“Compelling arguments all,” he says.
“Bash,” I say, turning to him, taking his face in my hands and forcing him to look at me. “What will you do after I’m gone?”
“After I rend my clothes and tear my hair?”
“Yes,” I sigh, “after that.”
“I don’t know.”
“What were you doing before I arrived?”
“Running,” he says, and although his tone is light, I can hear the weight of the word.
I stand and take the key down—the one Mrs. Gooch pressed into my hands all those months ago—from where it hangs by the door, and drop down next to him again.
“Take it,” I say, folding his fingers over it. “Once I’m gone you can do whatever you like with it; give it to Sasha or leave it in the door or bury it out back with the turnips, but at least you have the option of going somewhere that isn’t near the sea, and isn’t drafty, and you can sleep on a real bed, not a pile of hay.” He said he’d been sleeping in a hammock, but apparently we’re using humor to defuse our feelings this morning.
He looks at the key in his hand. “I liked the hay,” he says. “Might bring some in to replace the bed.”
I feel like I might cry if I have to stare at the key in his hand any longer, so I kiss him, and tell him to give the cat a name. And when the bells over the doors chime and it’s time to get up, we uncurl ourselves and head upstairs to greet my parents and the sorcerer who’s going to break my curse.
If Bash has any thoughts about the fact that I lead him by the hand, his fingers intertwined with mine, he doesn’t share them.
Chapter 47
My parents are dressed in their courtly raiment. It’s a good thing I’ve cleared so much of the clutter away over the last few months; my mother’s gown alone wouldn’t have fit through the passageway or up the narrow stairs all those months ago.
If they spot our clasped hands, they say nothing. Their eyes trail over my clothing, my hair; I’ve left it partially unbraided, the habit I fell into some months ago and never addressed. No royal personage with long hair would ever be seen in public with her hair undressed, but, I suppose, we’re not really in public. Not yet. Perhaps I should have dressed more thoughtfully; after all, this is likely what I’ll be wearing when I finally set foot outside. Or perhaps—more likely, I think—Mother will send for a gown for me once the curse is broken, and I’ll change again, back into my old clothes, so that I look appropriate, in keeping with my status and my standing, once I’m back outside. Honeyrose wouldhave thought to bring several of my gowns. She’ll see to my hair, too, if Mother hasn’t brought a hairdresser along. Perhaps I should have asked Honey to bring me a dress last night, for today. But I hadn’t wanted to, and she—always so attuned to my needs—must have sensed that.
What will happen once the curse is broken? Shall I be immediately bundled into a coach and driven away? Mother would never stand to put me on a griffin. Or might we go to the Inn of the Seven Princes and have lunch first? Perhaps we can convince them to change the name again: the Inn of the Lonely Princess. The Inn of the Broken Heart.
I push the thought away.
“I don’t suppose there’s anywhere with a bit more space,” Mother says, glancing around. “Or must we repair to your…room.” She pronounces the word with the delicate phrasing of someone who’s just plucked a slug from her strawberries and cream.
“The third floor,” I say. “It’s quite open.” Perhaps that’s appropriate; it was the first thing I changed when I first came here; aside from my room, it feels the mostmine. Or, perhaps, for the sake of symbolic heft, I should ask to be uncursed right here, crouching by the desk, where Mrs. Gooch just about breathed her last.
No, upstairs is better. I lead the way, the bluecaps overhead, the morning sun streaming in through the windows. First floor: fiction. Blue Astebani rug. Amaritha painted bluebells and kingfishers over the fireplace. Second floor: nonfiction. Red rugs on the floor, robins and bright red midsummer asters decorate the walls.
Third floor: The rugs on the floor are a riot of color. Sasha and Amaritha both painted the beams—twining flowers, tiny dragons, including my little green dragon, the one Sasha painted all those months ago, and some random poultry (in honor of the “chickens”section). Pillows are piled on the floor by the windows, and the table and chairs for the book club are enspelled in such a way (I was very proud of this) that they miniaturize when not in use. I got the idea fromHousehold Magic, which suggested the spell for hostesses with limited space but grand dinner party ambitions. It took me a month to perfect.
I enter first and then move to the side to await the procession: Mother, Father, Honey, Bash, and a woman of middle height, middle age, and exceptional robes. The sorcerer, I presume. She’s accompanied by a very well-behaved spell sounder.
The sorcerer, whom Honey introduces as Patrovius of Parciful, examines me by the north dormer window, where the light is best, her spell sounder dancing around me joyfully.
“Well,” she finally says, calling her sounder to heel, “it’s a powerful one.” She sounds almost gleeful, and rubs her hands together. “Quite a challenge, this curse!” she calls to my parents. They clearly don’t share her obvious delight.
“And you can break it?” Mother says, her voice tight. “I’d like to finish this process sooner rather than later.”
“Oh yes, indeed,” Patrovius says. “Can’t rush it, of course; something this powerful might take some time. How many princes was it? Seven?”
I nod, and she murmurs something to herself about whether or not they’ll have weakened the curse any. I suspect not. She circles me, mumbling to herself, occasionally dipping a hand into the air near me as though testing the temperature of her bath.
I hear the bell ring, distantly below us; someone’s entered the shop. Onlookers, customers, it doesn’t matter much.
“Ooh, interesting little flux in the energy just now, girl,” the sorcerer says.
“Your Highness,” my mother corrects.
