The Chocolatier's Wife

Cindy Lynn Speer

THE CHOCOLATIER’S WIFE

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imag
i
nation or are used fictitiously.

Copyright © 2010, 2012 by Cindy Lynn Speer

Cover art by Howard David Johnson

Design by Olga Karengina

Published by Dragonwell Publishing

www.dragonwellpublishing.com

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any printed or electronic form without permission in writing from the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is pu
b
lished.

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Chapter
1

Time was, in the
kingdom
of
Berengeny
, that
no one
picked
their
spouses.
N
o
one
courted—not officially,
at
any
rate—and
no
one
married
in
a
moment’s
foolish
pa
s
sion.
It
was
the
charge
of
the
town
Wise
Woman, who
would
fill her
spell
bowl
with
clear,
pure
water;
a
little
salt;
and
the essence of roses, and rosemary, and sage. Next, she would prick the finger of
the
newborn
child
and
let
his
or
her
blood
drip
into
the
potion.
If
a
face showed
in
the
waters,
then
it
was
known
that
the
best
possible
mate
(they never said
true
love, for
that
was
the
stuff
of
foolish
fancy)
had
been
born, and
the
Wise
Woman could
then
tell
where
the
future
spouse
lived,
and arrangements were made.

For
the
parents
of
William
of
the
House
of
Almsley,
this
process
would turn
out to be less than
pleasant.

The
first
year
that
the
baby
William’s
finger was
pricked
and
nothing showed,
the
Wise
Woman
said, “Fear
not,
a
wife
is
often
younger
than
the husband.”

The second, third, and even fifth
year she said much the same.

But you see, since the spell was meant to choose the best match—not the
true
love—of
the
heart
the
blood
in
the
bowl
belonged
to, this
did
not mean,
as
years
passed,
that
the
boy
was
special.
It
meant
that
he
would
be impossible to live with.

On
his
seventh
birthday,
it
seemed
everyone
had
quite
forgot
ten
all
about visiting
the
Wise
Woman
until
William,
who
knew
this
of
long
habit
to
be
a
major
part
of
his
day
—
along
with
cake,
a
new
toy, and a
new
set
of
clothes
—
tugged
on
his
mother’s
skirt
and
asked
when
they
were
going.
She
stared at
him
a
long
moment, tea
cup
in
hand,
before
sighing
and
calling
for
the carriage. She
didn’t
even
bother
to
change
into
formal
clothes
this
time, and
the Wise Woman
seemed surprised to see them at all.
“Well,
we might as well try while you’re here,” she said,
her voice obviously doub
t
ful.

William
obediently
held
out
the
ring
finger
on
his
left
hand
and
watched as
the
blood
dripped
into
the
bowl.
“She
has
dark
brown eyes,”
William observed,
“and
some
hair already.”
He
shrugged,
and looked
at
the
two women. “I
suppose
she’ll
do.
I’m
just
glad
‘tis
over,
and
that
I
can
go
on with my life.”

“For
you,
perhaps,”
his
mother
said,
thinking of
what
she
would
now have
to a
c
complish.

“Do
not
fret,
mother,
I
shall
write
a
letter
to
the
little
girl.
Not
that
she can
read it,
anyway.”
He petted his mother’s
arm.
He was a
sweet boy,
but he was always charging forward,
never
worrying
about feelings.

The
Wise
Woman rolled
out
an
elegantly
painted
silk
map
of
the kingdom
and
all
its
regions,
his
mother
smoothed
the
fabric
across
the
table, and
then
the
Wise
Woman
dipped
a
brass
weight
into
the
bowl.
Henriette, William’s
mother,
placed
her
hands
on
William’s
shoulders
as
the
Wise Woman
held the weight, suspended, over
the map.

Henriette
held
her
breath,
waiting
to
see
where
it
would
land.
Andrew, her
younger
son,
had
his
intended
living
just
down
the
street,
which
was
quite convenient.
At least they knew what they were getting into immediately.

The
plumb-bob
made
huge
circles
around the
map,
spinning
and spinning
as
the
Wise
Woman recited
the
words
over
and
over.
It
stopped, stiffly
pointing toward the North.

“Tarnia?
Not possible, nor
even probable. You must try again!”

For
once,
William’s mother
wasn’t
being
stubbornly
demanding. Tarnia,
a
place
of
cruel
and
wild
magic,
was
the
last
place
from
whence
one would
wish
a
bride.
They
did
not
have
Wise
Women
there,
for
anyone
could perform
spells.
The
Hags
of
the
North
ate
their
dead
and sent
the
harsh winter
wind
to
ravage the
crops
of
the
people
of
the
South.
Five
hundred years
ago,
the
North
and
the
South
had
fought
a bitter war
over
a cause
no one
could
quite
remember, only
that
it
had
been
a
brutal
thing,
and
that many
had
died,
and
it
led
to
the
South
losing
most
of
its
magic.
Though
the
war
was long over
and
the two supposedly united again,
memory lingered.