Chapter Twenty-four
I’m not sure how many days passed. It was the surgeon’s voice that woke me. “There’s no fever. His color’s good. Continue the poultice three times a day, along with the three cups of tea.”
The edges of the room blurred. I tried to sit up but Mother stopped me. Her hair hung loose and uncombed. Dark circles had settled beneath her eyes as if they’d been painted there. “Have they found her?” I asked.
“No,” Father said, chewing on the end of his pipe.
“How long?”
“It’s been ten days. Tax-collector Pinch has printed posters. He’s offered a reward for Emmeline’s return.”
“What?” I pushed away Mother’s hand and sat up. “He knows about Emmeline? Who told?” I glared at the surgeon.
“Pinch came to the house,” Father said. “He brought the town council. They demanded to know where the chocolate had come from. Pinch threatened me with an importation tax. He threatened to double our pasture tax if I didn’t tell. The council was willing to evict us from our shop.” Father sat on the edge of the bed. “I had to tell him the truth about Emmeline. Now everyone knows she made the chocolate.”
“Are they going to arrest her?” I asked. “For not staying in the Flatlands?”
“On the contrary,” the surgeon said, closing his wooden case. “They want her to make more chocolate. Our tax-collector knows an excellent investment opportunity when he sees one.”
“As does Peddler,” I said, grimacing as I leaned against the pillows. “I’m sure that’s why he took her.”
“But how did Peddler know about Emmeline?” Mother asked. “Your father didn’t tell the tax-collector until well after Emmeline’s disappearance.”
Who would have told Peddler about Emmeline? A round face popped into my head.
“It’s my fault. I took Emmeline to the butter room and Fee saw her. Peddler must have bribed the information from Fee with one of his trinkets.” I grimaced again. “How much reward is being offered for Peddler?”
“There’s no law against kidnapping a dirt-scratcher,” Father said. Then he raised his voice and it echoed off the walls. “But there is a law against attempted murder, and when we find him he shall stand trial for trying to kill my only son.” His cheeks burst with color and he waved a fist. “I’ll hang him myself.”
Mother took my hand again, fear swimming in her gentle eyes. I knew her thoughts. To lose one child was more than she could bear. To have almost lost the other …
I squeezed back. “I’m fine,” I told her.
Peddler hadn’t killed me. But if he’d hurt Emmeline in any way, he’d wish he’d never been born.
I waited until nightfall. Mother had finally left me alone, falling into a deep sleep in her own bed. I slipped into my britches, shirt, and vest. Peddler had taken my snakeskin belt, so I grabbed a corded belt. I tucked my knife into my boot, then tiptoed down the hall. The pain wasn’t so bad, as long as I didn’t cough.
This was my fault entirely. Without me, Emmeline would never have made chocolate. And Fee would never have seen her. And she’d still be here, safe in my bed.
Hold on, Emmeline. I’ll find you.
PART FIVE
Daughter
Chapter Twenty-five
Time presses as heavy as armor when one sits alone, chained to a log.
Everything was a blur of sameness. In the evenings I took shelter in one of the crumbling dwellings, sleeping on the sand-covered floor. Though the roof had partially rotted and the gaping holes offered little protection from the elements, I felt safer with walls around me. Who knew what might crawl from the depths of the sea when night fell? How many ghosts lingered in this lonely place?
In the mornings I awoke to the shriek of gulls. As the sun rose above the cliff, the woman would appear carrying a basket of food, which she’d set on the beach, never getting too close to me. Then she’d retreat to a nearby boulder and watch while I ate the basket’s contents. The food was always the same. Smoked silver fish, the size of fingers. A bowl of chopped sea plants, red and green, salty and strange. And water in a jug. The first morning I ate everything, then discovered there was only one meal a day so I started saving some of the fish for evening.
The woman never spoke, nor did she remove the scarf that hid her hair and most of her face. I guessed she was in her middle years only because of the occasional wisp of graying hair that stuck out from the scarf. At first I tried to reason with her. “If you free me, you can get the one hundred coin reward.” But she never spoke. “Who are you? Why won’t you talk to me? Why are you helping Peddler? He’s a thief and a murderer.” Still, she said nothing. She never stayed long, eventually walking down the beach and disappearing around the rocky outcropping.
I spent hours trying to break the chain, pounding it with a rock, sawing at it with a sharp shell, but the iron held fast around my waist. I tried jamming small sticks into the padlock, but they’d only break. I tried moving the log but it would have taken a group of men to move such an enormous timber.
The chain was long enough that when the tide rose I could wade into the sea to bathe. The seawater wasn’t as cold as the river, and the wind quickly dried my clothes and skin. Though I was clean, the seawater left my skin feeling tight and scratchy.
Ships passed by, some with tall white sails, some just specks amid the blue and white. I waved but they never came close, staying well beyond a reef where the waves crashed.
At times I screamed in desperation. Surely someone would hear me. Craning my neck and pointing my face at the clifftop, I screamed until my throat burned. But no one ever answered. Nothing moved up there except the grasses. Hatred grew with each passing day. I’ll never make chocolate for you, I whispered as if Peddler sat next to me. I’ll never make chocolate for him, I whispered to the tiny white crabs that scuttled over my socks.
Why me? I wondered countless times. Why could I make chocolate? Was it possible that other Flatlanders could make it but didn’t know? If my mother or father had been given a churning bucket, could they have changed the course of their lives? But I’d never be able to answer these questions as long as I was chained to this sorrowful place.
Ten days, twelve days—what was Peddler doing?
The woman was the answer, the only hope of escape.
“You must never get close to her,” Peddler had ordered. “You must never touch her.”
“What’s your name?” I asked each time she appeared. “Where are you from?”
But she never answered.
It seemed forever since I’d heard another voice. Even with my outcast status back in Root, I’d never felt completely alone. Father had always been there, asleep in the next room or sitting at the table—a beating heart just an arm’s reach away. But the long days on the beach were eating at me. There was nothing to do but mourn Owen and try to think of ways to escape.
So when the woman finally spoke one morning, tears filled my eyes.
“My name is Lara.” Her voice was surprisingly sweet—not cold the way I thought it would be.
“Where are you from?” I asked, wiping away the tears. “Are you from here?”
Lara said nothing. She sat on the boulder and folded her hands, which were always wrapped in shreds of cloth. Did she keep her face hidden behind the scarf so I wouldn’t know her true identity? But why would she hide her hands? Lara probably wasn’t her real name.
“Do you live over there?” I asked, pointing down the beach. She must have a house, a husband, maybe even a family around that bend. Surely she was not alone here. She didn’t answer.
“How do you catch the fish?” I asked, desperate for conversation. If I could gain her trust, maybe she would help me.
“I catch them with a net.”
“You catch them yourself?” She nodded. “Do you live out here alone?” She looked over at the gravestones. “Did you know those people?” No reply. “What does the sign say? The one at the top of the hill?”
&nbs
p; She pulled the scarf closer, her eyes nearly disappearing behind the fabric. Then she folded her arms, tucking her hands away. Was she hiding them the way I hid my foot?
“Is there something wrong with your hands?” With the chain trailing behind like a monster’s tail, I took a few steps toward the boulder. Lara tensed, preparing to flee. “No, don’t go, please. I won’t get any closer.” I winced as a piece of shell pierced my left heel. I sank onto the sand and peeled off the left sock. Cuts and scrapes covered my good foot. I couldn’t control the anger that burst forth. “Why are you helping Peddler?” I cried. “Why? Why would you help him? Is he paying you? Is that it? Can’t you see I’m miserable? Don’t you care?” I didn’t even look at her, knowing she wouldn’t answer. “He’s a murderer,” I yelled. “Peddler’s a murderer. Did you know that? He murdered Owen Oak. You’re working for a murderer!”
Heartless about my plight, she slid off the boulder and walked away.
That same day, Peddler finally returned with a bulging burlap sack slung over his shoulder. He’d kept his hair short and smothered in soot. He’d traded his long, pocketed coat for a green merchant’s jacket with shiny buttons. I was actually happy to see him. Since Lara had proven impossible to win over, Peddler was my last hope.
“What do you think of my new coat?” he asked as he stepped off the trail. His tone was matter-of-fact, as if it were completely normal for a girl to be chained to a log. “Can’t let anyone know who I am. Peddler’s still wanted for kidnapping the famous Milkmaid.”
I held a rock in my hand. The plan was to throw it at his head, knock him out, then take the key and unchain myself. But I faltered. “Famous?”
“Very famous.” He set down the bag, then handed another poster to me. As I unrolled the parchment, my face appeared. “The reward has increased to one thousand coin,” he said, a grin spreading across his wrinkled face. What dreams swirled in his mind? What was it that he hoped to buy? He did an odd jig in the sand. “One thousand coin.”
“Then let’s go,” I said, tossing the poster aside. “Take me to Wander’s tax-collector. I’m ready.” Just get me off this chain.
“Wander’s tax-collector?” Peddler stopped dancing. “I’m not selling you to him. He was outbid the moment word spread beyond Wander. It’s the Baroness of Salt who wants you.”
“The Baroness of Salt? Who’s that?”
“Nobility.” He picked up the bag and looked down the beach. Lara appeared around the bluff, walking slowly toward us. “Looks like my daughter’s been taking good care of you.”
“Your daughter?”
I would never have guessed. He carried the bag down the beach and laid it a few feet away from Lara. He didn’t embrace her, didn’t touch her as they spoke, the gap between them wide enough to fit three men. She kept the scarf over her face. Why would she keep her face hidden from her father? Amid the hatred, a new emotion took hold—pity.
Lara wasn’t helping Peddler for coin. She was being a dutiful daughter.
Their conversation was short. He left the burlap bag with her. “Where are you going?” I demanded as he walked past. “Please,” I begged. “Take me away from this place. Sell me to the Baroness of Salt.”
“If the baroness is offering one thousand coin, then someone will offer two thousand. It’s just a matter of time.”
“But you can’t leave me here!” I cried. The rock still clutched in my hand, I threw it at him. He ducked as it whizzed past his head. “What if someone finds me? Then I’ll be rescued and you’ll never make any coin.”
He straightened and smoothed his green collar. “No one would dare come here,” he said, glancing down the beach. Lara and the bag were gone. “Remember, you must never go near her. And you must never touch her.” He started up the trail.
Was he afraid I’d hurt his daughter? “If you leave me I’ll go near her,” I cried. “I swear I will!” He quickened his pace, my freedom disappearing with each jerky step.
A scream, from the depths of my gut, pierced the air. Not even the hearts of those buried nearby could be unmoved by such a sound. But Peddler didn’t miss a beat of his long-legged strides.
Chapter Twenty-six
No one had seen her. She’d vanished like a dream.
I sat on a bench outside a butcher’s shop, gnawing on a roasted pheasant leg. The town was called Moonshire, a four-day ride from our dairy. I’d been there twice before. When rotting disease attacked our cows’ hooves, Father and I rode to Moonshire in search of a rumored cure, which we found at the herbalist’s shop. During another visit, we attended a secret meeting of dairymen to discuss the new milk taxes imposed by King Elmer. But this time I was on my own.
Because Peddler had taken Emmeline in the middle of the night, no one in Wander had witnessed his escape. So when I reached the fork in the road, just beyond the town, I had to guess his direction. He’d taken Emmeline for one reason—to sell her. Why else would he steal a girl who can make chocolate? The right fork led toward the coast. There was nothing in that direction but fishing villages. It made better sense that he’d take the left fork and travel east to Londwin City, the largest and richest city in our kingdom. If only I had the nose of a bloodhound to follow Emmeline’s sweet scent. Or the eyes of a hawk to spot her from the treetops. In the end, I had to rely on instinct. Instinct led me east.
I dug my teeth into the pheasant leg. Fury rushed through me as I remembered how Peddler had dumped Emmeline into the wagon as if she were a piece of cargo. As if she were nothing more than a carcass to be sold at market. That morning at our kitchen table, he’d called dirt-scratchers stupid and filthy. This particular dirt-scratcher, however, could make him rich so he’d be a fool not to treat her right. But if he hurt her, I’d rip through him like a lightning bolt.
The stab wound no longer burned or itched, but it seemed to have a memory of its own, conjuring the sting of the blade over and over. I’d wake at night, sure that the knife was piercing my skin, reaching in the dark to find nothing. The stitches had held tight during the four-day ride. A blessing. Last thing I needed was for my guts to fall out so far from home. I would never forget that Peddler had tried to kill me. I would never forget that he’d spat upon my parents’ trust and hospitality. Revenge would go hand in hand with freeing Emmeline.
But no one in Moonshire had seen the wretch. They knew him, for he often came to sell his trinkets. “It’s been at least two moons since he was last here,” the tavernkeep told me.
“More than two moons,” the cobbler said.
I knew he hadn’t sold her yet because posters still hung everywhere. If the Milkmaid had been found, news would have spread faster than butter in a hot frying pan. She was all anyone talked about. While some doubted and some believed, most everyone had ideas about how they’d spend the coin.
What I knew was this—Peddler was hiding in the shadows like a rat, drooling, flicking his greedy tail, waiting for the reward to increase.
A WANTED poster hung across the road outside the candlemaker’s shop. As I ate, I stared at Emmeline’s sketched face. The drawing was a good likeness but the bonnet hid her wild red hair. And the artist hadn’t captured the sparkle in her eyes. The pheasant suddenly tasted sour. I swallowed, my stomach knotting. She was just a girl. Just a girl who’d never been outside the Flatlands, who had no idea what the world was like. She couldn’t run fast, even if she had the chance to get away. I should have seen Peddler’s knife, should have blocked it with my left arm. I should have saved her.
She was probably scared out of her mind.
Emmeline, where are you?
What more could I do but travel the roads, asking questions of everyone? Someone had to have seen them. They’d need food and water. Someone had to know something.
“Hey, you there,” a man shouted. I wiped grease from my mouth and looked down the street. The tavernkeep strode toward me, an ale-drenched rag hanging from his belt. “You the boy what was asking questions about Peddler?”
“T
hat’s me,” I said, tossing the bone to a scraggly cat.
The tavernkeep stopped a few paces away. “I just remembered something. He’s got a daughter.”
“Really?” I scrambled to my feet, my heart kicking up its rhythm. Maybe he’d hidden Emmeline at his daughter’s house. If not, there was a good chance the daughter would know Peddler’s whereabouts. “Where does she live?”
The tavernkeep held out his hand, palm up. I fished in my pocket for a half-coin and tossed it. He caught it in midair, then tucked it away. “She used to live in Lime, but she don’t live there no more. Heard tell she got sick so he moved her to the leper colony out on the coast.”
“Leper colony?”
“No use going out there. You can catch leprosy just by looking at a leper.” Then, with a twirl of his rag, he moseyed back to the tavern, his thick thighs scraping together.
I sighed. What a waste of a half-coin. Peddler wouldn’t risk taking Emmeline to a leper colony. So I was back to knowing nothing. I balled up my fists. All I could do was keep looking and keep asking.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Spring was turning toward summer. The days were growing longer, and purple flowers had burst open along the trail. Swallows tended their nests in the cliff’s crevices. Even with the constant breeze from the sea, I could feel change in the air.
Something had changed in Lara, too. As I ate my breakfast of fish and sea-plant salad, she doubled over, a thick, wet cough rattling her lungs.
“You need a surgeon,” I said. She shook her head. The small patch of face that I’d grown used to, her eyes and the top of her cheeks, looked paler than usual. “How long have you been sick?”
“Many years.” Then she asked me a question, something she rarely did. “How long has your foot been curled?”
“I was born like this.”
“It could be worse. At least you have your magic.” She coughed again. I’d told her the truth about my life. “Your magic will give you great power. Usually a woman only has power if she has beauty or if she has a keen sense of business. Father taught me about business. He trained me in the art of negotiation.”