The Countess' Captive (The Fairytale Keeper Book 2) (8 page)

“Since when do you know of such things?” Galadriel hisses before storming off toward the stairs.

I smile.

Their unnatural tryst unravels with little aid from me.

I fight sleep, hoping to hear what happens next. An hour or so passes, and the steps creak. The hinge to Father’s room opens with a whine. I tip–toe toward the wall we share, pressing my ear against it. Galadriel giggles girlishly, and the blankets rustle.

I cringe, swallowing a gag. Panic forces the disgust down. This is not good. I had to poison myself to make Father see reason. Galadriel disrobes, and he is blinded again. I shudder at the thought.

She’s not the only one who can play on his heart strings.

I stomp to my bed, announcing that I am awake. I sit on the bed and cough
.
I cough again louder, having a good fit. After the third spell, the door to their room creaks open. Someone knocks.

“Who is it?” I say, my voice deliberately hoarse.

“It’s Galadriel.” Her bell–like voice sounds more annoyed than concerned. “May I come in?” I open the door. “Are you unwell?”

“I think I might retch,” I say with deep insinuation. “Perhaps, you should send for Father.”

“Perhaps I should send for a doctor, as well.”

“If you think it best. You can sit here and wait for him if you like. I don’t think I can stay awake. I am so very tired.”

“You’re faking,” she says. “I know it. Do not forget what I warned you of. It shall only take one letter, Adelaide.”

“You said I had to behave within the walls of Bitsch.”

“Ah, that’s right, and we are not in the walls of Bitsch yet, are we?” She crosses her arms. “You so kindly reminded me of that moments ago. What was it that you said? That we should end our affair at the gates of Bitsch? That gives us one more night, does it not?” She smiles ruefully.

I start coughing violently.

“Stop it,” she hisses. “Or I’ll send that letter. I swear it.”

“You can only send that letter once. Then how shall you make me behave?”

“Yes, you are right about that. I can only send it once, but that is all it will take to send him to his death.”

She’s right. The door to their room opens. “Should we send for the doctor?” Father asks.

“No, Father.” I grip my throat. “I swallowed strangely. That’s all.”

Galadriel smiles in triumph, and they both return to his room.

I sleep with a pillow wrapped tightly around my ears, even though the potion is still heavy in my blood. Thank God I sleep deeply and dream of nothing, hearing nothing through these parchment–thin walls. At least nothing I can remember.

Pleasant dreams elude me. I sleep dreamlessly, awoken by Galadriel’s light knocking on the door each morning.

We spent last night in a smaller town. Many affectionately call it Barbarossa Town, for it was a beloved hunting ground of our former emperor. The common name for this place somewhere between Cologne and my future purgatory is Landstuhl.

Galadriel knocks. I rise slowly and stretch. My head swims and stomach knots: tell–tale symptoms of too little sleep. Goose flesh rises along my arms. I yawn, and my breath clouds. I wrap the blanket about my shoulders and peek through the shutters. Night diminishes. I sigh, and tip–toe through the rushes on the cold floor to see what the dolt of Bitsch wants from me now.

Galadriel’s hair is plaited. The tawny chainse linen and her matching surcote is velvet, trimmed in gilded ribbon. The color highlights the flecks of gold in her flaxen hair and contrasts with the blue–violet of her eyes.

“Good morning, Adelaide,” she says.

I don’t reply.

“You’ll have to work on your manners if you’d like to see your peasant boy again.”

“His name is Ivo. Does saying it make the idea of murdering him harder for you?”

Her eyes are stone. “He threw his life and soul away the day he burned that cathedral, and you tempt me to expose him with every quip. For someone who is so in love, why can’t you bite your tongue to protect him?”

The truth in her words smarts. “Good morning, milady.”

“That’s better,” she says. “Take these.” She hands me a folded pile of fine green wool, topped with green ribbons, green jewelry, and, God forbid it, another cobbler’s shoes. “You will wear this.”

“Father never allowed us to wear another cobbler’s shoes,” I say. Her lips pinch, and head tilts. I heed the warning. “Yes, milady. Thank you, milady.” Let the witch explain to Father why I wear another cobbler’s shoes, I think ruefully.

“Make sure to scrub your hands and face well,” she commands before eying my forehead. I reach for the lump. It’s gone, though still tender to the touch. “I shall give you my brush. A hundred strokes each side. Then, plait it neatly.”

“Yes, milady.”

“My people know little of you and your father. I shall tell them that you are a wealthy merchant family, trading in leather and fabrics like my father once did. Schumacher shan’t be a fitting name, so it is to be von Cologne,” she says. My hand darts to my lips, stifling a cry. “Adelaide von Cologne and Ansel von Cologne.”

She takes our name!

How could Father let her do this?

He would never.

He must not know her plans.

“Milady, I fear this is folly,” I offer, and her face darkens. “Do not be angry. I say this for your benefit. Cologne is home to tens of thousands of people. The only people bearing that name are those who are from there but no longer live there and—”

“That is exactly what you and your father are. People who used to live in Cologne that no longer do,” she concludes. “The matter has already been discussed and decided.”

My hands shake and tears pool. “But milady—”

She grabs me hard by the wrist. “Listen hard, you insolent imp, for I shall explain this only
once
more to you. You are
far
below my station. You do
not
question my orders. You do
not
make requests of me. You simply say ‘Yes, milady. Thank you, milady.’ Do you understand?”

I want to snap my hand from her. I want to smash it against her pretty nose, but I do not. “Yes, milady,” I reply weakly.

“Good. And if anyone asks questions you do not know the answer to, play at being shy. If it comes out that you and your father are cobblers, I shall send you back to Cologne—so you can bear witness to
Ivo
, roasting like a pig on the spit.”

“Yes, milady,” I reply. She turns on her heel.

I run Galadriel’s brush through my hair as commanded, though my thoughts flit to memories of my fifth winter. I sat beside Father at his work table, the edge level with my chin. He stacked piles of folded leather on the chair, and propped me upon them so my little arms could rest on the table.

A needle, awl, scraps of leather, and a spool of thread lay before me. We hunched over his table many nights, squinting against fading candlelight as he stitched shoes, and I perfected my stitching. My little fingers blistered, until finally hardening with calluses. I rub my forefinger and thumb together. Father was so proud of those silly calluses.

I’ve earned those calluses, and I’ve earned our name.

I put my hands to my nose and inhale, disappointed at the rosewater fragrance they carry—missing the leather scent they once held. If we are not Schumachers, what are we instead?

I exit the tavern, carrying my skirts to keep them from getting filthy in the mud, though I’m not too careful about the gaudy, green shoes.

They are like something the DeBelles would wear, with their silver buckles and threading to match, except the DeBelles would have had enough sense to order them from us. These things are merely decoration. They shall fall apart before Christmas. Although, if Galadriel plans for me to have new clothing for each day of the week, and a pair of shoes to match, perhaps they shall last a bit longer than that.

I raise my skirts an inch higher than necessary as I duck into the carriage, displaying my garish, new shoes. The icy fingers of a frost sneak beneath the fabric, raising goose flesh along my legs. I shiver against the cold and softly clear my throat. Father doesn’t look. Something outside the carriage window holds his gaze, so I sit across from him, sliding out the toes of the shoes. They peek beneath the fine wool of my chainse and surcote, but he still doesn’t look.

I cough.

“Are you feeling ill again, Adelaide?” Galadriel’s words drip with warning. I shake my head, afraid to speak. She shoves a folded pile of fine green wool toward me. “Take this and wear it if you get cold. This is your cloak for today.”

“Thank you, milady,” I reply, feeling more like a well–trained pup than a person.

Father shifts away from the window. “Milady? Why is she calling you
milady
? You said we were equals in your eyes.”

I mask my pleasure at this inquisition, however tardy it is, and busy myself with the evergreen cloak.

Galadriel’s smile is amused, placating. “You are,” she soothes, “but I am still a countess, and there are rules that even I must abide. It is not any different in the armies. Even if she were my daughter by blood, she would call me lady mother.”

“And I?” he asks.

“Ansel, I fear you make seas of puddles. What would you have called a countess in Cologne?”

He pivots toward the window again. We all know the answer to her question. He would call her milady.

Why had he expected anything else? Did he think sharing her bed made them equals?

Once we enter her gates, he will be nearly as powerless as me. She might name him a merchant, but what will he have? He will no longer be a husband, the ruler of his own house. He won’t even be a member of the guild. Never again would he make a shoe—if we stayed.

“You know how the world works. It is only words,” Galadriel adds. “You will have to call me by my title, too, but only when we are before my people.”

“Then why must
she
call you that now?” he shoots back.

“I thought it good practice so she does not forget. A woman hasn’t a man’s intellect. We must practice new skills. And she shall be around me more than you. Besides, she does not mind. Do you, Adelaide?”

My compliance adds injury to his insult, making the lie strangely easy. “No, milady.”

He unleashes a skeptical gaze on me. “Since when are you two getting along so well?”

“I know it has taken a few days—” Galadriel starts.

“I want to hear from her,
milady
.”

“You said I must behave, or you shall send me to a convent. I am merely doing what you ask of me.”

He shrugs away the intended sting in my words. Galadriel sits beside me. The carriage thumps downward as our driver jumps into his seat. He whips the horses, and we are off.

“Are you not cold?” Galadriel asks Father, motioning to the garish mantle lying in a pile beside him.

“No,” he snaps, and then his face warms as he looks upon her. “You should wear it, milady, to keep off the chill.”

She beams. “Thank you, milord.”

With this slip of the tongue, my fears are confirmed. I know why she makes us give up our name and pretend to be merchants.

Their affair shan’t end at the gates of Bitsch.

I wrap Mama’s shift into a pillow and lean against the window, hoping to sleep rather than endure conversation with Galadriel. But perhaps I should stay awake in the hopes that Galadriel and Father fall asleep.

Then, I can run away. I’ll hop right out of the carriage and hide in the grass.

Who would ever find me in the sea of green, I think sardonically, looking down at the green fabric of my dress, my cloak, my shoes.

I’d blend right in.

Galadriel’s fingers fidget with the trim of her cloak. She senses my stare and ceases the nervous habit, brushing any wrinkles from the embroidered ribbon. “We will make Bitsch within the hour,” she announces, breaking a silence that had stretched from morning to afternoon.

As the sun descends, we pass from wooded forest to wide, musty–scented marshes. Bare, monumental trees sprout from the bog, fading from grey to black as the blinding sun dips behind them. The carriage wheels splash through puddles on this little–traveled, mud–caked road. I catch the fragrance of hearth smoke on a breeze. We are close. Galadriel leans in, lecturing me in whispers on how I should act once we are within the city walls.

A small mountain rises from sheep pastures like a bulbous toadstool in the middle of a short grass. A tremulous smile creeps along Galadriel’s lips, and she points proudly to her home: a massive stone fortress that crowns the rounded mountain.

Until now there was a chance that we would turn around, but we are here. My stomach clenches at the thought.

My back presses against the wall of the carriage as we ascend the zigzagging road toward the gate. Towers flank the portcullis. The Bitsch sigil wriggles at their peaks. Goose flesh raises on my neck and arms at the strange banner: two onyx serpents slithering around a black diamond.