Dearest (8 page)

I tried once. I did not do a very good job. I could not finish. It was too painful.
Elisa released Friday and walked dangerously close to the outer edge of the room to retrieve something. Friday couldn’t bear to look. She opened her eyes again at Elisa’s delicate touch on her arm. In Elisa’s apron was a crude mat of thick stalks, woven together to form a square roughly as long as Friday’s forearm.

In order to make this mat, Elisa would have had to manipulate the raw nettle stalks barehanded. Friday could only imagine the pain such a creation required. “You poor thing.”

“There must be another way,” said Christian. “I’m not sure any of us has the strength to watch her go through that again.”

“There is another way to use nettle, but it has to be broken down and the fibers removed from the inside. Like flax.” Friday had learned to weave flax from the Sisters of the Earth Goddess. Sister Carol often told the story of an old mother with hands like leather who preferred nettle cloth to all else, but no one else was brave enough to manage the stubborn, prickly weed. After growing up in the Woodcutter household, Friday figured she was brave enough to manage anything. She put her hand to the wound at her side. Even destiny.

The young man whose eyes she had been avoiding hadn’t moved from his spot on the floor in the center of the room. The exhaustion that the tower’s magic had kept at bay for so long swept over her with a force that made her stomach churn. Her eyelids felt like anvils and she tasted bile in her throat.

“I will help you.” She swallowed quickly so as not to disgrace herself further in front of her new friends. “If you can weave wind, you can weave this. I promise. But I must come back tomorrow. Forgive me, I—”

Friday lost her words and her footing at the same time, falling back against the Elder Wood door for support. Tristan lunged forward to rescue her again, but Elisa stood her ground between Friday and her brother. Friday was grateful for it. Another shock from him would certainly deplete what little energy she had, and she’d need every last bit to make it back down all those stairs.

Elisa held an arm up to her brothers, palm flat out. Once she had made eye contact with each of them, she turned and put her arm around Friday, propping her up and bearing some of her weight.

They understand that you are under my care now,
said Elisa.
I will help you back to your room.

Friday was too exhausted to express her gratitude, too exhausted to stop Tristan from approaching them further. But when he came to the door, he merely opened it for them.

“Thank you,” he told her once more. She blinked at him, hoping he would interpret that as an acceptance. He stood there as Elisa helped her out onto the landing and only bowed his head politely when they passed.

“Oh, and Elisa,” he added.

Elisa paused on the top step, tilting her head back to acknowledge him.

“Be sure to let us know if she starts laying golden eggs.”

Friday awoke to the quiet of her bedchamber. The sunlight peeking through the cracks in the curtains was so bright, Friday was surprised it hadn’t roused her sooner. Then she remembered the events of the magic-drenched night before and decided that a certain amount of exhaustion should have been expected.

She sat up slowly. Her head felt foggy, but her mind was clear. She lifted a hand to the wound on her chest; she could feel a raised line of skin and the bumps from her stitches, but there was no pain. There was no blood either. Rampion—nay,
Elisa
—had managed to drag Friday’s half-conscious body out of her soiled clothes and into a nightgown.

Friday knew what a feat that was. She had performed the same task with Saturday and Peter, on the rare occasions that they visited the local pub after a long day’s work and overindulged. Friday smirked at the thought of wild rumors of her inebriation spread among the parents. Her, of all people. Friday Woodcutter. The girl who did no wrong. The Princess of Children. Who would believe it?

Dear Goddess.
“The children!”

The chamber door opened at her exclamation, and Conrad and Elisa came rushing through.

“Everything is fine,” Conrad said calmly. “The children are hard at work and play as we speak. I started the rounds this morning, gathered them up, and set them to it. John, Wendy, Michael, and Kate are running the show. I’ve been checking in. It’s all fine.”

“Which Kate?” Friday asked.

Conrad took a moment. “I have no idea,” he said finally. “Does it matter? How are you? Rampion said . . . well, she didn’t say, but she gave me the impression that you weren’t feeling well.”

Elisa-Rampion cocked her head and mimed a clap to applaud Conrad’s deductive reasoning.

“Don’t you have something to fetch?” Conrad asked her playfully. Elisa stuck out her tongue and moved to pour a cup of tea from the service laid out on the table by the fireplace. As she placed it in Friday’s hands, Elisa stared at her intensely. The girl’s eyes, once bright blue under the night sky, were now a dull brownish-gray. Eyes, skin, clothes . . . everything about her was that same brownish-gray, as if she’d just stepped from the canvas of a faded portrait.

More importantly, Friday could no longer hear Elisa’s words in her ears. “I’m sorry,” Friday whispered to the girl as she took the tea. “Thank you.”

Elisa nodded slowly, and then went to find Friday some new clothes.

“I’m sorry,” Friday said again to Conrad. “I—” She stopped. It was not in her heart to lie. “It was exhaustion.”

It was obvious that Conrad knew there was more to her story, but he was clever enough to let it wait until she was ready. “It is not yet noon,” he told her. “I was heading down to Cook to fetch lunch. The children will be happy to see you are well.”

“I would have you do something for me first, if you don’t mind, and then I will meet you in the kitchens.” She gave Conrad her instructions, and he quickly scampered off to obey them.

“I know you’re disappointed in me,” Friday told Elisa after Conrad had left. “I cannot hear your words, but I can feel what is in your heart. I have not lost all my fey faculties. Do not lose hope.”

Elisa nodded again but did not meet her eyes. She helped Friday out of her nightgown and handed her a cloth with which to wash herself from the basin. Friday ran the cloth over her wound, now but a thin line of scar tissue. She wished the water were colder so that her head might feel less foggy; she sipped more tea in an effort to that end. It was a weak brew, but Friday did not care to complain. The castle’s stores must surely be dwindling.

Friday let Elisa help her into some clothes. None of the Woodcutters had ever needed a maid before that spring, but there were certain roles to be played in the palace, and Friday was determined to cause as little additional trouble to her sister as possible.

When Elisa had finished tying a bow in Friday’s hair, Friday took her by the hands. “I will come to the tower tonight. I promise.”

Elisa planted a soft kiss on her cheek and left the room.

The children met Friday and Conrad halfway across the field. Friday took time distributing the contents of the lunch baskets, carefully doling out bits of bread and cheese. She asked each child how he or she was doing, and assured the ones who queried that she was fine, just tired, but weren’t they all? When they reached the end, Friday sent Conrad back to the kitchens for a little more food, and tasked a few of the farmers’ children with foraging in case Cook had nothing else to give.

She mopped her brow in the heat of the midday sun. There hadn’t been enough in the baskets for a lunch of her own, but it didn’t matter. A rest in the shade by the pond would suit her just fine. From there she could check on both her flocks: the children, and her now-feathered friends.

There was already a girl sitting in Friday’s spot on the bank beneath the willow tree. She wore a plain skirt and blouse and a headscarf that obscured her face. Her feet were bare. Friday was about to introduce herself when she realized she didn’t have to. The pair of white pigeons in the branches above them twittered a hello at her approach.

Without a word, Queen Sunday leapt up from the ground and into Friday’s open arms.

In that embrace, Friday understood everything that Sunday wanted to say but could not. The weight of being a queen rested heavy on her young shoulders, and though she was brave enough to bear it, it exhausted her. Crowds of people had always exhausted Sunday, and with the country in turmoil, the audiences had been never-ending. She gathered strength from having Rumbold by her side, but Rumbold, too, was wearing thin. Such decisions they had to make—decisions about the fate of so many. There was no time for deliberation. The people of Arilland loved her and hated her, but they listened, and they carried on. Day by day, issue after issue, Sunday was feeling just as lost at sea as all those assumed perished.

Friday squeezed tightly, reminding Sunday that in this small shadow of the world, under this small tree, she was just someone’s little sister. That someone would love her unconditionally, no matter what choices she made.

Friday kissed her sister on the cheek. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Sunday let out a halfhearted laugh. “I almost don’t recognize me either, these days.”

Friday clasped her sister’s hand and they plopped back down on the grass next to Sunday’s basket. Friday put on her most dazzling smile; she was sure Sunday had seen little but tears and scowls in the course of her new profession. She could already make out a permanent crease of worry between Sunday’s fair brows. Sunday returned the smile, closed her eyes, and breathed in the fresh air all around her. Her scarf slipped aside and the breeze danced through her golden hair, and in that moment she was a lazy little woodcutter’s daughter once again, skiving off work.

Friday turned into the breeze to see Elisa across the pond throwing crumbs to her swans.

“Cheeky,” Friday mumbled under her breath. “So,” she said to Sunday, “what did you bring me?”

The big blue eyes opened and the worry lines deepened. “A bribe. A meeting. A favor to ask. And company.” Sunday lifted the cloth off the basket to reveal some freshly baked bread, a few thick slices of game bird, some berries, and a bottle of cider. Friday was honored that Sunday had come all this way just to seek her advice, but even Mama would have included more than this in a basket for the queen of the land.

Between the contents of the basket and Sunday’s furrowed brow, Friday knew that things were far direr than they seemed. “Your company? I’ve missed that so much, it’s worth a trade for all the others. So, tell me what’s on your mind. I’m sure you don’t have much time.”

“I’m the queen. I have all the time I want.”

“Then it won’t be long until Erik or one of the other guards finds you.” In her joviality, Friday remembered too late.

“Erik’s vanished with Saturday to gods know where—on that sea, or beyond it. Papa and Peter are still hard at work building a ship. It isn’t as much of a mission for Papa as it is a distraction.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to remind you.”

“It’s not you, Friday. The citizens of Arilland remind me every single day.” Sunday offered Friday the basket. She took nothing for herself.

Friday tore off a chunk of the still-warm bread; it was sweet and divine. “What can I do for my queen?”

Sunday leaned back against the trunk of the willow tree and curled her bare feet up beneath her skirts, just as she’d done as a child. The Queen of Arilland would always be a woodcutter’s daughter at heart, most at home when surrounded by trees. “Sister dearest, of all of us, you have the unique ability to make divine creations from nothing but scraps.”

She was referring, of course, to the patchwork skirts Friday created for herself from the bits of cloth left after making clothes for the poor out of tithed remnant materials. Those skirts had become near infamous in this little corner of Arilland, and by Conrad’s account they had even saved her life. Friday didn’t mind wearing the dresses that had been provided to her at the castle, but she had missed her skirts. Was Sunday asking her to take up her needle and make them again?

“Arilland finds itself with an overabundant population, and two needs have risen above the rest in a very short time.”

“Food and clothes,” Friday guessed. When a child arrived at the orphanage, these were the first needs the Sisters tended to, just as they were the first things Friday had considered upon encountering Tristan and his brothers . . . right after the color of Tristan’s eyes. Butterflies cavorted in Friday’s insides at the memory of his intense stare. She forced herself to concentrate on Sunday.

“So many of these families have lost everything. When I realized clothing was becoming an issue, I couldn’t think of anyone else more qualified than my seamstress sister.” Sunday waved at the various stages of laundry being taken care of by the children. “Your flock has already done so much for Arilland—more than they will ever know. I hesitate to ask for more.”

“We are your willing and enthusiastic subjects,” said Friday. “What do you need?”

“I need you to start sewing again. I will send women and men to help you and the children with what’s already being done—manpower is the one item we have in spades.”

“Thank you. But what about the food?” More bodies meant far more food than Friday’s Darlings had to spare.

Sunday gave a very un-queenlike shrug and sighed. “Rumbold and I haven’t figured that out yet. I don’t suppose you have any ideas?”

Friday smiled again, eager to share happiness and hope with her sister. “Perhaps my flock can help there as well.” She raised a hand and called for Niall and Rhiannon; the call was repeated across the meadow until there was an answer.

Sunday adjusted her headscarf so that her face was once again in shadow. Friday didn’t know if these farmer children would have recognized her sister. She did not want to cause Sunday the undue stress of an impromptu audience with the children of Arilland . . . but she wasn’t about to deny Niall and Rhiannon the knowledge that they were addressing their queen.