The Sweetest Spell

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  In the Flatlands we are told that after death the Thief of Sleep leads us to the everafter where all is peaceful and beautiful. As Griffin and I walked down a grand hallway, I could have sworn we’d entered the everafter, even though I didn’t remember dying and even though our guide was dressed as a royal soldier. But still, the place felt not of this world.

  The white marble floor was perfectly clean, which is probably why a servant had washed the soot from our boots before entering. Our footsteps echoed off a ceiling painted like the sky, complete with puffy white clouds. Two more golden swans waited at the end of the hallway, a golden door set between then. The soldier whispered to another soldier who stood outside the door. They both pointed to my hair. Then, after gawking at me, the new soldier opened the door. I squinted as beams of dazzling light shot out, as if they’d been held prisoner in the room beyond and were eager to fly away.

  The room we stepped into was so big and so crowded I couldn’t see where it ended. Golden wheels, each holding dozens of lighted candles, hung from a domed ceiling. Spicy perfume replaced the smoky, unwashed stench of the city. I wanted to plug my nose but didn’t, since that might offend the people who’d stopped dancing and were now staring at me.

  These were not the tattered, hungry masses like those in the courtyard fighting for chunks of coal. The people inside this sparkling room were an entirely different sort. White powder covered the faces of both men and women. Red stain colored their lips as if they’d all just gorged on strawberries. The women had painted red circles on each of their cheeks and wore feathered hats. Their long dresses dipped so low their breasts nearly spilled out. And the dresses were cinched so tightly at the waist I don’t know how they were able to breathe. The men had thick sideburns, trimmed in different shapes. Their shirts were covered in ruffles and their pants reached to their nipples. How did they walk in those long pointed shoes?

  The music stopped and the musicians, who sat in a balcony, leaned over the golden railing to stare at me. “Red hair,” people whispered to one another. The soldier who’d led us inside cleared his throat. Then he raised his hand, and as he did so, the crowd parted down the middle, revealing a checkered path. I gulped. The path ended at a little stage where two golden chairs perched. In those chairs, candlelight bouncing off their jeweled crowns, sat King Elmer and Queen Beatrice.

  The soldier whispered to me. “Call them Your Majesties.” Then he motioned for me to walk down the path. But he blocked Griffin with his sword. “Hey,” Griffin said. “I’m with her.” The soldier shook his head.

  “I’ll be okay,” I whispered to Griffin. The deafening silence caught my whisper and carried it around the hall like a whirlpool carries a fish.

  “She’ll be okay,” people whispered.

  “Stay here,” I told Griffin. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  “Who’s that?” a voice bellowed. The question shot down the checkered path. All eyes, including mine, darted to the end of the path where King Elmer stomped his foot. “What’s happening down there? Come closer, boy, so we can hear you.”

  Powdered faces turned back to me. Painted eyebrows raised, reddened lips pursed. I ran my hand over my tangled hair, my only evidence that I was the wanted Milkmaid. Then a sudden rush of excitement made me smile. It felt good to not hide myself. It’s me, Emmeline, I wanted to shout. My fingers wiggling with anticipation, I began the long trek down the checkered path, my boots echoing with my uneven steps. Gazes dropped immediately from my face to my right foot. No one said a word. Breathe, I told myself. Wave after wave of perfume tickled my nostrils. After what seemed the longest walk of my life, I stood before the king and queen of Anglund.

  I’d seen a painting of King Elmer in our tax-collector’s office. I’d gone there many times to deliver our land tax. But the king who sat on this throne looked nothing like the king in the painting. In person he was not as … well, not as handsome.

  King Elmer’s nose took up most of his face. His bottom drooped over the sides of his throne, and his belly was as bloated as a pregnant donkey’s. His crown sat on his nearly bald head, a single patch of white hair sprouting in the center. He was a man of many chins and grayish, doughy skin.

  It surprised me how different the queen was from the king. I’d never seen a portrait of her, nor had I ever heard anyone speak of her. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, even with the white face powder and painted cheeks. Flickers of candlelight caught in her black hair, which draped over her shoulders. She pressed her long fingertips together and watched me from beneath black eyelashes.

  Not knowing what to do, I bowed. Then I bowed again. King Elmer squinted at me over the top of his bulbous nose. “What is the matter with your foot?” he asked.

  Fabric crinkled as people pressed closer to the stage. “Your Majesty,” I said. “My foot is curled.”

  “Curled?” the king asked. Then he slapped the back of the man standing closest to him. “This stupid boy curled his foot.” As the king laughed, the crowd broke into laughter, which stopped at the exact moment the king’s laughter stopped.

  The queen cleared her throat. “He is not a boy,” she said, her voice soft and sweet.

  “Not a boy?” the king asked. He drummed his fingers on his belly. “He’s wearing pants.”

  The queen slipped her fingers into her bodice and pulled out a pair of spectacles. Holding the lenses to her eyes, she peered at me, her gaze traveling from my scalp to the tips of my hair. A slight upturn of her mouth was her only reaction. With a wave of her hand, a soldier scurried to her side. “Take her to my chambers,” she ordered. “Immediately.”

  “But I need to speak to King Elmer,” I said as the soldier grabbed my arm. “He’s offered a reward for me.” The king paid me no mind. A platter of honey cakes now balanced on his belly, and he licked his fingers happily. “I’m the Milkmaid,” I told him. “Your Majesty, I’m the Milkmaid.”

  “What’s happened to the music?” the king asked, his mouth full of cake.

  The queen snapped her fingers at the soldier, who tightened his grip on my arm. This was not going the way I’d planned. I twisted around, searching for Griffin. But the crowd had closed the gap and I couldn’t see over the tops of the feathered hats. “Griffin!” I called. The soldier pulled me behind the little stage. “Griffin!”

  “Emmeline!” he called from the other end of the throne room. Murmurs arose. “Move out of my way. Take your hands off me! Emmeline!”

  The queen rose from her throne and clapped her hands. “Resume the music,” she said. “Resume the dancing.”

  Strings plucked, drums thumped, a horn’s melancholy notes filled the air. Griffin’s voice disappeared. I called out to him again and again but knew he couldn’t hear. As I was whisked into another hallway, a terrible feeling overtook me.

  That I’d seen the last of Griffin Boar.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Why can’t my friend come with me?” I asked. The soldier followed behind me as the queen took the lead, her skirt dragging along the floor. Strands of jewels hanging from her belt swung back and forth. She walked with confident steps, holding herself straight and tall. Though I’d only been in the king’s presence a few moments, I’d already figured out who was really in power.

  “Do not worry about your friend. He shall be treated well,” she said.

  The hallway turned right, then right again. We passed two people who were dressed in black, like the men who’d been shoveling coal. One carried a tray of food, another carried a bucket and mop. They stepped aside and bowed as the queen strode by.

  The hallway opened onto a golden bridge, which crossed another enormous room. A woman dressed in black polished the bridge with a rag. Midway across the bridge, the queen stopped and peered over the railing. “What is that contraption?” she called out.

  I hadn’t realized we were so high above the floor until I looked over the railing. Far below, two men tinkered with something I’d never
seen before. It was some kind of enormous woven basket. Ropes connected the basket to a pile of fabric.

  “It’s a surprise,” one of the men replied as he tugged on a rope. His black hair was tied back with a bow, but I couldn’t get a good look at his face. Neither man was dressed like the people in the throne room or like the servants. They wore normal pants and billowy white shirts.

  Queen Beatrice made a humph sound, then resumed our walk. The bridge led to another hallway where, after a few more twists and turns, a servant opened another golden door, and I followed the queen into her chambers. I knew it was her chambers because paintings of her hung on all the walls. With a clap of her royal hands, a group of servants scuttled from the room. The queen bolted the door.

  I took a long breath. I was alone with the queen of Anglund.

  She placed her crown on a glass table. Smoothing her skirt as she did so, she sat at the end of a long yellow couch. Motioning with a graceful wave of her hand, she said, “Sit.”

  I sank into the soft cushions at the other end of the couch. Griffin was probably worried. What if the soldier had sent him back into the city streets? “What about my friend?” I asked, but the queen held up her hand. I closed my mouth, waiting, wondering.

  She folded her hands on her lap and cocked her head, her expression as serious as the expressions in her portraits. I found myself looking into eyes as green as Griffin’s. “Do tell us about yourself.”

  The queen’s perfume smelled like the honeysuckle that wound around the willow trees back home—a comforting scent that helped calm my pounding heart. “Your Majesty,” I said. “My name is Emmeline Thistle. I’m from …” I hesitated. “I’m from the Flatlands. I know it’s against the law to leave the Flatlands, but I didn’t want to leave. The river flooded and carried me out.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Continue.”

  “I came to see the king because he offered a reward for the Milkmaid.” I pushed back my shoulders and sat as straight as I could. “I’m the Milkmaid. And the man who brought me here is waiting to claim the reward.”

  As Queen Beatrice took a quick, excited breath, her small chest squeezed against the dress’s stiff bodice. “If you are lying to us, you will be executed.”

  “I’m not lying, Your Majesty. I can make chocolate. All I need is some fresh cream and a churning bucket.”

  A cluster of eavesdropping servants scurried away from the door when the queen threw it open. “Bring us a churning bucket and cream!” she called. I waited on the couch. Gone was the fear that I wouldn’t be able to make chocolate. I’d make it and I’d win her over. And then I’d begin my negotiations, the way Lara had taught me. “And bring us the Royal Secretary!”

  As the queen’s orders echoed down the hallway, gold and silver objects glinted around me—vases, statues, candleholders. Each of these objects was a reminder of my father’s enslavement. Soon, very soon, he’d be freed.

  The Royal Secretary quickly arrived, along with the bucket and cream. A man of middle years, his ruffled shirt collar reached to his powdered chin. He’d tucked a white quill behind his ear.

  I sat on the marble floor of the queen’s chamber and churned as fast as I could. How easy it was to sit in a pair of pants. I never wanted to wear a skirt again. Even with the threat of execution hanging in the air, I knew the magic would enter the churning bucket and the chocolate would appear. I closed my eyes, willing the warmth to work its way down my arms. It did, tingling as it hit the tips of my fingers. At the sound of the secretary’s gasp, I opened my eyes. Then I pushed the bucket until it rested at his yellow shoes. He peered down at the brown sludge as if looking at the sewage that ran alongside the city streets.

  “Taste it,” Queen Beatrice ordered.

  Pulling a silver spoon from the pocket of his high-waisted pants, the secretary bent over, scooped a bit of chocolate, and tasted. The reaction was as expected—soft, satisfied sounds followed by another bite, then another.

  “Well?” the queen asked.

  The Royal Secretary straightened himself and said, “Your Majesty, I do believe, without a doubt, that this is the most delicious concoction I have ever tasted.”

  “We shall be the judge of what is or isn’t most delicious.” The queen had her own silver spoon. She tasted the chocolate, then ate five spoonfuls in a row, her serious expression unwavering. Without a word, the queen slowly crossed the room and stood before a window, looking out at the horizon of gray buildings. I got to my feet, waiting for her reaction. Why wasn’t she speaking? Was it possible she didn’t like chocolate? Just when I couldn’t hold my tongue any longer, she spoke.

  “We knew this would happen one day,” she said, clasping her hands behind her back. “We knew the chocolate would once again take its rightful place.”

  “Rightful place?” I stepped forward.

  She spun on her heels, her jeweled chains clinking. “This is where chocolate belongs, here in the royal palace. It is our family, our bloodline that created chocolate. Our great-great-great-great-grandmother, Her Majesty Queen Margaret, possessed the magic, granted to her in a sacred dream.” She pointed to a portrait of a woman whose black hair hung in two thick braids. I’d mistaken it as a portrait of a young Queen Beatrice. “But the magic was taken away by a Kell curse.”

  I took a sharp breath. No one ever called us Kell. We weren’t allowed to speak the word.

  The queen’s voice turned shrill. “A Kell took the magic away and now a Kell has brought the magic back. It is the just end to an unjust history, is it not, Royal Secretary?”

  He’d been gorging on the chocolate. He nodded and said, with a full mouth, “You are always correct, Your Majesty.”

  She tossed the spoon aside and stood before me, a good head taller. Her eyes flashed, her breathing quickened. “You will live here for the rest of your life, dirt-scratcher girl. You will make chocolate for us. You will make chocolate for no one else.”

  It wasn’t an invitation, but I already knew I’d never leave this place. She wanted my magic. This was it. “I will happily make chocolate for you, Your Majesty,” I said, trying to hide the quaver in my voice. “But the chocolate comes with a price.”

  “A price?” When she repeated that word, the Royal Secretary’s hand flitted to his mouth and he gasped. The queen folded her arms. “You are referring to the reward promised by our husband, the king?”

  “Aye, Your Majesty. My friend is waiting to be rewarded the five thousand coin. He brought me to Londwin City. His name is Griffin Boar and he is the reason I arrived here safely.”

  Queen Beatrice nodded. “Very well. Let it never be said that our husband keeps not his promises. Make it so,” she said, waving a hand at her secretary.

  “Your Majesty?” He fiddled with his collar, leaving a chocolate stain along one of the ruffled edges. “Surely not five thousand coin?”

  She raised a single eyebrow. “Are you questioning our husband’s judgment?”

  “Never would I do so.” He bowed apologetically. “But—”

  “Pay the friend in the … usual manner,” the queen told him.

  “Ah, yes.” He nodded. “I shall do so immediately.” And with that, the Royal Secretary hurried from the room, disrupting the growing group of eavesdroppers huddling outside the door.

  “Now, dirt-scratcher girl,” the queen said as the door closed. “Exactly how much chocolate can you make in one day?”

  I couldn’t believe I was about to say what I was about to say. I gripped the armrest of a golden chair to hold myself steady. Lara’s instructions flowed through my mind. You never get what you don’t ask for. “The price is not paid in full. There are a few more things I want.”

  A red blotch appeared beneath the queen’s powdered chest. “Want?” she sputtered. “You want something from us?” Her green gaze burned as hot as dragon’s blood.

  Though I wanted to with all my heart, I did not step back. “The unmarried men in my village were taken against their will to fight in the ki
ng’s army. My father, Murl Thistle, was with them. But I have learned there is no war. My people are working as slaves in the mineral fields.”

  The queen returned to the yellow couch, once again arranging her skirt as she sat. “There are no slaves in Anglund. Slavery is against our husband’s law.”

  “They were taken. I saw them taken,” I insisted. “And I know they are being forced to work.”

  “We don’t see how they are being forced.” She fiddled with one of her rings. “But if what you say is true, then there has been an unfortunate breakdown in communication.”

  “I want them freed,” I said. “I want them sent home.”

  “This is a simple matter. We shall issue a proclamation immediately that any dirt-scratcher who wishes to leave the mineral fields may do so.”

  “I’d like my father brought here so he can live with me.”

  She curled her stained lip. “Another dirt-scratcher living here? Is this necessary?”

  “It is.”

  “Very well. We shall send for him.” She leaned back against the couch cushions, tapping her pointed shoe on the floor. “Is there anything else?”

  I slid my hands into my pants pockets and considered for a moment whether I was pushing this too far. I had taken her patience to the brink and wouldn’t have been surprised if she ordered my immediate execution. Surely the Oaks would do everything they could to find Peddler. But then Owen’s face filled my mind. Before I made my final request, I remembered Lara’s instructions. Always include something you’re willing to give up. That makes them believe they’ve won something.

  “There are two more things.”

  She clenched her jaw. “We wait with bated breath.”

  “There is a murderer by the name of Peddler. He killed a Wander boy named Owen Oak. I want you to send soldiers to find him and, once he’s found, take him to Wander so he will hang for his crime.”

  She cocked her head. “Who was this Owen Oak to you?”

  “A friend,” I said, looking away. “Just a friend.”