The Sweetest Spell (9 page)

“What about her foot? Was that caused by disease?”

“She was born that way. Not enough room in the womb.”

“Ah, I see.” Another pause. “We are most grateful to you for keeping our secret. If it got out that we had a dirt-scratcher here, in my son’s bedroom, well, there’d be much talk.” The surgeon didn’t reply. “You are keeping this in confidence, aren’t you?” Still the surgeon said nothing. “How is your wife enjoying that basket of cheese I sent?”

“Very much,” the surgeon said after a long clearing of the throat. “Very much indeed. But I’m sorry to say there is no more. She shared it with her relatives.”

“Then I shall send over another basket immediately.”

“That would be a most hospitable gesture, Mister Oak. And do not fret. I will continue to keep a tight seal on your
situation
. No one need know you’ve helped a dirt-scratcher.”

“Most appreciated.”

“I’ve met a few in my time,” the surgeon said. “They are a stupid lot. You can’t educate them. They fear modern medicine and from what I understand, they only bathe in moonlight. Missus Oak has a heart of gold to allow a dirt-scratcher into your home.”

“My wife is a good woman.”

“She has shown mercy to the lowest of God’s creatures, even though they’ve done nothing deserving of mercy,” the surgeon said. “That red hair comes from the devil himself. She may have been better off if the river had swallowed her.”

Sickness welled in my stomach. I was used to people aiming their fear at me, but the surgeon was talking about Flatlanders as if we were animals. Stupid disease-carrying animals.

Loathing filled me, prickly and hot. I hated this man.

When the surgeon entered the bedroom, I pretended to be asleep. “Wake up,” he said. If I kept my eyes closed, maybe he’d go away. But he cleared his throat and insisted. “Wake up, wake up. I’m here to look at your leg.”

I opened my eyes and slowly sat up. He set his tall black hat on the table, then opened a wooden case and pulled out some sort of tool. “I’m here to remove the stitches.” He pointed the tool at me. It looked sharp.

“Stitches?” My hand reached under the blanket and touched my wounded leg. He was going to poke more holes into me with that thing. “No,” I said, shaking my head. “Leave me alone.”

“The stitches must be removed or they’ll fester.”

I shook my head harder. When he reached for the blanket, I scooted away. “Don’t touch me.”

The surgeon scowled, his bushy brow nearly covering his eyes. “You are most disagreeable and I have other patients to see this afternoon. I don’t expect you to understand medical procedure, or even common courtesy, but I do expect you to yield to my authority.”

Authority? This man was nothing to me. I detested him for
what he’d said about Flatlanders. Maybe I shouldn’t have felt so loyal to people who’d shunned me since birth, but I was one of them. We shared the same blood. I had no one else.

When he reached again, I swung my arm at him. The tool flew through the air and landed in the corner. “Go away,” I spat.

He took a deep, frustrated breath, retrieved his tool, then stuck his head into the hallway. “Mister Oak?” he called. “I require assistance. Hello? Can anyone assist me with this girl? Oh, Owen, could you give me a hand?”

“I’m not supposed to enter that room,” Owen said from somewhere down the hall. “Mother’s orders.”

“I will explain the circumstances to your mother. I require an assistant to hold her still. She is consumed with hysteria.”

I didn’t know what hysteria was, but I cringed at the thought of Owen holding me still. Aye, he’d saved my life, but he’d also looked at me with pity. He’d seen my ugly, deformed foot.
Please
, I thought.
Please refuse.
But suddenly there he was, standing at the end of the bed. He must have been in the act of dressing for he wore his britches but no shirt. A long strip of fabric wound tightly around his rib cage. A dark bruise spread beyond the fabric’s edges. I remembered that Nan had mentioned a broken rib. My gaze lingered on his chest—smooth, hairless, so different from the men of Root.

“She attacked me,” the surgeon said. “We must approach with caution.”

“She attacked you?” One side of Owen’s mouth turned up.

“There is wildness in her blood. Her kind knows not the social
graces.” The surgeon tapped the blunt end of the tool against his palm. “If she doesn’t lie perfectly still while I perform the procedure, the wound could reopen.”

Owen raised his eyebrows and looked at me. “You’ll lie still, won’t you, Emmeline?”

I clenched my jaw. “He’s not touching me.”

“But he has to take out the stitches. It’s for your own good.”

“No!” Spit flew from my mouth. My instinct was to run from that room, but they were blocking my exit. It wasn’t the potential pain that terrified me—it was the surgeon himself. I didn’t trust him. He was just like the old woman Nan. He hated me. He hated my people.

“Restrain her,” the surgeon ordered. “She is a creature of instinct, not intellect. Restrain her so she cannot flee.”

“Emmeline?” Owen said gently. “There’s no need to be frightened. Do you understand what the surgeon is going to do?”

“He’s going to hurt me. He thinks I’d be better off dead.”

The surgeon snorted. “Stupid girl.”

Owen pushed his hair off his forehead, revealing a thin silver scar. “See this? I had stitches just like the stitches in your leg. But after a while the surgeon took the stitches out. See, my skin has healed.” He leaned closer, running his finger across the scar. “It didn’t hurt. I promise it didn’t hurt. There was a little bit of tugging, that’s all.” Then he straightened. “Your leg will heal, but only if the surgeon takes out the stitches.”

I wanted to believe him. He spoke so kindly.

The surgeon peered over Owen’s shoulder. “Get the blanket from her,” he whispered. “Quickly, before she lashes out again.”

“I won’t fight,” I told Owen. “Please go.” I didn’t want him to see my foot again. I didn’t want his pity. “Please.”

With a quick nod, he left the room.

I gripped a pillow and looked away as the surgeon settled next to me. The tugging was strange, but the pain was bearable. Once he’d pulled all the stitches from my skin, he dabbed the scabs with some tonic, which stung for a moment. I suppose I should have been grateful, but I couldn’t bring myself to thank him. Then he wrapped a strip of fabric over the wound. As he began to repack his wooden case, I remembered Owen’s words—
He’s a good surgeon. He can fix most everything.

“Can you fix my foot?” I asked.

He closed his case and set his tall hat on his head. “If a surgeon had been consulted when you were born, your foot could have been remedied. It’s a painful procedure, the uncurling, and it takes many years.” He shook his head. “But now it is too late. You are too old. Nothing can be done.”

“Nothing?” I whispered.

“Such ignorance,” the surgeon said, his wooden case gripped in his hand. “When you return to the Flatlands, tell your people that modern medicine is nothing to fear. And that it’s idiotic to believe that a bath should be taken only in moonlight.”

“Moonlight is good for the skin,” I told him. “It cures things.”

“Moonlight cures nothing. If you want to cure skin ailments, you must use garlic, horse urine, and leeches.” He started toward the door. “You’re a very fortunate girl,” he said just before leaving. “Most people would have left you to die on that riverbank.”

I had no doubt he spoke the truth. “We don’t fear modern
medicine,” I said. “We would welcome a surgeon, but none of you will live in the Flatlands.”

“Why would we want to live in the Flatlands?”

I had no answer.

“How odd,” he said before leaving. “There’s a cow at the window.”

I smiled at her. She smiled back.

I believe you are well enough to join us for supper,” Missus Oak declared a few days later.

I did feel better. I’d been walking around the bedroom in the borrowed nightfrock and wool socks, strength returning to my legs. My lungs no longer burned and the bruises on my arms were fading. But since I wasn’t sleeping as much, the days had begun to feel endless. I’d never spent so much time in bed, not even when I’d come down with spotted fever. “I can leave the bedroom?” I asked excitedly, wrapping the blanket around my shoulders.

“Yes, but …” Missus Oak pursed her lips. “We can’t have you going to supper looking like that. We must clean you up.” She took my arm and led me to the doorway. As I took my lopsided steps, Missus Oak gave me a reassuring smile. We walked a short distance down the hall, then turned into another room. Nan stood in the center of the room, pouring a bucket of steaming water into what looked like a giant wooden bowl.

“First thing is a nice bath,” Missus Oak said, dipping her fingertips into the water. “The surgeon said your wound has healed well enough. We’ll help you climb in.”

“Climb in? You want me to sit in that thing?” I looked nervously at the strange contraption.

“Of course,” Missus Oak said. “How else would you take a bath?”

As I peered into the water’s depths, steam drifted onto my face. In the Flatlands, we always bathed in the river. The current carried away our filth and any bad luck we might have picked up.

“I bet she’s never seen a bathtub,” Nan said.

I stepped away from the tub and looked pleadingly at Missus Oak.

“Don’t you worry,” Missus Oak said sweetly. “We’ll wash you with rose petal soap. You’ll smell like a vase of flowers.”

They had their minds set. I didn’t want to offend the family who’d been so kind to me. They’d saved my life, after all. The least I could do was to partake in their strange custom. Besides, it would be nice to smell like a vase of flowers rather than the way I currently smelled, which was as if I’d been sweating out in the fields.

I’d never stood naked in front of anyone but my mother. Missus Oak seemed to sense my embarrassment for she gently patted my shoulder. “Modesty is an important virtue for a girl, but there is nothing shameful about bathing in our presence. Nan and I have the same body parts that you have.” She smiled. “And remember, we are the ones who removed your soiled clothing and put you into that nightfrock.”

Missus Oak had the gentlest voice I’d ever heard, somewhere between a whisper and soft singing. She could convince me to do anything. I pulled the nightfrock over my head and handed it to Nan, along with one of the socks. But no matter what Missus Oak said, I was not going to take off the other sock. Nan raised her eyebrows, waiting, but I shook my head. With a
humph
, she carried the clothes from the room.

Gripping the edge of the tub, I carefully stepped into the water with my good foot. When I sat, the water reached to my shoulders. Easing into the cold river always took my breath away, and getting out as fast as possible was always the goal. But this was very, very nice. Flower petals floated by as the warm water caressed me. I took a long, deep breath. Nothing had ever felt so good.

The bathwater quickly turned gray. My face was scrubbed, along with my neck, face, back, arms, and scalp. The soap did smell like roses—the ones that grew wild on the riverbank. I closed my eyes as warm water was poured over my head. Once I’d stepped out of the tub, I was dried with soft fabric, then wrapped in a blanket.

“Sit here,” Missus Oak said, gently pushing me into a chair.

“Ow,” I said as Nan tried to run a brush through my hair.

“Hold still,” Nan grumbled, yanking. “I’ve never seen so many knots and tangles. It’s the devil’s hair. We’ll have to cut it off.”

“No,” I pleaded, pulling away from the brush. “You can’t cut it off. I won’t let you cut it off.”

“I know what we can do,” Missus Oak said. She hurried from the bathing room and was back a few moments later with a small bottle. “When my daughter was little, she used to cry when I
combed her hair. So we used this to smooth out the tangles.” She opened the bottle, poured some sort of oil into her palms, and rubbed her hands together. Then she ran them over my hair, working the oil from scalp to ends. She and Nan each took a side of my head and worked their brushes. My eyes teared up, but the pain was worth not having my hair cut.

After the brushing, I was left alone, to put on a yellow dress that had once belonged to Owen’s sister. From the sad look on Missus Oak’s face when she handed me the dress, I guessed the girl had died. But I didn’t ask. Like my father, Missus Oak might prefer not to talk about loved ones who’d gone into the everafter.

When I opened the door, Missus Oak’s mouth gaped with surprise. “My dear girl, take a look at yourself,” she said, leading me to a mirror.

The girl staring back at me from the depths of the mirror, with her clean glowing face and long, shiny hair, was someone I’d never seen before.

“You’re a beauty,” Missus Oak whispered. “A true beauty.”

My stomach growled. Who came up with the idiotic idea that only three meals a day should be eaten? I’d eat ten meals if given the chance.

Nan set a bowl of buttered carrots on the table, next to a loaf of bread. I wanted to rip the loaf in half and shove it in my mouth. I tried to sneak a carrot but Nan slapped my hand. “You wait for your mother.” I folded my arms and sat back in the chair, my rib aching from the movement. Nan always treated me like a child.

“Wife!” Father hollered. “You want a man to starve to death?” He strummed his fingers on the table, his gaze set on a platter of sliced roasted hen. As soon as Nan left the room, we each grabbed a slice and ate as fast as humanly possible, wiping the grease from our lips before Nan returned with a pitcher of milk and a platter of beef ribs.

“Missus Oak is tending to the dirt-scratcher,” Nan said. “I don’t know how long …” She looked beyond my shoulder to the other side of the room and gasped. Father and I turned around.

Mother stepped into the supper room, followed by a beautiful girl. Even though the red hair hinted that she was the same girl I’d found at the river, I wasn’t certain until our eyes locked. What had happened to the waterlogged creature I’d carried home? Where was the terrified girl with the messy hair who’d kicked at the surgeon? I scrambled to my feet, knocking my chair backward. My father also stood.