Enchanted (7 page)

Sunday followed Trix over a large boulder to avoid a splintered tree. She was too young to remember Monday’s storm, but she would remember this one. Godseen or not, it had certainly caused a ruckus.

Friday twittered all the way to market, as if Sunday and Trix cared anything about threads or buttons or ribbons. Trix did cartwheels while Friday went on about hems and ruffles. Sunday imagined shapes in the clouds during Friday’s lament over the lack of time for proper embroidery. Sunday watched Trix, making sure he didn’t wander off. Friday wondered if they would have enough money left over for lace. “A luxury, to be sure, but just a bit of trim, you understand...”

Sunday halted when the pillarstone and the crooked tree came into view. They were her markers for the path to the Fairy Well, to Grumble. The temptation to leave her siblings was overwhelming, but Friday was far too sweet to take the upper hand with Trix. Who knew what mess they would make alone? It would be hard enough handing the precious bauble to a moneylender.

“Sunday?”

Friday was calling her name. Sunday realized that she had frozen there, staring off into the Wood. Trix slipped his hand into hers and squeezed it. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m fine. Let’s carry on.” Carefully, they continued together along the broken path.

The Woodcutter family had dealt with Johan Schmidt many times over the years; he loved hearing good stories as much as Sunday’s father loved telling them. His hair had grown thin as his glasses had grown thicker, and he’d developed a stoop from poring over parchments and stacks of coins. He was scowling over a parchment even as they approached.

“Ridiculous,” he muttered. “Simply preposterous. Why, it’s just ... Miss Woodcutter! So good to see you today.”

“Good morning, Mister Schmidt,” said Sunday. “How are you faring?”

“Fine, fine. How are your good parents?”

“They are both in excellent health, thank you.” Sunday held the ball tightly in her pocket, hers for a few last precious moments. “I hope you can help us with something ... of a slightly peculiar nature.”

He raised an eyebrow. “‘Peculiar’ for a Woodcutter is peculiar indeed. I’ll certainly do my best to be of assistance.”

“I wonder how much you might exchange for this.” The ball met the tabletop with a graceless thud. Her hand felt too light and empty, sorrow where there had once been substance.

Schmidt stared at the bauble. He looked at the parchment in his hand, at Sunday, and then back at the bauble again. He lifted the ball in his fingers. “Well, I never.” The moneylender cleared his throat. “Panser!”

A thin young man in a too-large suit stepped forward. Friday bowed her head without hiding her grin at the fellow’s shaggy dark hair and ruddy cheeks. Panser grinned back shyly at Friday and nodded politely to Sunday. “Yes, Master Schmidt?”

Schmidt’s eyes were still glued to the golden ball. “Fetch that purse on my desk. The purple velvet one. And be quick about it.” Schmidt adjusted his thick glasses and peered over them at Sunday. She braced herself. He would now offer many times less than the little ball was worth, and she would argue about whatever he brought to the table. She had watched her father enough to know how the game was played. She could do this.

Schmidt cleared his throat again. “Miss Woodcutter, I need to confer with some colleagues as to the right amount to offer for such a rare and peculiar item.”

“We can wait,” said Sunday.

“I’ll be quite some time—we old men enjoy quibbling over peculiarities.” Panser returned with the velvet bag, and Schmidt offered it to Sunday without opening it. “I would not wish to keep you from your shopping. Use this bag of chits to make your purchases. They have my seal on them, and I will vouch for you at any stall.”

After Trix’s misfortune, Sunday was wary about trading her worldly goods for a handful of anything. She untied the bag the old moneylender had tossed to her. Inside was a quantity of metal tokens with a dragon stamped upon them, a derivation of the royal seal. If each chit was worth even a half-silver, it was more than she ever wanted to spend in one day. “But, sir—”

Schmidt held up a hand. “Trust me, young woman, you will not buy enough here today to waste this bauble’s worth. Tell the stallkeepers to have your purchases sent here.”

“Thank you, sir.” She bobbed a small curtsey and let Friday drag her away before he changed his mind.

At Trix’s insistence, Sunday pulled a few chits out of the velvet bag. She handed them to him with a stern warning. “Absolutely no buying more cows, or trading for more beans, or riding centaurs...”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be careful.” With that, he disappeared into the crowd.

From stall to stall, Sunday watched her sister haggle over scraps and trimming. For all her good nature, Friday drove a hard bargain—perhaps Mama’s traits hadn’t completely passed her by after all. It didn’t take long for the fascination to wear off, however, and Sunday let wares in other stalls catch her eye. Such distraction was in itself a luxury; the very poor couldn’t afford to let browsing get the better of them.

Friday refused to carry the purse—a fact she used as a bargaining tool—so Sunday did her best not to wander far. She lingered by a goldsmith, missing both her golden bauble and her friend, while Friday cheerfully argued the finer points of lace. A woman heavy with child sat behind the stall, fanning herself despite the cool morning. “You’re very pretty,” she told Sunday.

“Thank you.” Sunday wasn’t used to compliments.

“Can I help you find something?” The woman placed a hand on her lower back and began lifting herself out of the chair.

“No, please.” Sunday held up a hand. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’m afraid your wares are a bit too extravagant for the likes of me.”

The woman smiled in relief and settled back down. “I know what you mean,” she said. “We can scarce afford to make them. But they are nice to look at, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” Sunday admitted. She was having a hard time looking away. The necklaces and bracelets were simple and elegant. The rings were intricately detailed and set with small precious stones. Judging by the woman’s ragged gown and paper fan, she and her husband were forced to concentrate more on quality than quantity. It was a wise decision—the smaller pieces demanded a closer look and so stood apart from other stalls’ bland accoutrements.

“Sometimes I imagine they’re all mine,” the woman’s voice whispered softly in her ear. “As though I’m a princess.” Sunday was so caught up in the designs, she hadn’t noticed the woman stand and move across to her. Her wide-set violet eyes twinkled, and a lock of ebony hair escaped her kerchief to curl dramatically against her fair skin. She must have been a pretty young girl; since she was now burdened with child, being a princess would ever remain a dream. Sunday pitied the woman and wanted to buy something. Would that really be so terrible? Grumble had known she would have to sell the golden ball to save her family, but surely he would have wanted her to purchase something for herself, a token by which to remember his kind gesture.

Sunday’s hand hovered over an exquisite comb. She did not recognize the small stones set in the bridge, a blue so pale it almost seemed white. The etching around the edges was particularly fine ... Sunday bent closer. The tiny runes called to her. She could almost make out her name written among them. The woman picked up the piece, and Sunday wished she were holding the comb in her own hand. “Would you like to try it on?”

Sunday couldn’t think of anything she wanted more. She had to touch the comb. She needed it. It was hers. It had been made for her. Could other people in the crowd not hear it singing her name? She stretched out her unworthy fingers to take the magnificent object.

“Oooh, what have you found?” Friday’s chipper voice snapped Sunday out of her trance; the bump of her hip made Sunday miss the comb as she grabbed for it. “What a beautiful brooch. Sunday, did you see this?”

Sunday scowled.

“Any of my wares would be honored to decorate such lovely ladies.”

“Thank you; you’re very kind,” said Friday, “but I’m afraid we have a long list of things to do today. Perhaps another time. Good day to you.”

Sunday jabbed her sister lightly in the side as Friday escorted her away from the stall. “Friday, that was terribly rude.”

“I’m sorry, but we don’t have time for dawdling. There are too many things to consider! Undergarments, for example. Have you even thought about what you’re going to wear beneath your fancy silver dress?”

Sunday hadn’t. She was forced to concede and thank her lucky stars that she had a sister who thought of every detail. Then she was dragged to the next stall and the next, until she hated shopping so much, she never wanted to visit another fair for as long as she lived.

“Friday,” Sunday said finally, “I beg you. I have to eat something or I’m going to faint dead away right here in the dirt.” Her head was pounding from the heat of the bright afternoon, the whirlwind of stalls, and the effort of quelling murderous thoughts about her sister. Her nose caught the scent of roasted meat and baking sweets in the air and her stomach churned noisily. “Please.”

“Fine,” sighed her tireless sister. “Give me a few chits, and I’ll get some of the other things we need for the house. Find me when you’re finished. And no dawdling!” Sunday handed over the tokens and watched Friday’s patchwork skirts disappear determinedly around a corner. Oh yes. Friday definitely took after their mother.

Sunday’s stomach growled again; she was overwhelmed by all the market had to offer. It was much easier when you were so poor you didn’t have a choice as to how you filled your belly. Now she could have anything her heart desired! She wanted everything, and deciding between it all was making her ill.

She turned down another row, and the brilliant colors of a fruit seller’s wares captured her attention. There were baskets of juicy oranges, ripe bananas, and various other strange shapes she didn’t recognize, but they looked delicious all the same. The crown jewel, however, was the basket of perfect red apples. Sunday wondered at the bounty; it wasn’t yet the season for fruit of any kind. The seller must trade with ships from the south, she decided, or with Faerie. Growing up so close to the Wood, Sunday was fairly used to seeing such unusual things.

She stood over the basket of apples, mouth watering. She could almost taste the crisp sweet flesh between her starved lips. ‘Excuse me,” she called to the back of the stall.

A mass of tattered rags resolved into a haggard, hunchbacked, mostly toothless crone. “Coming, dearie,” she cackled. “Old bones, you see.”

Sunday waited impatiently as the old woman leaned on her crooked walking stick and slowly limped her way forward. The woman cocked her head and gazed up at Sunday with lavender eyes almost completely clouded over with age. “What can I get you, my pretty?” she asked, her gnarled hand already reaching for the topmost apple. She held it out to Sunday, its deep red surface so shiny that Sunday could see her face reflected in it. Hunger tied her stomach in knots so tightly, she could hardly speak. She pulled out a chit to pay for the apple.

There was a crash, and a cry of “I’ll have your ears, boy!” filled the air.

Sunday exhaled.

Trix.

“For your trouble, grandmother.” Sunday pushed the chit into the old woman’s hand and hurried off to rescue her stupid, rambunctious brother. She found him half buried in an upended piecart.

She grabbed Trix by an ear—the only part of his body not covered in juice and meat and pastry—and hauled him out of the wreckage. The pieman’s face was so red, he could have baked a few more pies right there on his forehead. His jaw clenched and little veins popped out at his temples.

Any other day, Sunday would have been scared of this man and what he might do to her and her family. Today, she had a velvet purse at her waist and a boatload of confidence. “Please take this chit to Johan Schmidt the moneylender, sir. He can vouch for us and will reimburse you for your lost inventory.”

The man stared at the small coin in his oversized hand. Sunday waited for him to open his mouth and cut her down to size. She clasped her hands together to hide their shaking ... and watched as the pieman’s color faded back to its normal ruddiness. He pulled the hat off his very bald head and clasped it to his aproned chest. “Thank ye, milady. Very kind of ye. I’ll visit him straightaway.”

Oddities she could handle aplenty, but this went beyond anything she knew. Were the very rich always treated with such courtesy? She and her brother deserved to be yelled at by this man, no matter how much money they had in their purse. Be that as it may, she was thrilled to have avoided confrontation. She silently thanked the gods, and then pulled Trix along to find Friday. She paused to scan the crowd for her sister’s telltale skirts.

“It was an accident.” The mischievous glint in Trix’s eyes betrayed him, as did the syrup encrusted in his hair.

Sunday shook her head. “You look a mess.”

He ran a finger along his cheek and sucked it. “A delicious mess.” From a pocket, he offered her a slightly mashed pie. “For you, milady.”

In the excitement, Sunday had forgotten the hunger that had threatened to tear her apart. She took the pie gratefully. “Find a way to clean up,” she implored him. “Explaining you to Mama has only gotten me in trouble lately.” He agreed, and begrudgingly she left him on his own again.

She found Friday gaping at an enormous array of ribbons. They hung from the stall in a million rainbows and swayed mesmerizingly in the wind, flashing and twinkling in the sunlight like fairydust. For the first time that day, Sunday was eager to help her sister.

The young, black-haired shopgirl happily folded their selections carefully into bags. Friday and Sunday bought more ribbons than they could possibly need. When Sunday made to pay for everything, the shopgirl beckoned her forward with smiling, deep violet eyes. Sunday had never noticed before how many people at the market had similar eyes; no doubt they were somehow all related.

“My family appreciates your custom, milady,” the girl said as she accepted the chit. “More than you know.” She pulled a bright blue ribbon down from the stall roof. “Please accept this as a gift with our thanks.”