Gretsella made her approach. “Hello, Mr. Herman. I am Gretsella, King Bradley’s mother. I would like to speak to you.”
“Just a tick, ma’am,” Old Herman said, and spent a good minute or two finishing whatever he was doing—it smelled absolutely terrible, so Gretsella suspected the involvement of some sort ofwizardpotion—before setting the hoof down and straightening up. “How can I help you, ma’am? Are you looking for a nice, gentle gelding?”
“I would certainly prefer him over aman,” Gretsella said, “but no. I’m looking for information.”
Herman brushed his hands off on his overalls. He was a shortish, stoutish man with a round bald head, an enormous gray mustache, and very soft dark eyes. “All right,” he said. “Cuppa coffee, then, ma’am?”
They went into a warm, tidy, hay-smelling office, and Herman brewed coffee over a little camp stove, then produced cookies from a battered tin with a picture of completely different cookies printed on it. “Now, then,” he said, “what sort of information were you looking for, ma’am? If it isn’t about horses, I don’t know if I’ll be able to help you much.”
Gretsella found herself, in spite of her better instincts, liking him. She endeavored to rise above the sensation. “I’m trying to rebuild the palace staff,” she said. “Currently, no one seems to be running the place at all.Bradleycertainly isn’t. I’vebeen told that you’re very sensible, so I’ve come to ask you who you think might be suitable in the role of housekeeper.”
Herman nodded. “Well,” he said, “that depends on whether you want someone who’ll be loyal to the young king and do as he says, or someone who’ll get the job done. Begging your pardon, ma’am.”
“Don’t beg my pardon,” Gretsella said. “I’m looking for the latter. If they do what Bradley says, the palace will burn down within a fortnight.” Then she added, “He’s a veryniceboy, really.”
“That was my impression too, ma’am,” Herman said. “Very…gentle. And kindhearted.”
“He is,” Gretsella agreed. “And affectionate. Like a dog. The kind with the long, soft ears.”
“A spaniel,” Herman said. “I think that’s the kind you mean, ma’am. Very soft ears on a spaniel.”
“Possibly,” Gretsella said firmly. “On a subject unrelated to spaniels,doyou know of anyone who might be a good palace housekeeper?”
“Well,” Herman said, “if you want someone who understands palace business, then you might want to look for Lady Cordelia, ma’am. She was mistress of the robes to the old queen—that is, theusurper’swife, I mean, ma’am—and they ran her out when King Bradley came to power. She’s not a political type, though. Just wants to do her job and keep things running smoothly. She’d be the one to speak to, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” Gretsella said. Then she asked: “I don’t suppose, Mr. Herman, that you have a free afternoon once a week that you could dedicate to advising the king?”
Chapter 6
In Which Gretsella Assembles Her Troops
Having left a highly astonished Herman in the stableyard, an even more than usually smug Gretsella proceeded back to her room, where she was swiftly waylaid by a small, pink-cheeked, and crisply beaproned young girl. “Hello! I’m Trudy!” the girl said. “I’m your new lady’s maid, ma’am.”
Gretsella squinted at her. “Do you have much experience as a lady’s maid, Trudy?”
“No, ma’am,” Trudy said. “But I’ll work very hard at it.”
“I think you’re supposed to curtsy,” Gretsella said. “And witches don’thavelady’s maids. You can be my assistant instead.”
Despite Gretsella’s protestations, Trudy insisted on inserting herself into the process of Gretsella getting dressed, all the while peppering her with questions about what would beexpected of her in her new role as a witch’s assistant. Gretsella was tempted to tell her that maids shouldn’t ask so many questions, but unfortunately, she had already said that Trudy could be her assistant, and there was nothing more important to a witch’s success than being infuriatingly inquisitive whenever those around you would vastly prefer you to sit down and stop talking. Thus, as Gretsella’s word was her bond (except when she was intentionally telling shocking falsehoods because it pleased her to do so), she set about giving Trudy a rudimentary introduction to the basics of witchery while Trudy vainly endeavored to put Gretsella’s hair into a chignon. Unfortunately, some of Gretsella’s curls had absorbed a bit too much magic over the years and now regarded hairpins as an invading force to be resisted with extreme prejudice. After Trudy nearly lost an eye for the second time, she gave up, grimly stuffed Gretsella’s hair into a snood, and sent her on her way.
When Gretsella arrived in the great hall, it was already packed full of extremely jolly-looking merrymakers. This worked out nicely for Gretsella: Merrymaking made it easier for her to observe people from the shadows undetected. She lurked her way around the perimeter of the room, then advanced to the head of the table, where she accepted a kiss on the cheek from Bradley. “Hello, Mother,” he said. “Won’t you sit down and have something to eat?”
Gretsella sat down and had something to eat. Specifically, she had a small bit of every kind of sweet on the table, which resulted in a plate of food even bigger than the biceps on theknight who was currently making repulsive moon eyes at Bradley while talking loudly about all of his successful quests. Gretsella used some of the herb garnishes from a nearby platter of roast boar to curse him with watery bowels. Then she abandoned her station to turn herself invisible, creep around the room, and listen in on strangers’ conversations, which was always her favorite part of anyparty.
A Story About Listening
When Carrots was eighteen years old, she left her peaceful countryside home for the first time and struck out for the big city. In her younger, more innocent days of a year or two earlier, she had imagined herself doing this with only the clothes on her back and having a series of delightful adventures that ended in either an advantageous marriage or an exciting career on the stage. She was older now, though, and harder, and less full of faith in the truth of stories. She had also read a few novels that delicately hinted at the very bleak fate awaiting young women alone in the big city and at the mercy of its less-than-chivalrous male inhabitants. The details were left to the imagination, but Carrots’s imagination had always been a powerful one. She decided that it might be a good idea to find a job first.
The job she found was as an oyster shucker in a littlerestaurant owned by her aunt’s best friend’s sister-in-law. This was the sort of connection that was close enough to create a crushing sense of obligation but still distant enough to make venturing out of her little room and down into the shared kitchen almost painfully uncomfortable. Also uncomfortable was the job itself, which involved lots of salty ice water sloshing into the cuts that the rough shells made in her hands, even when she managed not to slice herself with her oyster knife. Still, she had the little room they’d given her and three free meals a day. Though her earnings were modest, they allowed her to spend her weekly half day off enjoying the big city the best way she knew how: by wandering the streets and watching other people.
There was a bit of an art to being a really good wanderer. One needed sturdy, sensible shoes, an umbrella in case of pouring rain or blazing sun, and comfortable clothes with a secret pocket for concealing money. One needed the ability to look, by turns, cold and hardened or fragile and innocent. One needed to be alert and attentive and very, very interested.
As Carrots discovered, she had this ability to feel interested in what the people around her were up to. It wasn’t a bighearted, empathetic sort of interest. She wasn’t listening in on the conversations of strangers so that she could sweep in like a fairy godmother and solve their problems. She was interested in people the way a bird-watcher was interested in birds, if the bird-watcher had at one point been treated with casual cruelty by a handsome young finch. She watched other people like a punter watched a Grand Guignol.
Her long walks around the city were ideal for observing people at large, for creating a personal catalog of all the types of humans she encountered: the roguish young man and the winking, red-nosed old man he would one day become; the chorus girl who came yawning out of her boardinghouse in the early afternoon; the drawn young mother selling flowers on the corner; the sober clerk hurrying home to his wife and children. Then, when she grew tired, she would find a place to examine her subjects more closely. One of these was at the little bar she’d found about three blocks from the oyster house. Tucked into a dark corner and halfway hidden behind a pillar was a little table where she could sit and listen in on other people’s conversations.
She learned a lot from all of that listening. She listened to men who told the truth to their friends while drunk and then told outrageous lies to women while sober. She listened to girls who started out bright and optimistic but, as time passed, grew increasingly bitter and covetous. She listened to couples split up and get back together again. She listened to criminals discussing their crimes. She listened to it all and took careful note of everything.
