The Fairytale Keeper: Avenging the Queen (4 page)

I am shocked by her ability to lie so quickly. Even so, Father is too wise to fall for it, but loves her enough to allow her such little white lies.

“Thank you for bringing her home, Ivo,” he states dryly. Ivo nods, his eyes shamefully turned to the ground. “We should get sleep and so should you. Send your father my regards. If you should be so kind to return my daughter twice, I shall send my regards to him myself,” he threatens.

“I shall send your regards, Herr,” Ivo replies. Father waves his hand to dismiss Ivo who turns and jogs along the street back to his home.

Mother throws a weightless arm around me, looking me over with a grin. “Let’s get you inside and scrub that mud away until that pretty skin of yours is looking snow white again. I shall tell you how I prayed for a daughter with skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood, and hair as black as the sill of our windows.”

Snow White is a name I do not enjoy. It is a term of endearment from my mother, but a phrase of torment used by the artisan and merchant children who mock me for my fair skin and black hair. I would never tell mother for it would hurt her to know, and while I have no love for the name, Snow White, I do have love for the way she speaks it.

***

“Addie?” a soft whisper calls, but I do not recognize the voice.

“Addie? You should go to bed.” Galadriel shakes my shoulder, softly coaxing me out of my dream. I open my eyes reluctantly, but hesitate at my parents’ bed, not wanting to sleep in it. But exhaustion and hopes of good dreams lure me and I slip beneath the blankets on Father’s side. I roll over and inhale deeply. The pillow still smells of her. Lavender, wheat, and a crisp breeze. I am careful not to disturb her side. I hope it shall smell like her forever.

I miss her. A tear rolls down my cheek as the numbness fades away and an odd array of emotions radiate through my empty chest; longing, joy, sadness… too many for one night. My face sinks into Father’s pillow, which smells of ale and leather. I no longer resign to sleep, I welcome it.

I open a squinted eye. I am alone in a dark room in a large bed, cold from sweat. A biting chill blows in through the open window and I pull the blankets over my head. I want to close the shutters, but I cannot convince myself to leave the warmth of the covers.

My head pounds. I squeeze my temples, shifting tangles of hair from my face. I am exhausted, but too cold, too in pain, too restless to sleep.

For a moment, I resign to waking. For a moment, my memories of the past few days escape me. I am the girl I was before this horrible fever struck Cologne, a girl whose worst problem was just a bad headache and having to close the shutters though she’s shivering. Then I wonder why I am in my parents’ bed.

Memories come back in a flash and I sit up. Any peace or confusion I had moments before is gone and grief twists itself like a drill through my chest.

I fall back onto the bed and roll over to Mother’s side. The smell of lavender swims through the air and agony spreads from the pit of my belly to form a lump in the back of my throat. I cover my head with my arms to escape the smell and the pain it brings. I cry for a few moments and fall asleep.

Worry plagues me, but not enough to wake me fully. I toss and turn, and then I sleep deeply and dream.

***

Mother stands in front of the hearth cooking porridge and berries for breakfast. It was all a horrid dream, I think as I reach out to touch her, but my hand passes through her arm to the smoke billowing around the pot.

“Where is your father?” she asks, handing me Father’s bowl of porridge. I gasp. She is nothing but steely ashes. Flakes of her skin glide like snowflakes to the floor, revealing bones beneath.

“I, I don’t know where he is.” I stammer and step away.

“Take this to him.” she says coolly and coughs a cloud of black smoke.

I open my mouth to tell her that I don’t know where he is. How can I take him his porridge, if I don’t know where he is? But fear robs me of voice. Mother’s cloudy, lifeless eyes look back at me and she cocks her head as if she wonders why I am looking at her strangely, why I don’t follow her orders, why I am frozen and speechless.

I take another step back and she steps toward me. Mother opens her mouth to speak, but stops, distracted by the ashes flaking from her half-skeletal hand. Her eyes widen with fear, with shock and she coughs roughly. The black smoke billows from her mouth and she chokes. She gasps and a coughing spell consumes her, flames shoot from her mouth. She falls at my feet and crawls toward me. I am frozen. She grabs my dress and pulls.

Finally I’m able to leap back, but the floor vanishes. I am falling from a great height, but just as I am about to hit the ground, I awaken.

***

I sit up in bed and cry out. I look to Mother’s empty groove in the bed next to me and my stomach twists. I’ll never run to her when I have a bad dream ever again.

“Adelaide…” moans Galadriel. “Are you all right?” She walks in, gripping the walls. Her usually porcelain skin is grey.

“I am fine. Has Father returned? Have you seen him?” I ask.

“No.” She says, inching closer. Sweat beads across her forehead. “Perhaps he is at the market.”

“You are unwell.”

“Do not worry. It’s not the fever. I am well enough,” she says.

“No, you’re not. You should rest.”

She sits on the end of the bed and a crisp wind blows across her skin. I can smell the ale in her sweat. I don’t want her sitting on Mother’s side of the bed, even if she is only on the end. She shall ruin the smell.

She pulls a small loaf of bread from a pocket in her dress and sets it on the bed, her nose shriveling up as though the smell of it shall make her retch.

“I thought we had no bread,” I say as I fumble with the loaf. If it weren’t for my rumbling stomach, I would leave the whole loaf to Father. Food has no taste since Mother had taken sick. I chew a bite and my mouth fills with the taste of moist, mealy sawdust. We haven’t any bread in a week with all that has happened. I should salivate over it, savor it, but it is tasteless.

“Your neighbor, Igor, brought it this morning.”

“Igor?”

“…A tall, blonde boy,” she says, shakily. “He asked of you.”

“Oh.” She means Ivo, but I don’t correct her for I don’t wish to talk with her about him.

Galadriel turns forward and stares out the window once more. There is a long silence. I worry Father is not in his shop below for I hear nothing, so I excuse myself to check for him, finding him absent. I return to my parents’ bedroom, disappointed and worried.

“Is he there?” Galadriel asks.

“No.”

“Surely he is at the market purchasing leather or selling his wares then,” she says with clear doubt.

I chew on my lip as I try to think of a way to leave without her knowledge. I know she’ll not let me go to Hay Market, even with the excuse of purchasing food or leather for Father. She would insist on accompanying me, even in her condition, and slow me down.

“Did you sleep well?” I ask half-heartedly.

“Yes… well enough.” She struggles to get the words past her lips.

“You don’t look it,” I say, knowing I have been rude. “Perhaps, you should rest some more.” If she would just go back to sleep, I could leave and look for Father without her knowing.

She says nothing, sitting silently for a long time. I lean toward the edge of the bed to peak at her face. Her pasty skin has turned a gruesome shade of green. Her eyes squint and lips fold with discomfort. A wiry strand of blonde hair falls into her line of vision and many others poke out of yesterday’s perfect bun. But even like this, she is very pretty.

She starts to rock back and forth and the sweat beads across her pallid forehead. I can see she needs to retch. I feel guilty for what I am about to do. I really do. Mother used to do this to Father all the time for he had the liquor sweats every Sunday before Mass. It seems mean, but is a cruel kindness in the end and it shall get rid of her so I can go find Father.

“I wish we had some eggs to cook. Father used to purchase them on Fridays and Mother cooked them Saturday mornings, boiling them on the top of hot water. It’s been weeks since I’ve had them,” I say.

“Uh…” A sickly sigh squeezes through her lips. I lean across the bed again. The green in her face deepens so I continue.

“Mother cooked them too long. I like them soft so you must soak up the yokes with your bread or lick it out of the bowl.” Just speaking of egg yolks made Father retch every time.

The ferocious roar of Galadriel’s stomach startles me and I am afraid she might retch all over the bed, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t retch at all and so I must think of something more disgusting.

“Father would always grow sick of the eggs though and sometimes he’d want a chicken. There was a man who’d butcher them at the market fresh for us in trade for a pair of turn shoes. Have you ever watched a chicken run around without its head?”

Galadriel’s stomach howls. She turns to look at me, but I stare at the ceiling and avoid her gaze.

“It turned my stomach to watch, but it was worse to clean it out. The smell was horrid, like old chamber pots. I couldn’t even eat the poor thing after that. But Father didn’t mind, he’d have wrestled me to the ground for the heart, not that I wanted it. He would slurp it right up and squish it between his teeth.”

Galadriel gags monstrously. I shield my face with the blankets in case she turns my way to vomit. Thankfully she jumps to her feet and runs to the window. She retches once out the window and then runs down the stairs and out the door.

I cover my ears so I don’t have to hear the splashes and coughs, which make my own stomach turn. Every few moments I ease my grip to see if she is finished, but it seems she’ll vomit for eternity. I feel a little guilty for making her sick, but from what I know about Galadriel she would have suffered all day to avoid the embarrassment of what she just did.

The sounds of her vomiting stop so I rise from the bed. I grab a mug and dip it into the water basin. I walk down the stairs and through Father’s shop, carefully checking the floor for anything I might not want to step in. I slowly open the door, but am too afraid to look. I stick my arm out the door shoving the mug in her direction. I gag over the smell and have to run back inside, placing a piece of leather over my nose.

“I’m sorry you’re ill,” I call out the door.

“I should be sorry,” she calls back, then swishes the water in her mouth and spits it onto the ground. “I’m supposed to be caring for you.”

“You should rest,” I say as she enters the room, no longer green, but wickedly pale and dripping with sweat. Several strands of hair dangle from her head now and I feel for her. Had our roles been switched I would be mortified, but I need for her to go to sleep so I can leave without her sending someone after me.

“I feel a little better now,” she sighs and I give her a doubtful look.

“Don’t stay up for my sake. I plan on sleeping until Father returns,” I lie.

“Oh.”

“Take my bed again,” I urge.

“Are you sure?”

I nod.

I watch Galadriel ascend the ladder to my room before I crawl back under the covers of my parents’ bed.  Hopefully, she falls asleep quickly so I can leave without her noticing. I trace the patterns of the wood ceiling with my eyes, count the slats, and look for hidden images within the grain. But with Galadriel gone and no other significant distractions available, my mind wanders back to worry.

I wonder how long Father has been gone and I start to think. The bells had struck eight as our carriage stopped at the house last night. The trip to the hill takes an hour by foot.

I have never dug a grave before and haven’t the slightest idea how long it takes. Two hours, I suppose. So that is an hour to walk there, two hours to dig, two hours to bury and pray, then an hour to walk back.Six hours.

So he should have returned by… two this morning! That cannot be right. I count again and arrive at the same time. Oh God, what time is it now? I know it is past seven for the sun is up. What does it matter what the time is now, I think. I know he is late by six hours at least!

Fear quickens my heart. He could be at the market, I try to convince myself. I envisage packs of wolves and bands of thieves again stalking Father through the mist. I see him shivering with blue lips in his drenched clothing, freezing and alone in the cold of night. I curse myself for letting him go. I should have followed him. Why didn’t I follow him?

Surely half of an hour has passed since we returned to our beds and Galadriel is either asleep or close to it.

I dip the ends of a rag into the water basin and quickly scrub my face. I sloppily braid my tangled hair, toss my surcote on over my chainse, grab my cloak and…
DONG!
I jump. The bells toll. I hang my head out of the window and count each ring. Twelve chimes pass and my heart sinks as I realize my Father has been gone for sixteen hours.

I run on my tiptoes into the living quarters and over to the ladder to the loft. I assume Galadriel is asleep for not a sound comes from above. I sneak quietly back to the hearth and scrawl a quick note on the table using the end of a charred stick. I hope Galadriel is able to read.

I am at Hay Market looking for Father. Do not worry. I shall return soon. ~Adelaide

Perhaps, Erik, Ivo’s Father, knows where my Father is. If not, two sets of eyes are better than one, so I decide to ask Ivo and perhaps his younger brother Levi to aid me in my search. But would they be home or outside the gates in the fields?

I pull the cloak high over my head and look down as I move quickly through Filzengraben, hoping not to be recognized. It is less crowded than I expect. I suppose most of the villagers are working in the fields, selling their wares at the market, or making purchases there. I turn onto Foller Strasse, which is empty as usual for this time of day, passing a number of row houses as I head toward Ivo’s home. Biting my lip, I knock on his door and wait. No one answers so I race past the houses to the stone wall surrounding the de Belle manor and climb the thick vines that encompass it like a raven’s claw on its prey. With the exception of a few serfs, the de Belle manor field is empty. I drop from the wall and sigh. I had hoped to find Ivo quickly, though I knew that wasn’t likely.

The farmers spread manure and plough the fields this time each year, so it is most likely they are far outside the city wall. I take a small alley onto Severin’s Strasse. Its narrowness makes the row house seem so much taller than they are and I don’t like the feeling of being so closed in, but I’m onto the wide road of Severin’s Strasse soon enough. I pass St. Catherine’s church and then St. Severin’s. I pout as I make my way to Severin’s Gate for I know Erik is less likely to let me borrow Ivo for the day if heavy work must be done.

The gate is open, as is usually the case for midmorning, and the daytime guard does not give me a second look for he’s flirting with a pretty young woman who looks quite bored with him. Once beyond the gate, I lift my cloak and skirts and run between the fields in search of Ivo or anyone who might know where he is. In my haste, I miss the sight of a cobblestone which catches my toe, and sends me tumbling to the dirt. My left arm breaks my fall and catches on a sharp rock which slices a large gash in my forearm. A child’s laughter echoes from nearby. His mother slaps the back of his head and the boy is back to work, but not before a dozen serfs turn their attention to me. My cheeks flush hotly in embarrassment, but their pause gives me time to ask of Ivo’s whereabouts. They point south.

I watch the blood drip down my hand with indifference. I wonder if I am overcome with worry or numbness, but it does not matter so I keep running. I see Erik’s red hair blazing like a beacon in the sun. Thank God I only had to cross three furlongs to find them. Greta steers a plough as Levi whips the oxen, while Erik steers the other and Ivo whips. I am afraid to request Ivo for the afternoon. Plowing is grueling and his absence shall make the day even more difficult.