The Sweetest Spell (8 page)

Both feet.

My heart fluttered. What was going on? Where was I?

I tried to scoot to the edge of the bed, but the pain in my leg was unbearable. I pushed off the blanket and pulled up the nightfrock. A strip of fabric wound around my right leg, knotted just above the knee. The flesh beneath ached. I untied the knot, then unwound the fabric. A jagged wound, held together with black thread, crossed my thigh. That’s when I noticed the bruises on my other leg. More bruises dotted my forearms.

A wave of dizziness pushed me back onto the pillows. I almost called for my father, but then I remembered.

My gaze raced back and forth across the beamed ceiling as the events played out. Father had been taken away to fight in a war. The farm had flooded. Snow had died. The river had grabbed hold of me, pulling me away from Root. I’d fought but the current wouldn’t release its grip. My body had turned numb as I’d struggled to keep my head above water that rushed into my ears and eyes and up my nose. Then a plank had crashed into me, come loose from someone’s barn or shed. I’d managed to pull myself onto the plank, holding tight as the current carried me on and on and on until the memory faded, replaced by darkness.

But how did I get here?

A creaking sound caught my attention. The door opened and a man entered the room. I slid low, pulling the blanket up to my eyes, my heart pounding like a rabbit’s. The man didn’t look at me as he tiptoed, his gaze set on the table at the far end of the room. His long-sleeved white shirt hung over the top of his britches, and his vest was unbuttoned. Brown curly hair fell just below his ears.

He reached for a book that lay on the table. “Oh,” he moaned, grabbing his side. Then, as if realizing he’d made a sound, he turned quickly and looked at the bed.

I snapped my eyes shut. He wasn’t a man after all. Well, he was a
man
, just not old like my father. He was closer to my age. I held my breath, my heart pounding in my ears. As he cleared his throat, I held perfectly still, hoping he’d go away. “Uh, I saw you close your eyes. I know you’re awake. I’m Owen. Owen Oak.”

With a shaky exhale, I opened my eyes, peering over the edge of the blanket. He stood at the foot of the bed, his hands behind his back. I’m not entirely sure why, but I immediately compared him to Griffin Boar. Maybe it was because they looked the exact same age, with the same soft stubble of beard along the edge of their jaws. But unlike Griffin, this guy wasn’t tall and broad-chested. He wasn’t short, either, just medium-sized and lean. Unlike Griffin, he wasn’t heart-stoppingly handsome. He was nice-looking in an entirely different way, with his dark eyes and high cheekbones. He didn’t sound like Griffin, either. The way he spoke was different, an accent that sounded a bit like Mister Todd, our tax-collector.

“You’ve been asleep for three days,” he said.

I frowned. Three days? How was that possible?

“I didn’t mean to wake you. I just wanted to get my book.” He held it up as proof. “This is my room, you see. That’s my bed.”

His room? His bed? Had he been the one who’d taken off my dress? My face burned.

“No, it’s not like that,” he said. “You’ve got it all wrong. You’re in my bed because you needed a place to sleep. Not because …” He shuffled. “Well, I’m the one who put you in my bed, that’s true, but only because …” He shuffled again. “Look, I didn’t take your clothes off so don’t worry about that. I mean, I took your boots off, that’s all.”

I cringed. What was that look on his face? Was it disgust because he’d seen my curled foot? Or was it pity? I wanted no one’s pity. Slowly I sat up, holding the blanket beneath my chin. “You had no right to take off my boots,” I said. Even though my leg ached, I pulled up my knees, tucking my feet as close as possible. “Go away!”

He scratched the back of his head, looking like a boy who’d been scolded. “Look, I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just trying to help. I—” He turned toward the window.

A cow pressed its nostrils against the pane. Owen opened the window and pushed the cow away. “Go on,” he said. “Go out to the field.” As soon as the cow moseyed away, Owen closed the window. “They’ve been doing that since you got here. I don’t know why they keep coming to the window,” he said. “They’ve never done that before. It’s almost as if they’re checking on you.”

I shrugged, as if it were the oddest thing that a cow should pay attention to me.

“Owen Oak, what are you doing in here?” An old woman stood holding a tray in the doorway. Her gray dress hung to her ankles, and a wooden spoon stuck out of her apron pocket. Her gaze darted up the blanket and stopped on my face. She took a sharp breath. “You know this room is off-limits, Owen.”

“I came to get my book. Father won’t let me work so what else am I supposed to do?” He held a hand against his rib cage.

“I’ll tell you what you’re supposed to do. You’re supposed to let that rib heal. Now get out of here before I tell your mother that you broke another one of her rules.” Still holding the tray, she jabbed Owen with an elbow. “First you break her heart with all that fighting and now you sneak into this room.”

“How’s a guy supposed to have fun if he can’t break a few rules?” he said with a grin.

“Out with you,” she said, cocking her head toward the door. “And tell your mother that the dirt-scratcher is awake.” She frowned, tossing another glance my way. Just before leaving, Owen nodded at me. I pretended not to have noticed.

The old woman crossed the room and set the tray on the bedside table with a loud
clunk.
Then she tucked a loose strand of silver-streaked hair into the tight knot at the back of her head. “Guess you can feed yourself now that you’re awake.” She grabbed a small jug from the tray and held it out. “Go on, take it. I’ve got better things to do.” She pursed her lips and shook her head—her disapproval as visible as a black sheep in a snowy field. I held tight
to the blanket. “Drink. The sooner you get better, the sooner you can go back to where you belong.”

My arms trembled slightly as I took the jug. A sweet, warm scent rose from the clay. My insides felt hollow. I knew hunger, but this was worse than normal. If I’d been asleep for three days, then I hadn’t eaten for as long. Putting the jug to my mouth, I sipped.

“That’s the best milk you’ll ever taste,” the woman said, folding her arms. It was true. I gulped as fast as I could, not caring that she watched, her foot tapping all the while. With each swallow, my insides warmed. Strength flowed down my limbs. I took the final drink, then held out the jug. The woman snatched it from my hands.

“Thank you,” I said.

Another woman hurried into the room and stood at the end of the bed, her arms spread wide. Her brown hair tumbled out from her lacy white bonnet. “Oh, my dear girl, you’re awake.” A big smile burst across her face. “Get her something to eat, Nan. Get her some eggs and porridge. Bring yogurt with dewberries and cheese. Lots and lots of cheese. We need to fatten her up.”

“Yes, Missus Oak.”

Like night and day were these two women—the old one with her pinched thin face, the middle-aged one soft and dimpled. As Nan left the room, Missus Oak sat close to the bed. Her nightfrock and robe draped over the sides of the chair. “Can you speak? The surgeon wasn’t sure if you’d be able to speak. He wasn’t sure how the cold water might have affected your brain. But you’re looking at me and your eyes are alert. I think you can understand
me. Oh, you’re trembling.” She reached out and took my hand. “Don’t be frightened. You’re in a safe place.”

Though the act surprised me, I didn’t draw back. No one had taken my hand since my mother’s death. This woman’s hand was warm and soft, not covered in calluses like mine. Her nails were short and filed, not jagged like mine. It was such a simple gesture to take someone’s hand, but it almost took my breath away.
Why was she being so nice to me?
I wondered, as two fat tears rolled down my cheeks.

“My dear, dear girl,” Missus Oak whispered. “There, there. Whatever is the matter?”

“I don’t know where I am,” I said.

She pulled her hand away and clapped. “Wonderful! You can speak.” She leaned forward. “How do you feel? Oh dear, that’s a very big question, isn’t it? How does your leg feel? Let’s start there.” She pointed to my right leg, hidden beneath the blanket. “You gashed it on a rock, that’s what the surgeon said. He cleaned and stitched it. Does it hurt?”

“A little,” I said, wiping away the tears.

“What about the rest of you? Is there any pain?”

“A few aches, but no real pain.”

“Very good. The bruises will go away. The surgeon said they were from your trip downriver. That must have been very frightening.”

I nodded, then asked again. “Where am I?”

“You’re in the Wanderlands, just down the road from the town of Wander. This is the Oak Dairy. I’m Missus Trudence Oak. My husband owns this dairy.”

So many questions swirled in my head. “How …?” My voice felt waterlogged and weak. “How …?”

“How did you get here?” Missus Oak asked. “Is that what you want to know?” I nodded. “You were lying on the riverbank, almost dead. Then you were found and brought here. You’ve been resting for three days. Do you remember what happened?”

“The river grabbed me.”

“That’s what we thought,” Missus Oak said. “We heard about the flooding.”

“My village,” I said with a sudden surge of panic. “My father’s farm. I need to get back.”

“You can’t go anywhere, not in your condition. You’ve been through a terrible ordeal and you need to recover.” She paused, then folded her hands on her lap. “Besides, the road into the Flatlands was washed away. You must wait for the king’s troops to repair it.”

“Oh.” I sank against the pillows. “How long will that take?”

Missus Oak shrugged. “No way to know.”

I dreaded the answer to my next question. “What about my village? The village of Root?”

“I’m sure your family is fine. As soon as the road is clear, we’ll send a scroll telling them of your recovery.” She smiled weakly, obviously gentling the truth. I’d seen the destruction with my own eyes. I already knew the truth.

Missus Oak fiddled with the ribbons that dangled from her sleeping bonnet. “I’m sorry, dear girl, I’ve neglected to ask your name. How rude of me. What is it?”

“Emmeline. Emmeline Thistle.”

“Emmeline Thistle,” she repeated. “You have such a strange manner of speech. Does everyone in the Flatlands sound like you?”

“Aye,” I said. “Does everyone in the Wanderlands sound like you?”

“No, not everyone. We get lots of travelers. They come through here on their way to the coast or on their way to Londwin City.”

The older woman, Nan, marched into the room and set a new tray on the table. “Don’t have any dewberries,” she grumbled. “And I don’t have time to pick any.” Without so much as a glance at me, she left.

Missus Oak lifted a plate from the tray, then sat on the edge of the bed. “You must eat,” she said. She set the plate on my lap, then fluffed my pillows.

I’d never seen so much food on a single plate. I’d never eaten so much food in an entire day. Was all this for me? “There are two coins in my dress pocket,” I told her. “I can pay for this.”

“There were no coins in your pocket. They must have fallen into the river.”

“Then I can’t pay.” My stomach ached as I pushed the plate away. But she pushed it back. Then she handed me an eating knife, its handle made from some sort of horn.

“This is not an inn, Emmeline. We do not charge for meals or for the bed. This is my home and you are my guest.” Missus Oak waved her hand. “Eat.”

And so I ate—thick slices of soft buttered bread, wedges of white cheese, some strips of salty meat. “Thank you,” I said between bites.

“You’re most welcome.” She watched as I stuffed food into my mouth. Then, gathering her robe close, she walked toward the door. “I must go and get dressed. I have a shop to run. But when I get to town, I’ll send the surgeon to check on you. Nan will be here if you need anything.”

“Could I have my boots?” I asked.

“I’m afraid your boots were ruined, as was your clothing.” Her eyes darted to the end of the bed where my feet hid beneath the blanket. She paused, as if carefully considering what to say. “I’ll bring you a pair of my husband’s socks until we can get you a new pair of boots. In the meantime, if that son of mine steps foot in here again while you’re recovering, you can tell him that I’ll be most displeased.”

“Do you mean Owen?”

“Yes. Owen is my son. My son who brings me constant grief.” Her voice softened. “He’s a good boy, though. He’s the one who found you at the river and brought you here. He’s the one who saved your life.”

I dropped a piece of cheese. Owen Oak, the boy I’d been rude to, the boy I’d told “Go away,” had saved my life?

Three more days passed lazily. I slept curled up like a cat, waking only to eat and use the chamber pot. Missus Oak and Nan took turns tying clean rags around my wounded leg. I didn’t speak much. More than food or drink, my body craved rest. At first I tried to fight it, but then I sank into the soft mattress and drifted away. It was easier to sleep than to think about the terrible fate of my village. And of my father.

On the fourth day, I awoke to voices in the hallway. Two men were speaking.

“Surgeon, may I have a word with you?”

“Certainly. I was just going to check on the girl.”

“This concerns the girl.”

“What is it, Mister Oak?”

I hadn’t yet met Mister Oak or the surgeon. Besides Nan, Missus Oak, and the brief encounter with Owen, no one else had entered the room. At least not while I was awake. I’d never met a surgeon, for none lived in Root. When our tax-collector got ill,
he’d leave the Flatlands to seek help. When Flatlanders got sick, we turned to the village midwife because she knew how to mix medicines and how to splint broken bones.

“Our cook is worried. She’s heard that dirt-scratchers carry diseases,” Mister Oak said.

“I’ve heard that as well,” the surgeon said. “But other than malnourishment, she appears healthy.”