The Faery Godmother, page 9
The two of them set off along the road. Stef’s presence bolstered Morath’s confidence further. The townsfolk might glower at her when she walked alone through town, and a few might spit behind her back, but no one would dare so much as a sideways look with Stef alongside.
Not only was she the mistress of the best tavern for leagues, she was one of those folk who simply attracted admiration and affection effortlessly. It was impossible not to love Stef. Morath had in her darker moments thought that she might have hated her simply for that reason alone, had they not been such good friends.
Today no shadow of that thought hung over her. With the summer heat finally beginning to ease its iron grip, their walk down the cliffside road was much more pleasant, especially with Stef chattering lightheartedly as she related anecdotes about the Tabby’s patrons and their antics. Morath laughed heartily at the story of a traveler who had recently discovered Rogit’s affinity for tangling himself up in the legs of anyone who overindulged on the pub’s dark ale.
The sea wind picked up as they neared the shore, blowing their hair into salty tangles around their faces. Morath took a deep breath again, thinking that the smell of it always shook loose lingering memories from her childhood. The old royal harbor lay so close to the palace that when the sea wind blew you could smell timbers and pitch underneath the stronger odors of eelgrass and brine.
For a moment she shut her eyes and was back in the palace looking out over the waves, with the curtains that framed the balcony tossing in the breeze sweeping through the open portico doors. The scent was no longer salty sea air limned with the ghosts of her life’s wreckage, but instead that of the rainbow of flowers which grew in dizzying profusion throughout the palace gardens.
She opened them again and cast a thoughtful glance toward the ruins of her family’s Summer Palace, a smudge of white faintly visible across the long gap between coastal bluffs.
Perhaps it was as arrogant as people said to have built a harbor so close to a vulnerable target, she reflected. But my family never imagined anyone would come against them, so confident were they of their own divine right to rule.
Stef seemed to have tracked her shift in attention, as her gaze followed Morath’s out beyond the high cliffs to the Palace. “A sad story, that,” she said. “Sometimes I hear rumors at the pub, you know. People love to talk when they’re in their cups. They say the princess vanished. Spirited away by faeries–or smuggled out with the laundry, more likely.”
Choosing her words carefully, Morath said, “I’ve heard something like that, too.”
“Well, I suppose if anyone would know about the Fae, it’s you,” teased Stef. “So you’ll please let me know if that choice piece of gossip is a true one.”
Morath forced a laugh.
Sliding a look toward her, Stef asked, “Are you feeling all right? You’ve gone a bit peaky, and it’s still warm. We should have brought something to drink with us.”
“Just thinking about the visit Verath paid me this morning,” she replied.
“Was it about your handsome new assistant?” Stef asked.
She added quickly, “I hope I didn’t overstep there. He just looked so forlorn when he came into the Tabby, and it certainly wasn’t all about failing the final task. I thought, well, it’s obvious that he adores you, and you needed an assistant anyway–probably even more than we need champions–”
Morath reached out and took her friend’s hand. “I’m so glad that you did.”
“So that faraway look in your eyes isn’t to do with him?”
“No, he’s… he’s wonderful.” Morath looked down at her hands, but couldn’t stop the smile from crossing her face. “I’ve never met anyone like him.”
Stef gave a little skip of pleasure. “I’m so happy for you,” she said warmly. “You deserve someone special.”
But would he still feel that way if he knew who I really am?
If he found out how much I haven’t told him?
Morath clamped down on that worry and changed the subject. “What I’m fretting over is this ball that Verath and the rest of the Council have decided on,” she told Stef. “As Windshire’s Godmother, I’m obligated to host it since it’s being held here.”
“A ball ?” Stef’s eyes went huge. “That’s so terribly exciting! I mean, not for you. I see that. What a lot of work and worry. But… wait,” she added, stopping in the middle of the path. “Why do they want you to hold a ball at all?”
“That’s the other part of it,” Morath replied. “There are some tensions at the northwestern border. It’s not for fun so much as for politics. The king of West Ellian has to be courted in the hopes that he’ll take our side in the recent ‘disagreement’ with the Syndaryans–or at least not make the situation worse.”
Stef digested this new information in silence for several minutes. At last, she said with a half-smile, “At least you’ll have a new dress out of it, won’t you?”
“Trust you to look for the important details,” Morath mock-grumbled, knowing that her friend was merely trying to tease her into a better humor. “In fact, I’d already decided to have one made up for myself. Just to have one really pretty thing. I suppose it’s lucky I did. Once the news about the ball is out, there won’t be a length of silk or satin left from here to the border.”
They had come to the steep stairs set into the cliffside, which would lead them down to the strand far below. A family had taken the day to splash about in the seafoam. Their voices carried upward on the wind, the children’s happy shrieks piercing the sky as gulls wheeled above the vast stretch of azure below. A hint of autumn’s chill approach colored the sea-breeze, but for this afternoon, there was only the infinite golden expanse of an endless summer day.
The father was tall, and hints of red glinted in his hair where the sun touched it. For a moment, Morath’s lips curved, imagining that it was she and Padgett who had brought their family to the seaside for a day of play and pleasure.
She caught herself with a gasp. What am I thinking? That will never happen! Life is far too frantic as a Godmother.
And until the country is truly safe again, I’d never want to bring children into such a volatile situation.
Stef looked at her wonderingly. As Morath didn’t volunteer any further information, she left it alone. Instead, she pointed to the horizon and said, “Are those ships I see?”
Morath took a step forward and squinted. “Yes,” she responded, her heart sinking. “I believe that’s exactly what they are.”
As the ships grew nearer, they could see a pennant flying at the masthead. The wind caught it and unfurled a blue-and-white flag with a royal emblem of gold, accented with touches of red, sewn into it.
Morath stopped short as if she’d been yanked backward. “That’s the West Ellian flag,” she gasped. “What are they doing here so soon?”
“I think our walk may be over for today,” said Stef, looking worried.
They turned around and began the long journey home, Morath casting glances over her shoulder every few paces. She hardly noticed that she was winding her hands together anxiously until Stef gently took her left arm, looping her own through it.
“What can I do to help?” she asked.
“Can you be in charge of the banquet? Organize the kitchen helpers, get them to learn a finer style of cookery? Or something that passes-as?”
Stef chewed on her lip, then nodded. “Madelyn trained in one of the gentry households in the old days. She’ll know what to do, and can keep the rest of them in line.”
“That’s a weight off my shoulders. Thank you, truly.”
The rest of their journey back was taken up with discussing details of the preparations for a feast that would, Morath hoped, impress the king of West Ellian and his court enough to curry favor. By the time they were back in sight of the town, the sun was well overhead.
Stef hugged her and promised, “Don’t fret. We’ll prepare a feast fit for a king and his companions.”
“Thank you, Stef,” Morath said gratefully. Her mind was already occupied with the thousands of other details that needed to be considered, but she gave her friend’s hand a squeeze as they parted.
When she arrived back at the cottage, she leaned briefly against the door as though she could keep the rest of the world from coming inside. Padgett was nowhere to be seen.
Distractedly, she wondered where he had gone off to, but the immediate demands of planning for the ball quickly reabsorbed her attention. One month was an impossible enough task. If they ask me to meet the delegation immediately, I simply won’t do it. It’s not fair to come so early, and it’s terribly bad manners besides. The whole country can go to wreck and ruin, but I will not be held up and laughed at like some provincial specimen of backwater royalty.
A year wouldn’t be enough time to prepare, but I will at least have the full month I was promised to get ready.
Then she crossed to the ewer and basin, washed her face, and prepared to address the first task on a very long list. More than ever, Morath felt pressed to make wise use of the precious hours left to her.
She sat down at her little desk and pulled a fresh sheet of parchment toward herself, along with the pile of correspondence awaiting her attention. Letters first. That pile’s smaller, and it’ll make me feel like I’ve accomplished something.
Most of it was the usual type of mail that Morath would have put off as long as possible: requests for minor assistance, news of rumors both credible and specious, the odd offer to provide her with some kind of contraption that would make her life easier (swindlers seemed to think that village Godmothers had both a lack of discernment and an endless supply of coin).
One letter caught her interest, and she drew it out to discover that a new petitioner would be arriving–
“Tomorrow!” she read aloud. “Well, that just caps everything.”
I suppose I won’t be permitted to neglect my ordinary duties, no matter what other heroically-impossible task has been added to my pile of obligations.
Yet another reason to be grateful for Padgett’s presence here. He’s turned the impossible into the unlikely-but-potentially-achievable.
If neither of us sleep for the next month, that is.
For a moment, it occurred to her what “not sleeping” might look like. A grin spread itself across her face involuntarily.
Then she remembered herself. A little leeway and my mind’s now permanently in the muck-pile.
She cast the letter aside, rolling her eyes at herself, the message, and her task load in general, before picking up her pen and setting to work in earnest.
The sun slanted through the windows of the cottage, sending dust-motes dancing and swirling through the air. Morath scribbled on, crossing out lines as new thoughts occurred to her, doubling back to add notes to old ideas. Finally, she threw down her pen and rubbed her aching hand.
I feel like I’ve finally harnessed this chaos just the least little bit.
Satisfied, she skimmed through her list once more before returning to the item at the top: “First task: Choose the setting.”
Morath closed her eyes, nibbling on the tip of her pen and thinking hard. The Great Hall was the most obvious option, but it lay in utter disrepair. It was absolutely not the way to impress a retinue of spoiled, disaffected courtiers and their temperamental king.
A garden might be nice if the weather held fine. Were there any deposed gentry in Ket Alaa who might be willing to open their estates, at risk of upending the apple cart with the Syndaryans?
For some reason, her thoughts kept returning to the sight of the ruined Summer Palace atop the sea-cliffs. That’s not helpful, she instructed herself. Focus. Think.
She pulled another sheet of parchment toward herself and began writing a salutation at the top. “Dear Lord Farringworth…”
When the door opened again, Morath was still so busy writing that she hardly registered the sound until Padgett gently tugged at her braid.
“Oh!” she said, looking up. The room was shrouded in early darkness, and her eyes burned. She suddenly realized that she’d been squinting to see her own words without realizing it.
“Seems you’ve had a busy afternoon, my–darling,” he said, catching himself. “You’ve a bit of ink on your mouth,” he added. “Better help you with it.”
He kissed her thoroughly, then pulled back with a grin. “Now it’s on both of us.”
She laughed. It seems he’s worked off his dark mood. Good.
“What are all these letters for?”
She twisted to look up at him, and saw that he was holding a pail of goat’s milk. “Thank you for that,” she said, gesturing to the pail. “These are letters to anyone and everyone I can think of whose estate might not have been seized by the Syndaryans yet. We need to find a place to hold this ball for the West Ellian king and his retinue.”
“A challenge indeed,” he said, looking over her shoulder. “Any likely possibilities?”
She twirled the pen, then gasped when it splattered ink across her page. “Sit,” he ordered. “I’ll get a cloth . Finish telling me.”
He wet a rag in the basin as Morath continued, “Perhaps? It all depends on who’s still living on their ancestral estates. And whether they’ll be inclined to risk the wrath of the Syndaryans to oblige us.”
The spell of silence means they’ll no longer recognize me as anything other than Windshire’s Godmother. It won’t be as if I’m inviting them in my official capacity as heir to Ket Alaa.
Padgett wiped up the ink, scrubbing at the smear left on the table top. “What will you do if no one agrees?”
She frowned. “We don’t have much time for them to decide. If no one’s written to supply us with a proper ballroom within a week, we’ll need to prepare to use the Great Hall. Much as I dislike the idea.”
I wonder if we can even spare that much time to wait for answers.
Morath got up from the table, glad to put her pen down. “You must be hungry,” she said, determined to think about something else for a while. “I know I am. I’ll make our meal if you’ll do the evening chores.”
“Already done,” he replied. “Everyone’s fed, watered, and mucked out. Do you suppose I could take a bath in the meantime? I’d offer to help, but–”
Padgett sniffed his shirt and held it away from himself jokingly. “I’m not fit to wander around in a kitchen at present. I think I brought half the muck in on my person.”
“I’ll set the water to boil,” Morath said.
She slipped down to the cellar to select a few carrots and potatoes to make into a stew, and stood frowning over them for longer than she intended. When she came back up the stairs, Padgett had already shucked his muddy shirt and was standing with his back to her, lost in thought.
For a moment her thoughts snarled themselves together into an inseparable knot as she simply stared. He is so beautiful.
As if he felt her eyes on him, he half-turned his head to look back over his shoulder, the motion bringing new planes of muscle into prominence in the lines of his back.
“Like what you see?” he asked, a smile in his voice.
“Yes,” she breathed, unable to mask the tangle of desire and deeper, more insidious emotions that gripped her. Morath refused to consider what they might mean.
Simple deprivation and loneliness, that’s all.
He nodded at something behind her. She turned to see the hot water boiling over, and rushed to take it off the stove.
As she struggled with the heavy cast-iron pot, he plucked it from her hands with ease. Her eyes fell on the sinewy strength of his forearms. Lust unfurled through her body like the cloud of steam fanning out from the kettle.
Morath couldn’t quite read the message in his eyes when their gazes collided. She only knew that one existed–and her heart beat harder, wondering what it meant.
Padgett walked slowly back toward the tub, already filled with cold water from the well. With the boiler pot in hand, he stepped to the other side of the tub. Morath felt herself unable to look up from the floor, her breath coming quickly.
He paused in mid-motion until the lack of movement forced her to look up at his face again.
Then, and only then, he tipped the water slowly into the tub, so that it streamed out in a slow flow, his eyes never leaving hers. Somehow the deeply ordinary sound of water filling her homely little tub took on a new overtone that made her skin tingle.
The pot emptied, he tossed it to the floor. His hands went to the cord of his breeches, and he pulled the string with excruciating slowness. Fabric slipped down, catching on his left hip bone.
Padgett was still staring at her as he shifted his hips forward, causing the cloth to slip all the way down without him ever laying a hand on it. As his breeches fell to the floor, his strong, red-gold furred legs were exposed completely–along with the rest of his body.
Clearly his deliberate act of seduction was having an equally strong effect on him, his manhood not yet at full attention, but nonetheless impressively engorged. With an elaborate, purposeful stretch, he lifted his arms above his head, tucking his neck into his linked fingers so that his body was on full display for her eyes to devour.
Morath felt a very pleased smile widen across her face. She moved toward him, fingers tingling to touch his flesh.
“Ah-ah!” he scolded.
Stepping into the tub, he settled himself before reaching down to pick up a towel from the floor. With a diabolical grin, he spread it across the top of the tub, hiding the lower half of his body from her sight.
“I have my modesty to think of,” he said with a wicked smile.
She groaned, but chuckled in spite of herself. “Then I suppose I best get on with making dinner.”
“Yes, you should.” He picked up the bar of lye and soaped himself elaborately, muscles gleaming wetly under the sheen.
Morath picked up the discarded pot. “If you’re done with this,” she said, a laugh lurking at the back of her voice, “I’ll make stew in it now.”
As she peeled the carrots, she watched him wash, still smiling. Padgett soaped the darker hair under his arms and rinsed before wiggling his eyebrows at her in mock-lechery.
