The Luck Uglies (17 page)

The friends waited, and waited some more, their hearts growing heavy. They waited for as long as they possibly could. But Rye never returned to meet them.

19

The Keep

T
he dining table was as long as the O'Chanters' entire cottage. Rye sat at one end, staring at the food on her plate. It all looked delectable—the cheeses and grapes, the cinnamon twists and raisins—but Rye had no appetite. A fire crackled in the fireplace of the Great Hall. Thin slivers of light peeked through each of the hall's windows.

Malydia Longchance sat at the opposite end of the table, plucking crumbs from the bread in her hand and placing them in her mouth. She never took her mismatched brown and blue eyes off Rye. There were at least two dozen chairs between them, all of them empty. A nanny came in and out of the Great Hall silently, clearing plates and refilling their glasses. An uncomfortable-looking guard stood by the door, staring blankly at the ceiling while shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Do you always eat alone?” Rye asked in a loud voice. She'd already learned that she needed to shout in order to be heard at the other end of the table.

“Father never eats with me,” Malydia said. “He's very busy.”

Rye looked at the enormous oil painting of Earl Longchance hanging over the fireplace. The artist had taken certain liberties, as the Longchance in the portrait had a delicate nose and much more luxurious hair. Dwarfed next to it, in a frame no larger than a book, was a portrait of a regal, silver-bearded man in a crown.

“Is that a relative of yours?” Rye asked, pointing to the smaller picture.

“You know very little of the world, do you?” Malydia said, smoothing a strand of hair that had escaped her tight black bun. “That, of course, is the King.”

Rye knew that the Shale was, in fact, an island—an expansive island full of forests, fields, and mountains so vast that those who lived in certain towns might go their whole lives without ever seeing the ocean. But it was nonetheless part of a larger Kingdom. The House of Longchance and a few other noble families had divvied up control of the Shale long ago but, at least in theory, they were subject to the rule of some faraway King who lived O'There. Rye had heard of O'There, but didn't know anyone who'd ever been. It was on the other side of the sea.

“Where is your father now?” Rye asked.

“I suspect he is meditating in his chamber,” Malydia said, with a roll of her eyes. “Most of his important decisions require a lot of wine and sleep. The villagers are calling for him to let that hideous Bog Noblin free.”

“So why doesn't he?” Rye said. “Have you made it your pet? It would seem to suit you.”

Malydia scowled back at Rye. “Clearly you know even less about leadership than my father. If he bends to the demands of the Bog Noblins now, they will only come back with greater demands next time.”

“So the Earl will sit by and see the village burn?” Rye said.

Malydia tapped a finger on her chin. “If necessary.”

“And what about this Keep?” Rye said.

“I don't expect it will come to that,” Malydia said.

“Those Bog Noblins seemed pretty convincing last night.”

“That's why we have you,” Malydia said with an exaggerated smile. She put her chin in her hands and leaned forward on her elbows. “We didn't bring you here for your table manners and fascinating thoughts on world affairs. It seems, for whatever reason, that the outlaw Gray the Grim has some kind of strange affinity for you.”

“I don't know who you're talking about,” Rye said, remembering how her mother had responded to a similar question.

“Is that so?” Malydia said, taking her napkin from her lap. Rye thought she saw Malydia look quickly at Rye's neck. “Something tells me that nothing will happen to me or this Keep so long as you remain in it.”

Rye didn't say anything more. That certainly explained why, after some initial pushing and shoving by the soldiers last night, she had been treated reasonably well. They had provided her with a luxurious room and comfortable bed to sleep in, not that she'd slept a wink all night. She had been given the freedom to walk the halls, albeit shadowed by a guard at all times.

“Come,” Malydia said. “You make a dreadful guest, but a Lady Longchance is nothing if not hospitable. I'll show you the rest of the Keep.”

Rye narrowed a suspicious eye.

Malydia's nanny rushed over and pulled out Malydia's chair for her. Malydia didn't acknowledge her. The nanny then ran to Rye's chair and pulled it out for her, too.

“Thank you,” Rye said.

The nanny just nodded and turned her eyes to the floor. She was probably younger than Rye's mother, but had a face that bore the pocks and scars of harsh treatment. She seemed uncomfortable being spoken to.

The corridors of Longchance Keep were long and dark despite being lined with torches. The idea of living in a castle occupied only by an army of soldiers and silent servants struck Rye as lonely. Malydia enthusiastically pointed out things of interest—to her anyway—as they went, almost as if she'd been rehearsing this for years. Rye sensed that Malydia didn't get many visitors. The nanny and the guard trailed several paces behind. On the walls, in garishly ornate frames, were paintings so primitive that it seemed to Rye that only the troublesome monkey at the Dead Fish Inn could have made them. Lottie's works were masterpieces by comparison.

Rye stumbled over a jagged stone in the floor but caught herself before she fell. She knocked over a tartan tapestry covering a gaping crack in the wall. It depicted a rather unpleasant scene: a frightened man in chains stood knee-deep in what looked like a bog, surrounded by a ring of hooded figures with candles. She quickly hung it back up—crooked.

“Who did all these paintings?” she asked.

“Father did,” Malydia said. “These are some of his better works.”

Rye raised an eyebrow.

“He's been taking lessons from a master painter,” Malydia said, and couldn't stifle a smirk.

Rye smiled too. They both looked at each other, then broke into a little giggle.

Malydia composed herself and her smile quickly disappeared.

She stopped at a set of heavy double doors. They were engraved with the crest of the House of Longchance, the sharp teeth of the slithery eel creature fanning out in all their menacing glory.

“This is where I have my lessons,” she said.

Rye carefully ran her finger along the door's dark surface.

“What is this thing anyway?” Rye asked, poking her finger between its jaws. “A sea worm?”

“It's a hagfish,” Malydia said, as if that should be readily apparent to anyone. “They secrete slime to escape their enemies and eat the corpses of rotting fish. They're quite resourceful.”

“Yes,” Rye said drily. “They sound like noble creatures.”

“You may go in,” Malydia said.

Rye hesitated.

“It won't bite,” Malydia said, a mischievous glitter in her eye. She pushed the door open and stepped aside.

Rye entered carefully. Beyond the door was a library, its carrels covered with pens, inkwells, paper, and parchment. She couldn't conceal her wonder as she took in the walls. She had never seen so many books. They lined the shelves from floor to ceiling and filled her nose with a scent that was part mildew, part magic. She strolled slowly around the library and stared up at the patchwork cavern of multicolored bindings.

“I've read most of them,” Malydia said self-importantly, following Rye in.

“What's this one about?” Rye asked, marveling at the texture of a book bound in the hide of an exotic reptile.

“Well, a lot of them, anyway,” Malydia added with a frown.

The guard stayed by the door looking anxious, as if there couldn't be anything worse than being stuck in a room full of books. Malydia probably thought she was playing a cruel trick by bringing Rye into the library. After all, only Daughters of Longchance were permitted to read under the Laws. But, thanks to her mother and Quinn, Rye had certainly learned enough to read the titles on the covers and spines. She spotted books of maps and books of fairy tales, and books about nature and its creatures. She tried not to allow her eyes to reveal that she knew what they said.

After further perusing the shelves, she came upon something familiar. On a high shelf, in a cluttered corner, was a thick, leather-bound tome. It was in much better condition than the copy that was tucked under Quinn's bed at this very moment, but without a doubt it was the banned book:
Tam's Tome of Drowning Mouth Fibs, Volume II.
Rye noticed the gaps on either side of the shelf, spaces where
Volumes I
and
III
should have been. Her eyes must have lingered for a moment too long.

“That's an interesting one,” a voice said in her ear.

Rye whipped around and found Malydia hovering behind her. “My father's spent hours with it himself. When he finally puts it down, he'll stomp off to his chamber and sulk over his wine.”

Rye just returned her stare, as if she didn't know what Malydia could possibly be talking about.

“The author . . . Tam is it? He apparently has some truly awful things to say . . . about my father . . . my family. Lies, my father would tell you, all of it. He's searched the hills for him—even Beyond the Shale—but with no luck. I'm sure he'll cut off Tam's fingers should he ever find him—bury his quill in his neck. And yet it almost seems like Tam is a ghost or . . . something worse.”

Malydia crossed her arms and leaned in close.

“I've told him . . . these stories date back over a hundred years. If Tam's not dead already, he must be a withered old husk. Why not let time and the worms have their way with him?”

Malydia brushed past Rye and reached an arm as high as she could, her long fingers adorned with fine silver rings, their nails chewed down to jagged nubs.

“The prattlers say another copy has found its way into the village.” Malydia shook her head as she pulled
Tam's Tome
from the shelf. “He'd no doubt be going door to door, emptying the village cupboards, if not for the more immediate . . . priorities.”

Rye swallowed. She happened to know the illicit copy of
Tam's Tome
wasn't in a cupboard.

Malydia's eyes flashed and a tight smile crossed her lips. She placed the book on a table and placed her hands on either side of its closed cover.

“I've read it, you know,” she said, her voice hushed. “Do you know what I think?”

Rye shook her head.

“I'm not so sure it's lies at all. I know my father . . . and what he's capable of. And I think that certain little clovers of truth could be very dangerous if fed to the sheep of Drowning.”

Rye took little comfort in Malydia's smirk.

“So tell me, Riley, what do you think? Fibs, truth, or lies?”

Malydia's conspiratorial tone set Rye on edge. She'd never met anyone quite so puzzling. Rye just returned a blank look and said nothing. For once, she was going to win the who-could-stay-quiet-the-longest game.

Malydia must have mistaken Rye's mask for stupidity. Eventually she sat back and gave Rye a condescending smile.

“Of course, you wouldn't know,” she said. “You can't read.” It almost sounded like a hint of disappointment in her voice. “I imagine it must be difficult to be ignorant,” she said, tapping her fingers on the table.

Rye frowned but held her tongue as her ears began to burn.

“Then again, my nanny can't read or write and she's made a decent enough life for herself.” Malydia pondered. “You'll be here for a while. Maybe she can teach you to launder my dresses or file down the calluses on my feet.”

The blood rushed to Rye's face faster than she'd ever felt it. Her urge to lash out at Malydia was uncontrollable, even though she knew it would likely get her skewered by the Earl. Malydia raised an eyebrow and actually took a step back. Rye couldn't tell if the older girl was regarding her with surprise or a newfound respect. The look passed quickly.

“I have other things to tend to around the Keep,” Malydia said, her tone dismissive. “Stay here if you want; you can always look at the pictures.”

Malydia pulled the folds of her dress from under her heels and disappeared from the library, the nanny close behind.
Tam's Tome
sat alone on the table.

Rye glanced over at the guard. He seemed entirely uninterested in what she was or wasn't reading. As she cracked open the book, she wanted to read but found herself reluctant. Her afternoons with Folly and Quinn rushed back to her. She thought of the three of them crowded around the book, reading
Tam's Tome
aloud in the back of her cottage, a home she might never see again. She thought about her mother and sister. She thought about her father, whom she had only recently come to know.

The stories in
Tam's Tome
weren't just tall tales anymore. In part, they were the stories of her family, the blacked-out portions of her own past that she never knew. Rye didn't want to read them alone as some shut-in in a library. She wanted to hear them firsthand from the people who had lived them.