On the verso was a map of Frell. There was our manor, bearing the legend, “Sir Peter of Frell.” My fingers traced the route to the old castle and on to the menagerie. There was the south road out of Frell, the road we were on now, far beyond the map’s boundaries, far beyond the manor of Sir Peter of Frell.
The right-hand illustration showed Father’s coach, followed by three mule-drawn wagons loaded with goods for trade. Father sat atop the coach with the driver, who was plying his whip. Father leaned into the wind and grinned.
What would the book show me next?
A real fairy tale this time, “The Shoemaker and the Elves.” In this version, though, each elf had a personality, and I came to know them better than the shoemaker. And I finally understood why the elves disappeared after the shoemaker made clothes for them. They went away to help a giant rid herself of a swarm of mosquitoes, too small for her to see. Although the elves left a thank-you note for the shoemaker, he put his coffee cup down on it, and it stuck to the cup’s damp bottom.
The story made sense now.
“Your book must be fascinating. Let me see it,” Hattie said.
I jumped. If she took this from me too, I’d kill her. The book got heavier as I handed it over.
Her eyes widened as she read. “You enjoy this? ‘The Life Cycle of the Centaur Tick’?” She turned pages. “‘Gnomish Silver Mining in Hazardous Terrain’?”
“Isn’t it interesting?” I said, my panic subsiding. “You can read for a while. If we’re going to be friends, we should have the same interests.”
“You can share my interests, dear.” She returned the book.
Our journey taught me what to expect from Hattie.
At the inn on our first night, she informed me I had taken the space in their carriage that would otherwise have been occupied by their maid.
“But we shan’t suffer, because you can take her place.” She cocked her head to one side. “No, you are almost noble. It would be an insult to make a servant of you. You will be my lady-in-waiting, and I shall share you with my sister sometimes. Ollie, is there something Ella can do to help you?”
“No! I can dress and undress myself,” Olive said defiantly.
“No one said you can’t.” Hattie sat on the bed we were all to share. She lifted her feet. “Kneel down and take my slippers off for me, Ella. My toes ache.”
Without comment I removed them. My nose filled with the ripe smell of her feet. I carried the slippers to the window and tossed them out.
Hattie yawned. “You’ve only made extra work for yourself. Go down and fetch them.”
Olive rushed to the window. “Your slippers fell into a bucket of slops!”
I had to carry the stinking slippers back to our room, but Hattie had to wear them until she was able to get fresh ones from her trunk. After that, she thought more carefully about her commands.
At breakfast the next morning she pronounced the porridge inedible. “Don’t eat it, Ella. It will make you sick.” She loaded her spoon with oatmeal.
Steam rose from the bowl before me, and I caught the scent of cinnamon. Mandy always put cinnamon in her porridge too.
“Why are you eating it if it’s bad?” Olive asked her sister. “I’m hungry.”
“Yours looks all right. I’m eating mine even though it’s vile”—her tongue licked a speck of cereal off the corner of her mouth—“because I need nourishment to take charge on our journey.”
“You’re not in ch—” Olive began.
“You don’t fancy your porridge, miss?” The innkeeper sounded worried.
“My sister’s stomach is queasy,” Hattie said. “You may take her bowl away.”
“I’m not her sister,” I said as the innkeeper disappeared into the kitchen.
Hattie laughed, scraping her spoon around her empty bowl for the last remnants of porridge.
The innkeeper was back with a plate of thick brown bread studded with nuts and raisins. “Perhaps this will tempt the lass’s stomach,” he said.
I managed to take a big bite before a lady at the next table called him away.