Ash & Bramble

  “You’re surprisingly quick,” Cor says to Shoe, with an approving nod. Shoe hands him the knife; Cor holds it up, inspecting its edge. “A bit more training, and you could be quite good.”

  With a ragged sleeve, Shoe wipes sweat from his forehead. “We don’t have time for more training.”

  Cor shrugs. “At least you won’t get killed in your first fight.” He smiles at me. “You’re very good too, Pen. And you will have me there to protect you.”

  “Apparently I’m capable of taking care of myself in a fight,” I tell him, a little acerbically.

  “Of course you are,” Cor says, still smiling. He moves closer and puts a hand on my arm in an almost proprietary way. I give him a level look, and he takes his hand away. He knows I need more time.

  Shoe picks up his sweater and pulls it on over his head. “Pen—” he begins, and then he folds his arms and frowns down at the cave floor.

  His sandy hair hangs over his eyes; my fingers twitch, wanting to reach out and brush it aside so I can see him better. “Yes, Shoe?”

  After a moment he gives a half shrug, as if deciding something, then looks up, meeting my eyes. “Your thimble. Would you use it to help me remember my Before?”

  I take a quick breath. Then let it slowly out. “Yes, of course. I should have asked before this.”

  “You have been busy,” Shoe says wryly.

  Cor excuses himself, and as I lead Shoe over to the fire, my mind flounders. I used the thimble on Cor, but the Godmother hadn’t taken much from him; he’d already known most of his Before. What if I use it on Shoe and it hurts him? What if he’s lost too much? What if his life Before makes everything since then irrelevant? “Are you—” I stumble. “Are you certain? It might be best not to know.”

  “I need to know,” Shoe says, sitting on one of the sawed-off logs the rebels use as chairs. “And it’s not just for myself. If we know more about the Before, we could learn more about what we’re dealing with.”

  I sit down facing him, our knees touching. Yes, of course Shoe needs to know. He’s so clear-sighted. So . . . true. He’s not going to stay blind to his Before just to—to what, protect himself? He needs to go into his future with his eyes wide open. “All right,” I agree.

  “Thank you,” he says soberly. His face is very pale.

  Now my fingers get what they want as I reach out and gently brush aside the hair that hangs over his green eyes. Those eyes fix warily on the thimble as I draw it out of my pocket. Then I pause. Moving closer, I bring my lips to his. “For luck,” I whisper against his mouth. He leans in, and our kiss scorches through me. I jerk back. His gaze is so intense I can’t bring myself to return it. Instead I look away, busying myself with polishing the thimble on my sleeve and putting it onto my finger. “Ready?” I ask, in a voice that isn’t as steady as it should be.

  “Yes,” he says, his voice gruff.

  I raise my hand and feel him control a flinch as I touch the thimble to his forehead. He closes his eyes.

  I know you, Shoe, I think. Remember.

  The thimble’s dimpled silver warms and then glows dull orange, brightening to a red flame. I put my other hand on Shoe’s shoulder, steadying him, or maybe myself. The thimble burns even brighter, then flashes with brilliantly white light, and goes dark.

  Panting as if he’s run a race, Shoe slumps until his head is resting against my shoulder.

  I swallow down a strange, desperate feeling and ask, “Do you remember?”

  He takes a ragged breath. “Yes,” he whispers.

  “Is he all right?” Cor’s deep voice interrupts behind me.

  “Yes, I think so,” I answer. Shoe lifts his head from my shoulder.

  “Let me guess,” Cor says. “He remembers that he’s a shoemaker.”

  I glance up at him; he’s standing with his hands on his hips, frowning. It’s not like him to be unkind. He’s not jealous, is he? Pointing to another sawed-off log, I frown back at him. “Sit down, Cor, and stop looming over us.”

  Shoe has his elbows on his knees and the palms of his hands pressed over his eyes. “Yes, I was a shoemaker,” he says, his voice muffled. Slowly he straightens and blinks dazedly. With a shaking hand, he rubs his forehead. The thimble’s heat left no mark there at all. He glances over at Cor, then back at me.

  “Well?” I prompt, growing impatient.

  “Pen,” he says, and something about the way he says my name assures me that knowing his Before has not changed the way he feels about me.

  “Shoe,” I say, smiling back at him.

  He shakes his head. “No,” he says wonderingly. “Not Shoe. My name is Owen. I’m from Westhaven.” He glances at Cor. “Do you know it?”

  “Yes,” Cor answers. “It’s a trading city about a day’s sail down the coast from East Oria.”

  I nod and turn back to Shoe. To Owen. “Do you have family?” I ask.

  He nods. “My dad is a blacksmith there, and my mum runs the shop.” Then his eyes take on a faraway look; he’s clearly remembering them. “I have four brothers and six sisters, all older.” I find myself imagining a big, noisy family, sandy haired, green eyed, some of them strapping like their blacksmith father, or clever like their mother, with Owen as the youngest, maybe a bit quieter than the rest, but safe and well loved.

  “How did the Godmother take you?” Cor asks.

  The smile fades from Owen’s eyes. “Oh,” he says as he gets abruptly to his feet. “They must think I’m dead.” He looks as if he’s ready to run all the way to his true family in Westhaven. “It was, um . . . it was her footmen. I was running an errand for my master. I was apprenticed to a shoemaker,” he adds. “They just took me off the street, stuffed me into a windowless carriage with five other people, and drove night and day until we arrived at the fortress.” He frowns. “We didn’t stop once. They must have killed the horses.” He shivers. “They dragged us in to the Godmother. She . . .” He touches the center of his forehead, and his shiver turns to a shudder.

  “She took your Before,” I say.

  He nods. “Pen, I was eleven years old. I was just a kid.” He looks sick. “I was at the fortress for such a long time.”

  “Your family remembers you,” I reassure him.

  “I hope they do,” he says. “I hope they’re all right.”

  I am glad for him. Yet I feel just a little bereft. He has all that certainty. He knows he is loved; he knows he has a place in the world, if he can get to it. He knows who he is.

  But me—I feel certain that I can’t use the thimble on myself. I may never discover who I really am.

  CHAPTER

  34

  THE GODMOTHER’S FORTRESS IS HALF A DAY AWAY, AND WE are ready. We set off at midday with packs of supplies on our backs, plenty of rope, and weapons. Templeton gives me a warm coat to wear, and a woolly scarf; I’m glad for the fur-lined boots that Shoe made for me. I carry my staff. The trackers go ahead and come back to show us the best paths to take to avoid any of the Godmother’s men who are lurking about. We go single file, silently. Cor is ahead of me and Shoe a step behind, wearing an overlarge coat that the Huntsman lent him. I’ve never fought in a battle before—at least, not that I remember—and I feel a fizz of excitement mixed with nerves.

  And I am confused about what is happening between me and Shoe. Owen, I remind myself. Like his smile, our kiss lasted for only a fleeting moment, but it hit me—like a knife, without warning. It made me feel off-balance. Pulled in two directions at once. It makes me acutely aware of him, as if there’s a current running between us. It’s different from the attraction I feel to Cor.

  As we walk, Cor and Owen are arguing in low voices about the best way to get into the fortress. Owen thinks he should go over the wall first, alone, as a scout. “That way,” he explains, “we can be sure most of the guards are away. I can get to her slaves, too, and tell them to be ready to fight for us when the time comes, and then I’ll come back and report.”

  “I don’t like this plan,” Cor
says firmly. He turns and stares past me, challenging Owen. “If you should be caught, we’ll have to stage a rescue as well as everything else.”

  “I’ll try not to get caught,” Owen says, as if it’s that simple.

  “I’ll go with you, Sh—Owen,” I add.

  Cor stops in his tracks. In the snowy late afternoon, his eyes look very blue. “Pen, no.”

  “It makes sense for me to go,” I say. “I’ve got this.” I heft my staff. “And I’ve got the thimble. It’ll help us get in, and get away safely.”

  Owen steps up next to me. His face is grim again. “She’s right, Cor,” he says. “The last time we wouldn’t have gotten out—Pin and I wouldn’t, I mean—without the thimble.”

  We continue on, catching up to the rest of the rebels. I can see by the stiffness in Cor’s back and in his meticulous politeness that he’s not happy with me and my decision to go with Owen.

  As twilight falls, staining the snow-covered forest with pink, and then gray, we reach the fortress walls. One moment we are among thick pine trees, the next we are facing a gray stone wall about the height of two men.

  The Huntsman has been leading us; he’s brought us to a place where a hook of some kind is stuck to the top of the wall; a lumpy rope hangs down from it.

  Owen steps up beside me. “It’s where Pin and I escaped before,” he tells me.

  I notice how careful he is to call me Pen. “You don’t think it’s a trap?”

  He shakes his head. “I think it wouldn’t occur to the Godmother or her guards that anyone would use it to get back into the fortress.”

  The Huntsman steps up to us. His brown skin is ruddy with cold. “We’ll pull back into the trees to wait until nightfall,” he says in a low voice. “All right?”

  “All right,” I say, and we tramp through the snow until we can’t see the wall anymore. The others are brushing aside snow, making a clear place on the pine-needly ground to sit while waiting for Owen and me to return. They won’t have a fire—it’s too risky—but they pull cheese and bread from one of the packs and share it around. Templeton and Zel sharpen their blades and look competent; the rest seem ready and determined. Owen and I stand apart, eating our dinners and waiting for full night.

  “I keep wanting to call you Shoe,” I tell him, taking a last bite of cheese sandwich.

  “I keep thinking of you as Pin.” He shakes his head. “But you’re right to insist on Pen. Names matter.”

  I shove my bare hands into my coat pockets, gripping the thimble. I should have worn mittens. “I suppose they do.”

  He nods, and moves closer to me, as if for warmth. “A shoe is a thing, like a pin is a thing. It’s a slave name.” He looks in the direction of the fortress wall, though we can’t see it through the fir trees and the gathering dusk. “I’m not a slave anymore.”

  “No,” I say, leaning my shoulder companionably against his.

  “But I can’t pretend it never happened, either.” He’s quiet for a few moments, thinking. “I’ll use both names. Owen Shoemaker.”

  “It’s a good name,” I tell him. I think, now, that it doesn’t matter what name Owen uses for me, Pin or Pen. It’s clear that he loves me either way. I wonder why he won’t speak of it. I’m not sure if I want him to, or not.

  Cor tramps through the snow to join us. When he speaks, a puff of steam comes out with his words; the air has gotten colder. “Are you absolutely determined to do this, Pen?”

  Right, back to the job at hand. “Absolutely determined,” I say, feeling almost cheerful.

  “Then I will come too,” he says. “Someone has to protect you both.”

  I glance aside at Owen; he gives me a little shrug. “I can protect myself,” I tell Cor.

  “You’ll need me with you just in case you’re discovered and attacked,” Cor says, all honorable formality.

  “If that happens,” I argue, “having one more fighter with us is not going to make a difference.”

  Owen nods, agreeing.

  “And,” I add, bending to pick up my staff, which I’d set down at my feet, “I do have some training.”

  As I stand, Cor rests his hand on my arm. “Can I have a moment alone with you, Pen?” he asks.

  “Of course,” I say. “We’ll be back soon,” I say to Owen, handing him my staff, and Cor and I head farther into the forest. The branches hang down, heavy under their blankets of snow. The air is cold and crisp; a wind rushes in the tops of the pine trees, making a sound like ocean waves. It is a peaceful scene, but a bubble of excitement is trembling in my chest.

  As we walk through the snow, Cor takes my hand, helping me over a fallen log. His hand is big and warm and it feels safe, somehow. When we’re far enough away from the makeshift camp, he stops, still holding my hand. I gaze up into his eyes. “This is difficult for me,” he says softly.

  “What is difficult, exactly?” I ask.

  He draws me closer to him. “Pen, during the past few days I’ve seen the best of you. You’ve been brave, and strong, and beautiful. And I have to admit that your legs in those trousers are any man’s dream. I grow more and more certain that we are meant to be together. Am I wrong to hope that you have feelings for me too?”

  I gaze up into his clear blue eyes. He doesn’t bother with his practiced smile anymore. His truest self is shining through—his strength and his patience, and a code of honor that clearly makes things difficult for him sometimes.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he goes on, “about those broken stories in which the girls in the towers are saved from the princes. But Pen, I’ve been wondering. Doesn’t the prince ever get to be loved?”

  Oh, such a question. “Yes,” I answer. I remember my stepsisters’ keen interest in the prince, and the many people, mostly young women, who crowded around him at the ball. “Surely you’ve had lots of girls eager to fall in love with you.”

  He nods. “Yes. But none of them were like you. They were ladies.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “And I’m not?”

  A reluctant smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “That’s not what I meant. I could never be sure if they liked me, or the rest of it.”

  “The prince,” I say. “But not the man.”

  “Yes.” He brings my hand to his lips and kisses it, then holds it in both of his. “Could you love me, Pen?”

  I could love a man like him. Except . . . “Cor,” I start. “I—”

  “Don’t speak now,” he interrupts. “It’s not the right time. And—and I have seen the way you look at Shoe.”

  I blink. “How do I look at him?”

  He glances aside and gives me only half an answer. “I have not seen you look at me that way.”

  Unsure of what he means, I shake my head. “He’s Owen now, remember? Not Shoe.”

  “Ah,” Cor says. “Yes. Pen, when this ends, you will have to choose between us. All I want to say to you now is that I hope you will choose me.”

  “I don’t have to choose anyone, Cor,” I interrupt.

  “Of course you don’t,” he says hurriedly. “Yet I still believe that we belong together.” He puts his hands on my shoulders. “May I kiss you?” he asks.

  He kissed me once before, on the terrace at the ball, but I hardly knew him then. I am curious to see if his kiss tastes different to me now, if it can measure up. “You may,” I say, a little breathless.

  He bends closer and places a kiss carefully at the corner of my mouth, then pulls me tightly to his chest and gives me as finely shaped and worthy and well considered a kiss as any girl could ever want.

  AT NIGHTFALL IT is the Huntsman and Templeton who make Cor’s decision for him. “It’d be stupid for three to go,” Templeton says. Her dislike of Cor is palpable. “You’ll just be clumping around in the dark getting the other two caught.”

  “At any rate,” the Huntsman puts in, “we could better use your help here, readying the assault.”

  Cor capitulates, and that leaves me and Owen standing in the darkness at th
e base of the wall around the Godmother’s fortress. The sky is a deep blue-black, the night lit by a three-quarter moon that hangs low over the fortress. It gives plenty of light, reflecting off the snow.

  It gives plenty of light for guards to spot us, too.

  Owen has taken off his borrowed coat and wears just his dark clothes and sweater, which is starting to look a bit ragged. He has a long knife sheathed at his belt. Templeton has lent me a woolen sweater too, and I roll up the sleeves while contemplating our climb. The rope we’ll use looks lumpy and black against the gray of the wall.

  “Up we go,” I whisper, gripping my staff. A puff of steam comes out with my words.

  “If we wait a few minutes, the moon will set,” Owen whispers back. In the moonlight his face is pale and crossed with shadows. “Pen, there are brambles on the other side of the wall. Be careful of them. They might try to stab you with thorns.”

  He told me this once before, at the castle ball as the clock struck midnight—that I got the scar on my wrist from climbing up this very wall. It feels strange to think that my body was in this place before, that it did this thing that I can’t remember doing.

  “All right,” I whisper. “I’ll be careful.”

  “It could be icy at the top, too.” His voice is tense. His hands are in his pockets and his shoulders are hunched.

  He is wound very tightly, I realize. Shivering, and not just with the cold. Going back over the wall and into the fortress where he was once a slave must be difficult for him. “Lots of bad memories in there?” I ask, with a nod toward the wall.

  He jerks out a nod.

  I try to make a joke. “I expect you wouldn’t mind if the Godmother took them all away.”

  He looks up, suddenly intense. “Yes. I would mind very much.”

  Oh. “Because of Pin. You wouldn’t want to forget her.”

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “I know you loved her,” I say.

  “Yes,” he says briefly, sadly.

  “Did she . . .” I lean my staff against the wall and step closer to him. We are much of a height, and I can feel the warmth of his breath on my cold cheek. “Did she love you back?”