The Chocolatier's Wife (10 page)

They
think
it odd that
we
wed by
the
choice
of
a
spell,
but after
hearing
their roma
n
tic tales,
I
am far
more pleased
with our way. The unknowing, the trying to find
a life mate who truly suits, it all seems impossible. They
are
fond
of
stories, and
the tales they tell me are filled
with pain and betrayal. Why would I wish that
for myself?

Yours,

William

They
would
say,
even
years
afterward,
that
the
Tarnia
hag
arrived
in
a whirlwind.

They
would
be
right, in
a
way.
The
old
carriage
had
been bought
cheaply,
for
it
was
missing
two
of
its
wheels
and one
door
and was far
too
small
to
contain
more
than
one
seat.
A
waste,
indeed,
and
fit
only
for the
wood
pile.
An
extra
coin coaxed
the
lads
to
strip
it
of
the
cracked
and broken trim that was once supposed to have been flowers
and a crest.

Tasmin
did
not
question
the
wind
sprites.
Secretly
she
thought
the
load far
too
heavy
for
her
beloved
clan to
push,
but
she
secured
her
cases,
two for
clothes
(her
mother
insisted
she
pack
more before
heading
off
like
a barbarian)
and one
for
her
work
box, using
the
leather
straps
opposite
the passenger
bench.
Her
mother
handed
her
a
basket
filled with
provisions, and
she strapped that down,
too.

“Sweetheart,
are
you
most
certain
you
would
not
rather
ride
in
the
family coach? Your uncle said he would lend you his four horses. Magnificent beasts—you’ll be there in
three weeks, if not less!”

She
gave
her
mother
a
look much
like
she
gave
her
pupils
when
they spouted sill
i
ness.

“Well,
‘tis
a
little
less
dangerous
than
careening
through
the
mountains of Deschta in
a
wheelbarrow pushed by you know
what!”

Everything
was
ready, there
was
no
more
putting
it
off.
She
sat
down inside
and
tied
a
rope
across the
one
open
door.
“Wish me
luck,
mamma. Please. I
know
William
wouldn’t harm
a
soul.”

Her mother gave her a
sad smile, and
then kissed her cheek.

Tasmin
leaned
back,
and
dug
her
fingers into
the
leather
handle
that hung
from
the
wall.
She
sang
the
calling
song
under
her
breath,
telling them she was ready.

She
heard
laughter
as
the
wind
picked
up
along
the
dusty
highway. It
blew around
the carriage,
but did not allow any
dirt to go inside. She felt the
floorboards under
her
feet
lift,
and
then
the
carriage
dashed
forward, out
of
the
village,
through
the
orchard
paths
where
it
picked
up
the
last
of the
fallen
leaves,
through
fields put
to
sleep
for
the
winter,
and
down
the steep
mountain
paths.
She
was
grateful
she
could
not
see,
for she
was
able to
keep
the
fear
from her
mind
and
heart
and
therefore
able
to
keep
the wind
sprites
happy
and
calm.
In
fact,
they
were
thrilled,
and
gigged
madly.

In
their
happiness,
the
sprites
generated
a
slight
warmth.
It
was
not
much, but
it
kept
her
comfortable.
After
a time
she
got
used
to
the
feeling
of
the carriage,
which
was
more
like
falling
forever
than riding
along
a
road.
The ride was smooth,
but fast.

Finally,
darkness
fell
and
everything
slowed
to
a
gentle
stop
in
the
brush next
to
a
pond.
Tasmin
took
care
of
her
needs,
and
then
drew
a
spell
circle around
her
tran
s
port, one
that
would
not
make
it
invisible,
just
not
seen. She
buried
herself
in
her
cloak and slept.
It
was
not
uncomfortable
travel, but
neither
was
it
pleasant,
and she
was
glad
they
only
had
two
more
days of it.

It was
just
afternoon
when
they
approached
the
town
that
would
soon be
her
home. She
could
see
glimpses
that
the
sprites
sent
back
to
her,
and she
could
smell
the
sea. They
slowed
down
just
a
little,
so
that
she
could see
what
they
were
passing
more easily.
“Please
don’t damage
anything!” she
cried
as
the
carriage
careened
far
too
closely
to
an
approaching
cart. “I
have
to
live
with
these
people.”
Soon
they
were
barreling into
the
town square,
where
the
debris
that
had
been
swept
along
in her
journey
seemed to
make the
day
dark as
night. The
cart
shook to
a
stop,
and
the
rope
that was
supposed
to
give
her
a
little
security
snapped
under
the
strain.
She stepped
down
from
the
carriage
and
found
her
things
being
stacked
neatly beside her just before the carriage
whipped away.

The
dirt
settled
down, the
dark
strands
of
her
hair
came
to
rest
on
her shoulders, and
it seemed as if she’d appeared out of nowhere.

Everyone stared at her as she went to the fountain to quench her thirst and
wash
her
face
and
hands.
She
could
feel
their
gaze
s
like
insects
crawling over
her
skin,
and
so
she
concentrated
on
being
as
normal as
possible, trying to make
some of the my
s
tique go away.

She
realized
the
susurrus
of
sound
that
seemed
to
trail
after
her
was
not the
wind,
but
whispers,
and
she
sighed
and
winced
again.
Ah
well.
At
least she wasn’t
accused of murder,
so William
couldn’t really say anything.