Disenchanted

  Could Withypole be speaking the truth? He sounded as though he had been well acquainted with my father, enough so that he referred to him as Julius and he recognized my mother’s emeralds. Had my father purchased the earrings from Withypole? Was that how they knew each other? When my father had read to me out of the book of fairy lore, why had he never told me that he had met a real one?

  I was bursting with questions, but Fugitate clammed up, refusing to tell me anything more.

  “That’s all I know about your father,” he grumbled. “Now, are you going to waste my entire afternoon or are we going to get down to business? How much would you want for these twink—these emeralds?”

  I seethed with frustration, but it was clear I was not going to glean any more information from Withypole.

  “I need at least eighty galoons,” I said.

  “Eighty galoons! What do you need such a sum as that for?”

  I had been in Fugitate’s shop many times selling things. The transactions had all been brisk and businesslike. Never had he once given me a hint he had known my father or shown any interest in what I intended to do with my money. I was so taken aback by his demand that I answered him.

  “I want to attend the royal ball.”

  “You and every other silly girl.” He made an odd chuffing sound. “I would’ve thought Julius Upton’s daughter would have better sense. A royal ball to win the heart of Prince Florian? Bah! You would not want to win that prince, Miss Upton. Better to forget about the ball, better to stay away from the palace altogether.”

  Only that morning, I would have heartily agreed with him. But that had been before my conversation with Imelda had forced me to reconsider.

  “Nonetheless, I still need to buy those ball tickets, although it is more for my sisters than myself. As much as I appreciate your advice, Master Fugitate, it is not your concern how I spend my money. So how much will give me for the earrings?”

  Withypole’s lower lip jutted out. He squirmed, but he reached for his jeweler’s glass to inspect the emeralds more closely. “I could perhaps offer you fifteen.”

  “Fifteen! I won’t take a penny less than seventy-five.”

  “Those earrings are very old-fashioned. I’ll probably have to take them apart and reset the gems to have any hope of selling them.”

  The thought of my mother’s cherished earrings being broken apart made me ill. “You have never seemed to worry overmuch about making sales before,” I retorted.

  “Times are hard, not enough customers these days. That is why I cannot afford to be too generous. I can maybe go as high as twenty.”

  “They are worth at least seventy and you know it.”

  “Twenty-five. Best I can do.”

  “Sixty-five,” I snapped.

  Back and forth we went, with me trying to press him as hard as Mal would have done, but this bargaining felt different from those previous negotiations. Withypole wanted those earrings. There was an acquisitive gleam in his eye when he looked at the emeralds and yet he seemed reluctant to buy them. He would start to reach for them, only to clamp his fingers about his own wrist and draw his hand back.

  “Forty-five, final offer,” he said and then moaned. “No, I shouldn’t. I can’t—”

  “Done!” The word burst out of me before I had time to reflect. The effect was very similar to dropping a large rock into an empty well. A loud thunk followed by a hollow silence.

  Withypole and I stared at each other and for a moment, I thought I saw my own dismay mirrored in his eyes. Then he ducked behind the curtain to fetch the money from the back. I had never seen where Fugitate kept his strongbox. He was quite naturally very secretive about it.

  While he was gone, I had to fight the urge to grab the earrings and flee. What had I just done? Sacrificed my mother’s earrings for far too little, certainly not enough to buy four tickets to the ball. Yet I had sensed that if I had not snapped up Withypole’s last offer, he had been about to refuse to buy the emeralds at any price. Although why that should be, I had no idea.

  The fairy returned and carefully counted out the silver coins. I felt numb as I scooped them into my purse. I could not even bring myself to look at my mother’s earrings one final time. When the last coin had been collected, I tugged the drawstrings closed and rushed out of the shop, not even bidding Fugitate goodbye.

  I felt like I wanted to retch. I had to swallow hard as I wondered if the fairy really would pick the earrings apart to make something new. It might be just as well if he did. I had heard that wealthy Midtown women and even ladies from the Heights would sneak into Fugitate’s shop in search of a bargain, although none of them would ever admit to buying anything secondhand. I would have found it unbearable to see my mother’s cherished earrings become the property of some smug merchant’s wife or a haughty countess. If the jewels were reset, I would never have to know, although anytime I saw emeralds sparkling in a lady’s ears, I feared that I would wonder.

  The heavy fog had dispersed somewhat as I began my trudge homeward. I could find my way better although I should have continued to be wary of my surroundings. My head was too full of all that had transpired within the curio shop; my first glimpse of fairy wings, Withypole’s surprising revelations about my father, the woefully poor bargain I had struck.

  With such thoughts consuming me, I never noticed the hulking figure that stepped in front of me until it was too late. I nearly walked straight into the ugliest brute of a man I had ever seen, so large and ugly it was enough to make one suspect he might have a drop of goblin blood in him.

  His egg-shaped head was bald except for a tuft of pepper-colored hair set between his enormous ears. His grizzled jaw was as coarse as a warthog’s bristles. His eyes were of a similar porcine nature, his bulbous nose mapped with red lines that indicated a heavy drinker. He did indeed stink of stale beer, combined with the odor of rancid fish and garlic. I had to resist the urge to plug my nose.

  “Afternoon, miss,” he said. His tone was respectful enough, but his grin was nasty, thick lips peeling back to expose yellowed teeth.

  Concealing my alarm, I responded with a cool nod and attempted to skirt around him, but he moved to block my path.

  “Where you off to in such a great hurry, m’lovely darling?”

  “That is no concern of yours.”

  “Aww, no need to get snippy. I call that bad manners when I just want to be helpful. You could get along much faster if you let me lighten that heavy purse a bit.”

  I backed away from him, clutching the sack of precious coins closer, cursing myself for a fool. I should have been more alert and kept the purse hidden beneath my shawl, not gone parading through these lanes with my head up my bottom.

  My heart thudding, I retreated even farther. When he lumbered after me, I cried, “Don’t you take a step closer or I will scream loud enough to bring all of Misty Bottoms running.”

  He guffawed. “Folk hereabouts tend to mind their own business, m’darling. Who do you think would come? Just another charming rogue like m’self and I’m in no mood to share. So just hand over that purse and we can part ways all amiable-like.”

  I tightened my grip on the pouch, my gaze darting wildly about me, assessing my options. If only I had some sort of weapon like a dagger or a rock, but the brute would likely have taken it from me with one swipe of his meaty paw. I wished the fog had not dispersed. I could have lost him in the thick mist with little trouble.

  The only advantage I might have was speed. If I could make it down to the waterfront where the guard tower stood, surely one of the Border Scutcheons would come to my aid.

  Whirling about, I tore off at full tilt. I have always been a fast runner. Even Mal could never beat me in a race. But the great oaf behind me was far swifter.

  I did not manage to get far before he tackled me, dragging me to the ground. The fall jarred me, but I rolled over, trying to regain my feet. He pinned me down, grabbing for the purse. I hung on to it with all my strength. Using my head like
a battering ram, I smashed my skull into his face, hoping to break his nose. It was like dashing my brains against a concrete wall. My head throbbed with pain and all it did was make him angry.

  “Witch,” he snarled, twisting my hand savagely to loosen my grip on the purse. My wrist felt about to snap and I screamed. He clamped his dirty fingers over my mouth, his hand so huge it covered my nose as well.

  I bucked and struggled as hard as I could, but to no avail. I was suffocating, my lungs tortured for want of air. As webs of darkness spun before my eyes, I could feel my grip on the purse going slack. My despairing thought was it had all been for nothing—the sacrifice of my mother’s beautiful earrings. I silently cursed the ugly thief, consigning him to the deepest, blackest pit of the demon bogs.

  Then as though seized by some dark unseen force, the brute was wrenched away from me. It was like my curse had been granted. I gasped, gulping in great lungfuls of air. My vision cleared. Although I still felt dazed, I struggled up onto my elbows, trying to figure out what had happened.

  I saw my attacker wrestling to get free of the large arm locked about his neck. The thief’s opponent appeared to be a man of equal size and strength, although leaner and far more muscular. Yet I felt no joy at the sight of a rescuer. As the thief had predicted, all my scream had done was draw the attention of another villain, this one even more sinister, cloaked as he was all in black, the hood concealing his face.

  I felt battered and groggy, but I could not afford to sprawl in the road, waiting to see which rogue won. I groped for my purse and experienced a moment of alarm when I could not find it. To my relief, I discovered it lying nearby, but the drawstring had pulled open during the struggle, my precious coins scattered in the dirt. I shifted onto my hands and knees, frantically scooping up the galoons, all the while aware of the desperate contest taking place but yards away.

  I heard curses, grunts and the thud of blows, followed by the sound of running feet. I crawled about, trying to hurry. I was reaching for the last coin when my fingers struck up against a thick black boot. I gazed fearfully upward to find the victor of the battle looming over me, the villain in the black hood.

  I gave a piteous moan. I had no more fight left in me. As he bent over me, I did not even have the strength to shrink away. I cowered before him, expecting the worst. He swept back his hood and I gazed up at surprisingly familiar features; a harsh countenance with a full dark beard.

  “Miss Upton,” Commander Crushington said, his eyes softened by concern. “Are you all right?”

  Chapter 7

  He could not be real. I had to be having some bizarre dream about wandering in a fog, being frightened by an angry fairy, losing my mother’s earrings and then getting attacked by a goblin man. Now, of all unlikely things, I was being rescued by Commander Horatio Crushington.

  He hunkered down beside me, demanding, “Miss Upton, are you hurt?”

  “No.” I continued to gawk at him. I had never seen the commander out of his uniform. His military tan and blue always seemed molded to him like a second skin.

  “I thought you must sleep in it,” I said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your uniform. I imagined that you even wore it to bed.”

  “Er—no, I don’t wear anything at all. Ella, are you sure you are all right?”

  He was real. Even in my strangest dream, I would never have conjured up the stern commander of the Midtown garrison informing me that he slept naked. My mind was assailed by a picture of a bare chest, muscular shoulders and arms, hard thighs and—I have always possessed far too good an imagination. I shook my head to dispel the embarrassing vision.

  Crushington once more started to ask if I was hurt, but I cut him off. “I am fine, truly.”

  To prove it, I clutched my purse and struggled to stand. The commander hooked his arm about my waist to help me. I needed it. Now that the assault was over, my body reacted and I started to shake. I saw something move out of the corner of my eye and I jumped. It was only a cat slinking past a nearby cottage. It looked like Delphine’s obnoxious feline, Ebony, but it was gone in a streak.

  Misinterpreting my start, Crushington reassured me, “You need not be frightened. That varlet who attacked you is gone. He got away from me, but I promise you, I will hunt him down.”

  “It does not matter. I am unharmed and more important, my galoons are safe.” I hugged the precious pouch tightly to my bosom.

  Crushington frowned. “You appear to have acquired a great deal of money.”

  “I did not steal it, if that is what you are thinking.”

  “That never occurred to me for a moment, but I fear you must have paid another visit to the gleaner.”

  “The what?”

  “Master Fugitate’s establishment.”

  I had never heard Fugitate called that before and yet the term “gleaner” was not unknown to me. I had heard it used somewhere long ago, but I was too rattled to recall.

  Crushington continued sternly, “What were you thinking, woman? To be wandering about in this part of town alone and on such a murky afternoon! What was so urgent to bring you down here?”

  I already knew how stupid and rash I had been. I did not need the Midtown commander interrogating me in that scolding tone as though I was a wayward child.

  I tried to compress my lips in a mutinous line, but I was trembling too much.

  “I had to sell a pair of emerald earrings. They belonged to my mother and they were very p-precious to me.” I would have never expected to confide such a thing to Crushington or that I would burst into tears.

  It was just another response to all these distressing events, but I hated to cry in front of anyone, let alone the commander of the Midtown garrison. He patted himself as though searching for a handkerchief and came up empty. Using the rough pads of his thumbs, he tried to stem my flow of tears, but they were coming too freely.

  “Miss Upton…Ella. Please don’t. I did not mean to make you cry. I am sorry you had to part with something you valued so much. Are you in some sort of financial difficulty?”

  “N-no. I j-just needed money for tickets. T-to the ball.”

  “But you told me you didn’t want to go.”

  “I d-didn’t, but now I do. B-because every girl should have a night of magic and—and I have to think of the future. Because my little s-sisters are growing up and—and I don’t want Fortescue Bafton for a brother-in-law.”

  “No, I should not like that either.”

  There was something about the solemn way that Crushington agreed with me that caused me to erupt into laughter. He stared at me in dismay. The poor man probably thought I was going mad.

  I hiccupped on a combination giggle-sob and strove to regain control of myself.

  “S-sorry,” I gasped. “This has just been a really unsettling afternoon.”

  “It is all over now,” he said, wiping away the last of my tears with a gentleness I would never have imagined him capable of.

  “Y-yes, thank you. I am so fortunate you were around to come to my rescue, although you alarmed me, wearing that black cloak. I have never seen you dressed in such a fashion.” I was still puzzled by the absence of his uniform. “Are you taking a day of leave from your duties?”

  “I never take leave, Miss Upton. I am sorry if I frightened you, but I have discovered it is better to dress this way when I am obliged to travel across the river.”

  “There is nothing across the river but the fenlands and it is not a part of our kingdom. Why would you ever have to go there?”

  “Reconnaissance,” he replied. The clipped way he said it warned me that was all the answer he intended to give. His tone softened as he added, “I was just riding back from the ferry when I heard your cry and you will never know how glad I am of that. If anything were to happen to you—” He checked himself, shaking his head at me. “You have had such a narrow escape. I told you to stay out of Misty Bottoms.”

  I sniffed. “So are you going to arrest me??
??

  “I wish I could for no other reason than to keep you out of trouble. But ignoring my advice is not against the law.” His mouth tipped upward in a reluctant half-smile. “However I must insist upon escorting you home.”

  Any other time, I would have proudly refused, but I was still shaken from the attack. “Thank you,” I said meekly. “I would be most grateful.”

  Crushington bent down to retrieve my shawl, which had come off during the struggle. He attempted to brush away some dirt from the fringe. “I am afraid your shawl has become soiled and torn.”

  “It doesn’t matter. It is an old one and already stained from my younger sister borrowing it.”

  He draped it awkwardly about my shoulders and then startled me by placing his fingers in his mouth and emitting a loud whistle. I was astonished when his horse clopped toward us out of the mist. It was a sign of how dazed I was that I had not realized the massive roan had been standing patiently within earshot.

  “Does your horse always just wait for you like that?” I asked. “He never wanders off?”

  “Not when I order him to stay. Loyal is very well trained.”

  “You named your horse Loyal?”

  “That was his name when I bought him. It suits him and he likes it,” Crushington said, patting the roan’s neck.

  “Does he? How obliging of him to tell you,” I teased him, although I should not have. I knew the man had no sense of humor.

  Crushington reddened and said gruffly, “What I mean is that he responds to ‘Loyal’ and I have far more important things to do other than think up new names for horses.”

  It was rather adorable how flustered the formidable commander looked as he swung himself up onto the saddle. Adorable? Now there was a word I never thought I would use to describe Crushington. I must have hit my head against the goblin man’s jaw harder than I realized.