued preparing the broth for the noon meal. Somehow my duties now extended beyond breakfast.

Together the two women chopped and prepared vegetables at the opposite end of the table. Though their conversation continued in short, terse spurts, my own thoughts strayed to a happier hour and place— the apple orchard this coming afternoon.

A short while later Rose left, and Maggie slipped out after her. While she was gone the bread rose, baked, and cooled. I scrubbed the bowls and the table. When Maggie returned mid-morning, it was immediately obvious she’d been
again
to visit the henhouse with its mysterious supply of spirits.

“Got them loaves ready yet?” she barked as she came into the kitchen.

“Quite some time ago,” I replied sourly. Taking off my apron, I made a move for the door. This place was starting to feel all too much like home— where I’d been confined inside much too long each day.

“How ‘bout the soup?” Maggie asked.

“I don’t
do
soup,” I reminded her. “I am the baker, and that’s all.”

“Don’t get smart with me, girl. You came here. And like the rest of us, you’ll do whatever you’re told.”

“And who is it that tells you to partake of the drink each day?” I asked, tired of her treating me as if I was her own personal servant.

“I— well—” Her bloodshot eyes stared at me a moment, and then her shoulders slumped

as she shuffled over to one of the stools at the long table. Straddling it in a most unladylike fashion, she beckoned for me to come closer. I did, but only marginally. Drunk or not, I knew Maggie could wield the roller with both speed and skill, and I didn’t relish the thought of being struck.

“It’s my ma’s fault,” she said, her words slurring. “She up and died young, and I’ve been stuck here ever since.”

“At Castle Canelia?” I asked, curiosity quickly overtaking my caution. I continued to be eager to learn all I could about this place and its history— anything that might lead me closer to finding my sister.

“No.
Here
.” She swung a trembling arm in the arc of the room. “This miserable kitchen. I never wanted to be no cook, though my ma and grandma afore me both were. I hate it here,” she continued. “Can’t stand the smell of meat roasting, the heat of the ovens, the hours on me feet. Any task would be better than this.”