The Sweetest Spell (2 page)

A nudge to my elbow drew my attention to the other cow, Snow’s daughter. “Hello,” I said, running my hand down her back. Five more cows, brown as freshly hoed dirt, waited on the road just below our cottage. “Oh, you brought your friends.” I wrapped the shawl around my shoulders. “Well, I’d best get you home. The milkman will be missing you.”

Planting season had come to the village of Root. Having finished their noon meal, villagers were at work sprinkling seed into furrows and setting potato tubers into holes. Men and women, boys and girls, young and old—if you breathed and you lived here, you worked the fields. This part of Anglund’s kingdom was called the Flatlands, a wide valley wedged between River Time and the Gray Mountains. My ancestors, the red-haired Kell, came to the Kingdom of Anglund as invaders many generations ago but were
brutally defeated. The Queen of Anglund took pity on the survivors, mostly women and children. Though we were forbidden to ever again call ourselves Kell, or make or carry weapons, we were given the right to farm the Flatlands. Honestly, no one else wanted the land, which is parched in the summer and soggy in the winter. But after a single generation, the villages of Root, Seed, and Furrow arose, and we have lived there ever since.

No one stared at me as I hobbled down the road. They’d gotten used to the sight of me leading the cows, just as they’d gotten used to the strange way I walked, my right side dipping with each step of my right foot. I walked that way because my right foot was shrunken and curved inward so that I bore my weight on its side. A long trek, such as the distance between my father’s cottage and the milkman’s land, was difficult and painful. But the cows never seemed to mind my slow pace.

My thoughts drifted to tomorrow’s husband market. The boys who’d turned eighteen since the last husband market would be up for bid, joined by the men who had yet to find wives or who had been widowed. Flatlander girls saved all their coins for the occasion. The highest bidder got the best husband. Usually.

There was no law forcing a girl to marry, but most did. A husband provided a house. A husband meant that a girl was no longer a child and could speak for herself. A husband meant other things too—things I’d heard girls whisper about.

Everyone knew my fate was to remain unmarried, thanks to my
unnatural
status. I suppose, out of desperation, I could bid on an “unwanted.” The unwanteds were the men who rarely got bids,
usually because they had frightful tempers or because they had a flock of nasty, bad-mannered children from previous marriages. Or because they were hideous.

No thank you.

The cows’ hooves clomped along the road. Soft clouds drifted lazily over the fields. Two robins circled each other in a spring dance of love. I could pretend that my pride would keep me from bidding on an unwanted, but the truth was this—I was also an
unwanted
.

The pain began at the next bend in the road. It started in my curled foot, then shot up the outside of my leg. It would worsen throughout the afternoon as I followed Father around the field, dropping the potato tubers into the holes he’d dug. I fought the urge to slow down, maybe take a rest beside the river. Daylight was precious. Father needed my help. We had a lot to get done if we wanted to take tomorrow off for the husband market.

No way was I going to miss it. Not this year. Not with Root’s most popular boy stepping onto that stage. Every girl in the village of Root dreamed of marrying Griffin Boar.

Including me.

And that’s why I gasped when he appeared around the bend.

Who was this boy who consumed the thoughts of the village girls?

Griffin Boar was the milkman’s only son. Because the Boars were rich by Flatlander measure, Griffin’s future wife would never want for food. She’d never want for shelter either, because for the past three years, Griffin had been building a cottage. Girls often gathered at the river’s edge to watch the progress as, shirtless, he stripped the bark off timbers and set them into place. Other young men were building their cottages, but Griffin’s effort drew the most attention. His cottage was double the size of anyone else’s.

This would have been enough to explain his popularity. But Griffin Boar had more going for him than security.

He was beautiful.

Even after casting aside the deformed babies, most Flatlanders didn’t make it to the age of eighteen without some sort of disfigurement—a crooked nose from a break, an arm scarred
from a burn, cheeks pockmarked by disease. Missing teeth, split lips, boils, and bruises were the markings of village life. But somehow Griffin had been spared.

And that is why so much female time in the village of Root was spent thinking about Griffin Boar. Security
and
beauty came along once in a generation, if at all.

Griffin didn’t notice me as he appeared around the bend, his horse cantering at a steady pace. One hand on the reins, the other hand holding a small mirror, Griffin stared, transfixed by his own reflection, his red locks bouncing at his shoulders. I froze as the horse headed straight at me and the cows. Surely it would veer around us. Surely Griffin would look up in time. Oblivious, he held the mirror closer and inspected his smile. He smiled with teeth, then without teeth. Then with teeth again.

“Watch out!” I cried, trying to limp out of the way. The horse neighed as it skidded to a stop. Griffin looked up just before he flew over the horse’s head and landed on the road, right between two cows.

I stumbled, then caught my balance. Holding my breath, I stared at Griffin. He wasn’t moving. Was he dead? Was the most beautiful boy in Root Village
dead
? I reached cautiously, my fingers floating just above his shoulder. “Hello? Are you … hurt?”

Squinting into the sun, he turned his face toward me. “Who’s there? Emmeline?” His eyes widened. “Get away,” he said, waving a hand. “Don’t touch me.”

“I wasn’t going to touch you,” I snapped.

I stepped back. Griffin may have looked better than the other
boys in Root, but he shared the same stupid superstitions. He didn’t want to get too close lest my black magic taint him in some way.

Griffin and I had lived in the same village all our lives, but I could count on one hand the times he’d spoken to me. I could remember exactly what he’d said on each occasion:

“Move out of the way. I’ve got somewhere important to go.”

“Move out of the way. I’m in a hurry.”

“Move out of the way, now.”

“Move out of the way.”

“Move.”

So this encounter was a bit unusual. He’d said “get away” instead of “move.” After being on the receiving end of such poetic tenderness, how could a girl not fall in love with Griffin Boar?

After scrambling to his feet, he brushed dirt from his woven shirt and pants. “Why are you walking in the middle of the road?” he asked angrily. “Are you stupid? The middle of the road is for horses.”

“I’m not the stupid one. I was walking in the middle of the road because the middle of the road has fewer ruts,” I said, equally angry. “And I’m walking your father’s cows home. Maybe
you’re
too stupid to notice a road full of cows.”

He glared at the cows, then pushed one out of his way. “Stupid cows,” he grumbled. A thin line of blood appeared at the edge of his chin. It glistened in the sunlight. A sudden pang of sadness struck me. It was as if a beloved piece of pottery had cracked.

Griffin frowned. “What are you looking at?”

I pointed at his chin.

His fingers found the wound. Then he stared at the blood on his fingertips. “I’m hurt,” he said, his face slack with surprise. He felt the wound again. “It’s a cut. On my face. My
face
.”

“It’s a small scratch,” I said. “It’ll heal.”

But Griffin wasn’t listening. He whirled around, scanning the ground. “Where’s my mirror?” He shoved another cow out of the way. As he desperately searched, his horse wandered to the side of the road and helped itself to spring clover.

Light flashed at my feet. While Griffin’s back was to me, I reached down and picked up the oval mirror. A crack ran through it, dividing it into two equal pieces. Though distorted by the crack, my reflection revealed a dirt-smudged face. I ran my hand over my hair, tangled and matted, as red as river clay. When my mother was alive, she’d combed and braided it. But I never learned to braid it on my own and the teeth in my comb had broken long ago. No wonder Griffin never paid me much mind. I was nothing to look at. I held out the mirror. “Here it is.”

He yanked the mirror from my hand. He’d never stood so close to me. A musky scent floated around him, born from sweat and horse. “It’s broken,” he snapped. “Do you know how expensive a mirror is?”

I shook my head. We didn’t have a mirror in our cottage, but I bet Griffin owned more than one.

He held up the cracked glass and examined his face. “I’m going to have a scar,” he said, running a finger over the wound. “You’ve ruined my face. This was your doing.”

I was used to being blamed. The villagers often pointed fingers at me and said, “It’s her doing. She brought this bad luck.” I couldn’t prove that I had nothing to do with the amount of snow that fell in winter or the size of the crops at harvest time. That I had nothing to do with last year’s infestation of caterpillars or with the fever that had killed many of the roosters. I couldn’t prove my innocence in those matters so I’d stopped trying. But this was ridiculous.

“It wasn’t my doing,” I said.

Though still inspecting the scratch, he quickly glanced at me from the corner of his eye. “You made me fall.”

“I didn’t.” My leg was really hurting. I relaxed it, my right side dipping lower. “You did this to yourself because you weren’t paying attention.”

He looked into my eyes, his gaze burning. “Are you saying I don’t know how to ride?” He stomped over to his horse, opened the saddlebag, and shoved the mirror inside. “I’ve been riding since I could walk. I know how to ride a horse. You’re too stupid to know anything about it.”

My cheeks burned. “I’m smart enough to know you shouldn’t look in a mirror while riding. You should look where you’re going.”

“Smart? You?” He grabbed his horse’s mane. “You talk to cows, that’s how smart you are.” He hoisted himself upward, swung his long leg, and settled onto the saddle. “Do you know how many girls have been waiting their whole lives to bid on me? I wouldn’t go to the husband market if I were you. When they find out you caused this wound, they’ll eat you alive.”

“It’s just a scratch,” I said. “You’re still …” But I stopped myself from finishing that sentence. He was still beautiful, and despite his arrogance and lack of manners, I still wondered what it would be like to kiss him.

“It’s true what they say. You’re bad luck, Emmeline Thistle.” He tucked his hair behind his ears, then seized the reins. “Now, move out of the way.”

I stepped aside.

With a sharp kick to his horse, Griffin Boar rode away at full gallop, his hair rising and falling with the horse’s graceful stride.

He’d warned me not to go to the husband market. But I wasn’t afraid. So what if the hopeful brides blamed me for the scratch? They already treated me like a flea-infested dog. How much worse could it get?

Maybe no one would bid on Griffin and his scarred face. Maybe people would point at him the way they pointed at me. Maybe he’d feel, for the first time in his life, like an unwanted.

But I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. Not even a rude boy like Griffin Boar.

The sound of wheels and donkey hooves woke me. I pulled my blanket around my shoulders and walked to the kitchen window. By foot and by cart, villagers were traveling the road, heading to the village square. Some of the families I recognized but many were unfamiliar, come from the nearby villages of Seed and Furrow. Excitement darted up my spine. The morning of the husband market had arrived.

I mashed some cold boiled turnips for Father’s breakfast and set a half loaf of oat bread onto the table. Back in my bedroom, I tossed the blanket over my hay-filled mattress and washed my face in the washing bowl. Then I stood in my nightfrock, staring at the two dresses that hung from pegs. One dress was for home, the other for town. There wasn’t much difference between the two. Both were made of a coarse handspun weave, both had wooden buttons, and neither was dyed. The town dress, however, had less wear. As I pulled it over my head, I wondered if I was making a mistake. Word would have already spread about Griffin’s tumble
off his horse. In the Flatlands, gossip traveled faster than plague thanks to Lull Trog, the grave-digger’s wife. All the lovesick girls would be cursing me for scarring Griffin’s face. The glaring would be worse than usual.

On the other hand, my day wouldn’t be complete without all those glares.

“Time to go,” Father called.

I fastened the buttons, then sat at the edge of the bed and pulled on my good pair of wool socks. I’d long ago figured out how to make my curled foot fit into a boot by stuffing the boot with fabric scraps. The boot’s seam was beginning to give way. I’d make do as long as I could before asking Father for a new one.

He was outside, hitching our only donkey to the cart. He wore his best shirt, which I’d scrubbed with well water and dried by the fire. I’d patched the hole at the elbow with a bit of fabric from another shirt that he’d worn to shreds. “Get on in,” he told me, tipping his head toward the cart. I climbed in.

Father walked alongside the donkey. A few carts rolled ahead of us. As we neared the milkman’s field, the cows ambled across the pasture and stood by the side of the road, watching us pass by. Snow’s white muzzle glowed next to the browns of the other cows. I leaned over the side of the cart, but as I did so, Father cast a warning glance over his shoulder. With so many families within earshot, my talking to the cows would bring shame to him. I sighed and said nothing. Snow smiled at me. I imagined her voice.
One day, Emmeline, the husband market will be for you, too.