Enchanted (20 page)

Sunday doubled over and struggled to regain her breath. Hands tore at her ribbons and ripped her dress to shreds; she heard shrieks like wild animals above the rending of fabric. Her cheek was scratched. Soot was rubbed into her hair and face. One particularly strong blow sent her to her hands and knees, and someone’s—or several someones'—pointed slipper connected with her ribs. If she did not stand, she would surely be killed. Pain blinded her briefly, and when her vision swam back to her, she saw blood on her fingers.

The blows came too quickly. She brought her free arm up in a futile effort to protect her head. Sunday focused on the angry feet surrounding her, the gray cobblestones, the blood on her finger, just as when she had pricked it for Trix on the spinning wheel. She should perform some magic ... but what could be created from such madness? There was only one thing she wished for. She drew a small circle on the cobblestones in blood and breathlessly mouthed, “Quiet.”

The pain in her head died almost instantly. The blows stopped, and she fought to stand. She stumbled drunkenly through the mob, pushing against strangers, propelling herself closer to the castle wall. She forced her eyelids to stay open as she felt along the wall, step by step, brick by brick, until she came to a doorway and fell inside. The smell of bread and oven fires surrounded her. A scullery maid bolted the door behind her, while another gingerly lifted Sunday’s head and cradled it in an apron that reeked of cinnamon and onions.

“Please don’t tell him,” Sunday begged her bright-eyed, stringy-haired savior.

“Who, milady?”

“The prince,” she said, and suddenly wished she hadn’t.

“W
HERE IS SHE
?”

“The main kitchens, sire.”

“Take me there?” It was more of a request than an order; Rumbold couldn’t have found the main kitchens if his life depended on it. How many kitchens were in the castle? Had he ever visited them? He bowed to the Count and Countess of Wherever, frozen in mid-salutation. “Forgive me,” he said, and spun about to chase after Rollins.

The castle never seemed so large as it did when one desperately needed to be at the other end of it. When he and Rollins emerged into the blasting furnace heat and bread-and-beast stench of the kitchens, it was all he could do not to collapse at the foot of the crowd gathered by the back door. Rollins parted the onlookers, and Rumbold hit the stone floor beside Sunday, his beloved Sunday, torn and tattered and tossed to the ground. Her hair was a mess, her dress was in rags, her shoes were gone, and there were holes in her stockings. What skin wasn’t covered in filth was red from scratches and slaps. A skinny, mousy-haired girl knelt on the opposite side of Sunday and gently tried to wash away the mask of blood and soot she wore.

“What happened?” he whispered to anyone.

“She fell in through the back door,” said a waif with flour on her cheek.

“There was a riot in the courtyard,” said a freckled scrap of a boy.

“Who started it?” asked Rumbold. “Have the guards apprehended anyone?”

But for the bubbling of tureens, the spitting of roasting flesh, and the crackle of fire in the ovens, the kitchen was silent.

“They are all asleep, sire.” The black, bald, and barrelchested butcher towered above them all. His voice came from deep within that chest, like the bottom of a steel drum. The words stepped crisply off his tongue, as if common speech was not his first language. He punctuated the statement with a definitive chop from his enormous cleaver. “Every last one. Fast asleep.”

Rumbold stood slowly, so as not to lose his balance, and still had to look up at the man. “You are familiar to me,” he said, relieved to be on the verge of an actual memory. “What is your name, sir?”

The butcher wiped the blood from his hands onto his already massacred apron. “Jolicoeur, Highness.”

“I need you to carry her, Mister Jolicoeur, for I have not the strength to do it myself. Would you do that for me?”

“Yes, sire.” The giant knelt and easily lifted Sunday in his arms. Her face was so pale against the butcher’s dark skin. Rollins led the way to the closest guest chambers. The mousy-haired girl followed behind Jolicoeur, swallowed in his shadow. Cook, with her meaty hands and determined strides, caught up with their strange parade as soon as she had restored order to her demesne. A giant, a waif, a cook, and a scrawny prince: Sunday would have enjoyed this motley crew.

Rollins threw back a dusty velvet coverlet and patted the silk sheets beneath. “Set her down here, please.”

“Awfully clean sheets for one awfully dirty girl,” said Jolicoeur.

“They can be washed,” said Rollins. “I’ll fetch a few more ladies with fresh water. And bandages, just in case.” As he breezed past, Rumbold heard him mutter, “And a dress. She’ll need a dress.”

Rumbold stood with Cook at the foot of the bed while Jolicoeur gently settled his battered angel on her ivory cloud. The mousy-haired girl slipped silently under the butcher’s massive arms and continued tending to Sunday’s face with her now-dirty rag and no-longer-clear water.

“As terrible as circumstances are,” Cook said to the prince, “I’m glad I’ve the opportunity to thank you in person, sire.”

“ Thank me?”

Cook indicated the mousy-haired girl. “She is my new herb girl, per your command, Highness.”

Rumbold understood now. “You saved my life, what wretched little there was left worth saving.”

“I merely have a good memory, Highness. And a long one.”

“Would that more had your memory and put it to such good use.” He took her strong, pie-and-vinegar hand and kissed it.

Cook blushed. “I like you better than the reckless sod who used to live in your clothes.”

“As do I.” Rumbold turned back to the mouse. “What is your name, child?” His question was met with silence.

“Forgive her, sire,” said Cook. “She is mute. Quick of mind, though, and enthusiastic. I’ll take those qualities over a nightingale any day.”

“Did the orphanage have her name?”

“There was no record, sire. I took her out to the garden and told her to pick me a flower to be her name.”

“Let me guess,” he addressed the mouse. “Iris? Lily? Are snowdrops still in bloom? Oh dear, you’re not Skunk Cabbage, I hope.” The mouse rewarded him with a smile.

“Nothing so dramatic.” Cook laughed. “Rampion. It will do.”

“Thank you, Rampion. Welcome to our band of misfits.” Rumbold studied the soul beneath the rags and the skin and bones of her. She was older than he’d first imagined, closer to Sunday’s age.

“If you don’t mind, sire, Mister Jolicoeur, Rampion, and I are needed elsewhere.”

“Yes, of course,” said Rumbold. “Thank you.” He bowed to the mouse-girl, then took the giant man’s hand and grasped it firmly. “Thank you all so very much.”

“She will heal,” said the butcher. “All of us heal in time. The strongest are born again.” He placed a hand on Rumbold’s upper left arm. “We only keep the scars we choose to keep.”

Visions surged through Rumbold: a knife at Rumbold’s throat, a whip at his back, the sting of salt in his eyes, and beneath Jolicoeur’s palm, the burn of a blade as it tore through the flesh of Rumbold’s arm. A fight? A sea voyage? His frustratingly elusive past lay just there beyond the veil.

Rollins returned with two women: not sequined ladies’ maids but women whose statures spoke of years of hauling about everything from firewood to reluctant youngsters. With startling efficiency, they hefted a steaming basin of water to Sunday’s bedside, followed by one armload of towels and another of shimmering gold he could only assume was a dress. They closed the bed curtains around them to work. Rumbold paced.

When the curtains finally slid back, the light that shone from the figure on the bed dimmed all other lamps in the room. The simple golden gown suited her coloring; it would have matched her hair were that not darker from being slightly damp. Somehow, her face showed neither cut nor bruise. He was relieved to see her unblemished.

“She needed no bandages, sire,” said the woman on the left. The black- and blood-streaked rags she bundled in her hands indicated otherwise. She tossed the ruined scraps into the tub of dingy water between them.

“With your permission, sire,” said the woman on the right.

“Yes, of course, you may go. Thank you both.” Why wasn’t Sunday awake yet? He dared to touch her hand, warm and pliant, not cold and stiff as the mask she wore. It was sleep, then, and not death. But an enchanted sleep? Who had done this to her? What exactly had happened in that courtyard?

Rumbold forced the impatience back down his throat. He would have all of his answers when she woke. And perhaps—he fingered a stray lock of her hair and ached to touch the lips that might one day say his name—when she awoke, he would tell her the truth. She deserved that. They both did. She would be happy that her friend the frog was still alive, happy that she had saved him, happy that ... that Fate had bound her forever to a man her family despised.

No. He clenched his fists. If Sunday was to walk that path, she should do it because she chose to, not because the gods had bound and gagged and marched her down it. Sunday deserved the truth, but she also deserved a life. She deserved the freedom he’d never had.

“Is it this one?” Rumbold heard Erik before the door was flung open. The guard paused only long enough to let Rollins through with his contraption: a wheeled chair for invalids.

“Rollins, you are a genius,” said Rumbold.

“I thought some fresh air might do her good,” said Rollins. “And neither you nor I are Mister Jolicoeur.”

“Bah,” said Erik. “I could have carried her. Is she all right?”

“She sleeps,” the prince said. “Other than that, I believe she’s fine.”

“They’re all asleep,” reported Erik. “The entire courtyard. Anyone whose feet were touching those cobblestones when the ruckus started simply fell in their tracks.”

“Was it my godmother?”

“If it was, then she orchestrated it all blind. She is resting up in her rooms, same as last night.”

Which meant that she had once again passed her blood, her energy on to the king. “I take it my father is attempting to regain control over the situation?”

“With the same vigor he applies to everything,” Rollins said judiciously.

“And a sledgehammer,” added Erik.

“Right,” said Rumbold. “Best we stick to the gardens, then.”

***

Warm in his arms, Sunday slept on. Beyond the thick hedge, Rumbold could hear the muffled commotion from the courtyard, and his father’s voice, bellowing above them all. Rumbold pretended the king’s bark was wolves howling through the Wood and that the chatter of guests was the chirp of sparrows and chickadees as they discussed the evening. He laughed at himself, for he couldn’t remember the last time he had done anything so ridiculous and innocent. He kissed the top of Sunday’s head in gratitude for her influence.

“What is this place?” she said into his shoulder. His heart soared at the sound of her voice. When she turned to smile up at him, the garden, the palace, and the whole world smiled, too.

“Welcome to my sanctuary,” he said. “I find myself despising crowds of late.”

“They will hate me for making you miss your own ball.”

“The hellions should be grateful I did not call off the evening altogether,” he said. “Witnesses said they had never seen such savagery.”

“The female of the species...” Sunday chuckled, and then coughed. As Rumbold suspected, only her external wounds had miraculously healed.

“It is my fault for singling you out.”

“It is my fault for wanting to be singled out,” said Sunday. “The curse of an interesting life: there are either very good times or very bad times.” She winced as she shifted in his arms. “Tonight was the price I paid for yesterday.”

“Do not attempt to justify their actions.” He smoothed her hair with his hand, and she did not tell him to stop. “This will not happen again tomorrow.”

Sunday lifted her head from his shoulder. He saw a trace of pain in her eyes, but not enough to worry him. “There can be no tomorrow,” she said. “Surely you realize that.”

“There will be a tomorrow, just as there will always be a tomorrow that follows today. I will send a carriage at sundown, and my guardsmen will accompany you and your family to the entrance. You have my word; no harm will come to you.”

“But...”

“Please,” he said. “It’s the least I can do.”

“What of my mother? And my sisters?”

“They are welcome, too.”

“No, what of them now? Where are they? Are they all right? Were they—?”

Rumbold moved her body so that she could sit beside him on the bench and converse properly. He took her hand so that he could keep touching her for the short time they had left together. Here in the garden under the stars was the perfect place to tell her the truth of his enchantment. But when he opened his mouth, he said only, “They are fine, I think.”

“You
think?”

“They’re all asleep.”

“Asleep.”

“As you were. By all accounts, everyone in the courtyard just fell asleep.”

Sunday covered her mouth with her free hand. “This is all my fault.”

“I am as much to blame as you,” said the prince.

She pulled her other hand away; he refused to let her see how much it wounded him. “You don’t understand,” she said. “I did that.
I
put everyone to sleep. Me. I am—”

“Good,” said Rumbold.

Sunday halted mid-rant. “Good?”

“It stopped the riot. It stopped anyone else from getting hurt.” He touched her hair again. “It stopped them from killing you.”
And me from having to kill them.

“It was all I could think of. I didn’t even know what would happen, or if anything would happen at all. I was only thinking of myself. I could have hurt someone.”

“I’ve hurt a lot of people,” he admitted, “and never for anything so noble as saving my own life. So tell me”—he lifted her chin—“which of us is more selfish?”

The bellowing and murmuring beyond the hedge grew louder. Erik coughed and then appeared through the gate. “They are waking up, sire.”

“Please,” said Sunday. “I can’t face them.”