The Tasters Guild (26 page)

“You had a close call,” Wilhelmina confided. “Closer than you might imagine.”

Ivy’s smile was extinguished at the memory of her detour.

Wilhelmina leaned in further, after looking once at the door behind her.

“They are not happy that you’ve brought scourge bracken here,” she confided. “Not happy at all.”

Ivy’s heart sank.

“Once you ingest it, its darkness grows inside you—takes up residence. It is now a part of you forever. Ivy, you will never feel right again in the shadows.”

Ivy shivered—the thought of such darkness made her flesh crawl.

“But”—the alewife smiled brightly—“you’re now a wounded healer! Isn’t that just wonderful? And none of that will matter much to
them
when you’ve cured the King!”

To truly heal, one must know grave illness
. That is what Rhustaphustian must have meant, Ivy realized. She sat up, ignoring a sharp pain in her ribs. The dress was maddeningly tight. She looked quickly at Rowan.

“The King! Where do we find him?” she asked Wilhelmina urgently.

The alewife looked pensive and then upset.

“Well, there is a small problem.”

“Problem?” Rowan asked worriedly.

“Yes, problem. I’d consider Foxglove a problem indeed.”

“Foxglove?”

“Mr. Foxglove,” Wilhelmina sighed. “King Verdigris’s new advisor.”

“Advisor?”

“Advisor and biographer. He’s writing a book—although, come to think of it, we’ve yet to see a single page.”

“What sort of book?” Rowan asked.

“A kind of memoir, he says. Of the King. He’s forever jotting down notes in his journals; he seems quite thorough.”

“Why is this Mr. Foxglove a problem? Surely he would want
what’s best for the King?” Ivy cried, knowing at once that, sadly, there were people who sometimes wished hurtful things upon those they pretended to serve.

“Best for the King?” Wilhelmina drooped. “Mr. Foxglove only wants what’s best for Mr. Foxglove.”

The alewife looked from one child to the other.

“But, here, let us not get ahead of ourselves. I’m sure your mother will be of great help, Ivy!”

W
ilhelmina busily tidied the small chamber and would not talk further—Ivy needed to rest. At the mention of her mother, Clothilde, Ivy’s stomach turned over and she sagged back into the soft cushions feeling utterly exhausted. She barely knew her mother, but what she did know she was not sure she liked. A reunion seemed unthinkable.

“Perhaps, Rowan, you would like to explore?” Wilhelmina asked the taster. “Pimcaux is really such a lovely place to visit—all sun and sea—and I’m sure you’re eager to get started.”

Rowan hesitated, looking at Ivy.

“She’ll be fine,” Wilhelmina assured him. “You’ve been a good friend to Ivy—that is plain to see—but now she needs to recover her strength.”

Rowan reluctantly agreed and rose stiffly—he had been sitting in the small chair for entirely too long.

“But first”—Wilhelmina assessed his clothing—“you’ll
need a change of attire. Your mourning wear—Ivy seems to have come prepared.”

“My morning wear?” Rowan was confused. He thought briefly of his favorite combed cotton pajamas and matching robe, a gift from his mother—and a luxury of the past. He looked around helplessly.

“Mourning
wear,” Wilhelmina explained perkily. “We are all in mourning here, have been for some time. In sympathy. The King lost his daughter, you see.”

“Oh!” Rowan understood. Come to think of it, the alewives were all wearing black. “I don’t have anything,” he pointed out. He now realized just how tattered and dirty his olive-drab apprentice robes were.

“Not a problem. Come with me.” And she ushered the taster out the small, rounded door frame into the bright landing beyond. There was a spiral stair, and he followed her down it to a small room, cluttered with buttons, pincushions, and notions. It was a bright and happy workshop, with rolls of fabrics and tailors’ torsos poked with pins. Heaps of quilts and embroideries cascaded from tables and baskets alike. The room had a pleasing smell of clean, bright oil and industry.

As she unrolled a silver tape and began to take the taster’s measurements, Rowan could not help but notice the most captivating collection of rings upon her fingers. One looked as if it were a bubble of the purest water.

“Wilhelmina?” he asked.

“Yes, dear?” The alewife selected a lightweight linen the color of summer shade, and Rowan thought about the reason behind the dark suit.

“I read in Axle’s book about Princess Violet. That she was poisoned.”

“Indeed,” she said through a mouthful of pins. “She ate from a roast that was cut with a poisoned knife.”

“How is it no one else died?”

Wilhelmina rummaged through the cluttered basket, rejecting various spools of black thread, until she found one of which she approved. Then she looked the taster in the eye.

“Only one side of the knife was poisoned.”

Rowan thought of Defensive Dining, a gruesome requirement at the Tasters’ Guild. There are as many ways to be poisoned as there are poisoners to think of them.

“But her killer was never caught.”

“King Verdigris doesn’t know who murdered his only daughter?” Rowan asked quietly.

The alewife shook her spray of curls. “No. King Verdigris is in hiding. It’s whispered that his grief at Princess Violet’s death has overcome his senses—his magic is potent and unpredictable, out of control. If the cinquefoils and weather are any measure.”

“The cinquefoils?”

“Yes. They grow everywhere. The King’s flower has become, well, a bit of a nuisance.”

Rowan found that hard to imagine but kept silent.

“They say he will not recover until the murderer is brought to light. So we wait for news, and for the time when we might be permitted to discard these dreary mourning clothes for something more lively. Instead”—Wilhelmina’s voice grew sadder—“we got Mr. Foxglove.”

Soon Rowan was outfitted in a tidy suit and vest with mother-of-pearl buttons and a wide-brimmed hat. Wilhelmina escorted him down a further stair to a small stone door. Opening it wide, the taster was introduced to the bright sea air.

“Just down the path, you’ll find the village,” she chimed. “Oh, and do take an umbrella. The weather is slightly … unreliable.”

Rowan squinted. There wasn’t a cloud in the achingly blue sky. The tall gray lighthouse—a stalk of stone—sat atop the seacliff. Overwhelmed, he stood, looking around. From behind he felt a gentle shove—Wilhelmina was ushering him across the threshold.

“Go on!” she urged. “While the sun’s still in the heavens.”

Apparently, if Rowan’s eyes were not lying, the sun was not only in the heavens—it was everywhere. The landscape of Pimcaux was a stunning one, a collaboration of rock and water, sun and air. A shocking, vibrant golden light permeated the atmosphere. It was as if the sea, in its vastness, took up the sun’s reflection and dashed it against the shore—and from it
the cinquefoils grew, sprouting by the millions, yellow, golden, growing upon rock and field alike. They sprouted from the worn stone path, the rock face of the cliffside—even upon the tiny windowsill beside him. An abandoned gull’s nest cradled the King’s flower. The small, magical blooms defied all natural law, taking up residence where they chose, flourishing, seemingly, on thin air.

Rowan set off for town with their perfume as his companion.

B
y the time he’d scrambled down the zigzagging path—edging through dangerous jackknifes, past curious nesting birds—Rowan was quite hot. Which is why, when the rain came, he welcomed it, at first. But this was no normal rain—no Cauvian rain, at least.

It splashed him with enormous teardrops, and although impossible, it appeared to be seawater. He fumbled with the small black umbrella Wilhelmina had thrust upon him, and soon enough he had raised it, although its proportions were designed for tiny hands. He had walked a small path along the rocky shore, past clumps of windlestraw and grazing sheep in a salt marsh. Before long he had reached the town. The rain was gone, the sun was again shining—and over the broad frosted sea, a rainbow had settled.

Here before him, in this most beautiful of moments, was the entrance to the town, marked by two things.

First, an archway.

Second, a very odd tree indeed.

The tree was gnarled and ancient—of what sort Rowan could not tell, and he absently wondered if it grew only here, in Pimcaux. If it were an old lady lifting her skirts, the tree could easily hide a horse and carriage beneath her petticoats. And further, from every available branch hung an impossible number of silken ribbons, every color under the sun, streaming out in the sea breeze, putting the rainbow to shame.

Rowan looked around at this strange sight and entered the town.

He was grateful now for the shade of the small streets, and he advanced along the walkway that led through the village toward the gleaming sea, window-shopping happily. The town appeared to be a fishing village, the storefronts a weathered clapboard. His feet crunched on the small crushed shells that made up the path. He passed several quiet shops: a breadmaker, a broadcloth merchant—for sails, Rowan reasoned. A small store that sold notions—mostly pearl buttons and silver clasps in its display. A fishmonger.

A slight man gripped a homemade broom, whisking away the cinquefoil petals that littered the ground. Rowan nodded and kept on.

A few storefronts weren’t immediately obvious. One shop in particular caught his eye. It was at the end of a small alley and partially boarded up. No one had been inside for years—
the drifts of sand and clumps of sea grass upon the steps were further proof. Old gilt lettering still graced the thick wooden door, proclaiming the establishment to be that of a family of weavers. The peeling paint read:

Four Sisters Tapestries of the Ancients and Royal Haberdashery

Through the window he could see dusty looms and tattered rolls of silks and ribbons—ribbons just like those from the tree Rowan had seen at the town’s entrance. Empty spools and piles of bent or broken needles littered the floor, forming a dangerous carpet. Cruel-looking metal combs lay discarded upon the table—perhaps used at one time to tear and shred ribbons into thread, Rowan thought. A searose bush had somehow found its way between floorboards and had taken up position beside the cracked window—its wondrous scent reaching Rowan’s nose.

Yet the place was forlorn. It seemed steeped in misery. It was at once intriguing and sad, and unless Rowan felt like breaking and entering, he would never know more.

Without further thought, he wrenched a weathered board from a rusted nail and opened the door.

T
he shop was enclosed in a velvety dust, and Rowan’s feet were most certainly the first to disturb it. He stood, hesitating on the threshold and then, hearing nothing, went in.

A peculiar thought struck him: he was beginning to wonder if the tree grew the colorful ribbons lying everywhere (and, indeed, this would prove to be true), for they were most definitely the same sort. Vast sacks burst with inventory, and careful hands had sorted the ribbons into piles by color.

Beside the combing station, there was a small spinning wheel, a stool, and rolls and rolls of what appeared to be partially completed tapestries. A discarded harp was forsaken in the corner. Rowan walked by it and absently ran his hands along the silver strings—the notes were remarkably clear. On a table nearby, an abandoned tea set rested plaintively. Tea leaves dried and scattered, tarnish moving in.

There was a shelf of fat spools, silken thread, spun and finished. And what colors! They had been carefully arranged
by shade, and Rowan was certain not a one was missing. He blew a layer of dust away from peeling labels beneath each and examined them.

The writing was clear enough, but the names themselves were mysterious. A particular purple-gray was called
Eveningsong
, while
Forgotten Wish
was a sad, pale blue. A strange wave of emotion overtook him as he read, and he stood for some time collecting himself.

And then, before him, upon the far wall of the shop, his attention was drawn to what at first he took to be a painting. But not of oil and canvas. This was painted in thread, a tapestry of such artistry and detail that it stole his heart away.

He ran his hands along the woven surface and thought again of Shoo in the panel in Templar. His fingers brushed the intricate weave of four figures—the four sisters—and four of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Each was clad in a gown of colored ribbon—one, Rowan decided, golden as the sun, the next of starlight, followed by evening sky, and finally a stark-white windcloud. It was she, this cloud-clad woman, who made his heart stop. He stared at her.

He recognized her at once.

Axle had said she was the great mystery of the Verdigris tapestries.

Here again was the maiden upon whom Ivy’s crow Shoo stood, back in the tapestries in Caux. Trapped within the magical tapestries of Verdigris, frozen in time, frozen in weave.