Beauty and the Beast: The Only One Who Didn't Run Away Page 4

  Before I know it, I am stomping with my bare feet on a warm, squishy, very smelly mound of wool that will one day be woven into someone’s cloak or blanket. As payment, the fuller could only offer me two farthings a day, which would not even buy the barley roll Handsome gave me at lunch. But I am allowed to keep the scraps of wool that rip off from the larger pieces, which I figure we can use to make new clothes, or even to feed the fire, if necessary.

  As I march in what looks like clay but smells much worse, holding my skirts at the knees so I do not trip, I find I am quite pleased with myself. Not even a week has passed since we lost all of our worldly goods, and here I am, gainfully employed, and not too proud to accept scraps of wool in order to contribute to the care of my family.

  “Let me see your work,” the fuller says with his usual easy smile. This is the first time he has checked on me since I began working the wool. In fact, he has been napping under a tree for most of the afternoon. Perhaps that is why the weavers are complaining.

  I step out of the bucket, nearly tripping over the edge in the process. My legs are wobbly from the steady marching, and I have to grab hold of the side to steady myself.

  The fuller peers into the bucket and shakes his head. “Your wool is almost dry. Have you not been adding urine to the clay? If you do not keep the wool moist, the fibers will not tangle properly. The weavers will not be able to make cloth out of it.”

  I tilt my head at him. “Are you telling me I have been stomping in urine all afternoon?”

  “Of course! Although you need much more, as I have pointed out.”

  “I need more urine?” I repeat, having trouble grasping this turn of events.

  He nods. “If you go over to the alehouse, you can collect quite a bit from the trench out back.”

  I stare at him to see if he is perhaps joking with me. “So you are saying that you want me to go to the alehouse, bring back a trench full of urine, pour it into my bucket, and stomp on it?”

  “That is right, young miss.”

  It would not be entirely accurate to say I have been fired from two jobs in one day. This one I quit all on my own.

  I awake to a persistent knocking on my door.

  “Come in, Godfrey,” I reply, rubbing my eyes. I did not sleep well after the laboratory incident and am anxious to inspect the damage in the light of day. I climb out of bed and wait by the dresser for Godfrey to bring my washing bowl. To my surprise, a young page enters instead, pulling a cart piled high with clothes and boxes. I cannot imagine why.

  Although attired in the fine clothes that all our castle pages are given, he looks out of place in them. He bows low and says, “Good morn, Prince Riley. I am Fredrick, but my friends call me Freddy.” He instantly reddens. “I … I mean, not to presume that you are my friend, I mean, of course, as a prince, you wouldn’t be expected to … oh, I am nervous. Forgive me!” He hangs his head, peeking up through the floppy hair that falls over half his face.

  Unsure what to do, I lean over and pat him on the shoulder. “Er, there, there, Freddy. You need not be nervous. I would be happy to be your friend. Truly. I do not have many of my own.”

  The boy looks up at me with wide brown eyes. “I am sorry, Prince. It is just that I have never been assigned to anyone of your greatness before. I want to do a good job.”

  I try not to laugh when he is being so earnest. “You have not been at the castle long. My brother is the one worthy of such praise, not I.”

  He peers into my face. “Are you not the great alchemist?”

  I stand straighter. “Is that what you heard?”

  He nods. “Your mother’s lady-in-waiting said that you spend all your time playing in your laboratory trying to turn lead into gold.”

  “I am not trying to turn lead into gold!” I cry, louder than I had intended. I lower my voice. “Nor am I merely playing, like a child.”

  Freddy shakes his head. “Oh, I know that, Prince. I believe trying to understand the true nature of the world is the highest of goals.”

  No one has ever said anything like that to me before, other than Master Cedrick, and even he never put it quite that way. I peer at Freddy more closely. Most pages are from noble families, sent away to learn the skills of the knighthood while serving the masters of the house. I have always felt a bit sorry for them. I would not want to be sent away from my family at such a young age. Perhaps Freddy fears a bad report being sent back to his own father. “How old are you, Freddy?”

  “I am ten years of age, sire.”

  “And how long have you been here?”

  “Coming on three weeks.”

  “Does your family live nearby?”

  He lowers his eyes to the floor. “I am an orphan, Prince. My mother passed on when I was a babe, and my father a few years ago. He was a knight in the service of the good King Rubin.”

  We are silent for a moment. “I am truly sorry, Freddy.”

  “Thank you, Prince. Since his death, I have been passed between distant relatives, and now your parents have brought me here, to train for the knighthood. They have been kind to me. I want to make them proud.”

  “I am sure you will make an excellent knight one day.”

  He looks down and replies so softly I almost miss his words. “I do not wish to be a knight.”

  I have never met a page who did not dream of being a knight. Of fighting in battle, of being admired for bravery and skill, honored for his good deeds and his noble virtues. “Why not?” I ask.

  Freddy begins to pace my room. “Do you know how many ways a knight can perish?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  His pacing continues as the words rush from his mouth. “He could die in battle, pierced by a lance, clubbed over the head, or suffocated beneath his horse. Or if he does not die immediately from his wounds, the wounds could become infected with all manner of disease, or he could bleed to death. He could fall into a pit hidden by rushes and leaves, and break his neck. He could overheat in his armor on a hot August day, or freeze in winter while hidden in the woods against some unseen enemy. Or he could be captured by opposing forces and left to starve in a dungeon somewhere.”

  “Well!” I exclaim when fairly sure he has finished his list. “That is certainly something!” I dare not ask which of those fates befell his father.

  Freddy sits down on the edge of the bed and his voice falls again to a whisper. “Father was the greatest knight our kingdom had seen in two hundred years. He never lost a fight, and always stood up against injustice wherever he saw it. If a man like that could be taken in the prime of his life, what chance do I have?”

  Fortunately, he does not leave me room to answer.

  “I like to stare at the moon at night,” he says, his voice rising. “My real dream is to study the stars. I know it is absurd to think such a thing possible. I cannot change the path destiny has set for me.”

  My heart quickens with his words. I sit beside him. “I love the stars, too. I have never met anyone other than my tutor who shared this interest. You should pursue your dream.”

  He beams at me. “Truly? You believe I could do it?”

  I begin to nod, and then stop myself. If I’m being honest, one’s social position in our society does not change much. As an orphan at the mercy of other people’s kindnesses, his situation is even more dire than most. I do not want to give him false hope. “One can never tell what the future may hold,” I say carefully. “Tomorrow our lives could change forever.”

  He smiles, but his eyes dim. “My tomorrows are likely to resemble my yesterdays. But I shall remain hopeful.”

  “That is the spirit, young Freddy! Now I must go check on my laboratory. You may have heard a large bang last night.” I turn away to find my slippers.

  Freddy clears his throat. “Prince Riley? I am afraid your mother has other plans for you.” He walks over to the cart he had left by the door. “I have been sent up here to fit you in your attire for the ball. Since I spent my growing years at King Rub
in’s castle, where the Harvest Ball is held each year, your mother thought I would be more familiar with how your outfit works than your usual chamberlain. Then, if adjustments need to be made, there is still time for the seamstress to work on it.”

  I stare at him, uncomprehending. “How my outfit works? But my clothes are already packed.”

  “This particular outfit was, um, made special for you. You have an important role in the festivities.”

  I narrow my eyes. “What kind of special role?”

  He blushes. “Um, it’s not really for me to say.”

  I sigh. This just keeps getting better and better. I don’t want to get him in trouble by sending him away, so I say, “All right. But can you please hurry?”

  “I will try,” he says, “but there is quite a lot to put on.”

  He did not lie. It takes a very, very long time for him to get me dressed. Besides the layer of stockings and undergarments, shirt, vest, breeches, dress coat, and boots, he spends what feels like ages affixing things to the back of my outfit with pins and hooks. Medals? Coats of arms? I do not know. I have been instructed to stand very still so I do not get stuck. A hat of some sort is placed upon my head, more objects pinned upon it. The outfit is growing quite heavy at this point. I do not know how I shall be expected to move on the dance floor.

  Finally, FINALLY, Freddy announces that we are done and turns me around to face the mirror inside my wardrobe door. I step forward and stare at my reflection. It takes a moment to process what I am seeing.

  Then I run screaming from the room to find Mother. This is made infinitely more difficult than normal because I am covered, from head to toe, in FOOD.

  “It would appear you left out some details of my job with the fuller.”

  Handsome grins as he reaches into the baker’s oven with wooden tongs as long as his arms. “So you discovered what softens the wool, eh?”

  “Indeed.”

  He pulls out a piping-hot loaf and rests it on a flat stone to cool. Then he slips the tongs into his apron pocket and says, “I did not figure you for the squeamish type.”

  “I am not usually squeamish,” I insist. “I do not care if my clothes are neat and pressed. I like the feel of mud between my toes, and I can even pick up a spider with my bare hands. But everyone has their line in the sand.”

  “True,” he agrees. “I, for one, refuse to trim the baker’s nose hairs when they get too long. Even when he offers me an extra shilling for the trouble.”

  I laugh, not thinking I would be capable of such a thing after a day like this. “You jest.”

  “’Tis the truth,” he says, pulling off his apron and rolling it into a ball. “The man’s nose hairs would reach his chin if he did not tend them.”

  “Where is the baker?” I ask. “I did not expect to find you alone.”

  “Aw, you made a special trip all the way here simply for me?”

  “Do not be too flattered. The fuller is but four stalls down.”

  “I know,” he says, grinning that easy grin of his. “I was only teasing. The baker has gone for the day. I am closing the shop. If you want, I shall walk you home afterward.”

  I am about to say, Thank you, but I am perfectly capable of getting myself home, when I remember that home is actually nearly an hour’s walk from where we stand. That is a long way to go with only my thoughts for company. Plus, there may be some leftover bread to be had. “I live quite far,” I warn him. “My family has fallen upon hard times of late.”

  He nods. “I know. I have heard people talking.”

  I raise my brows. “You have? Who?”

  “Just some customers,” he says, and busies himself wiping up flour from the floors. The cracks in the dark wood are thick with it. He would have to wipe for ten years to actually clean it all.

  After he sweeps the ashes out of the oven and soaks them down, he tosses a few rolls into a sack along with the loaf I had seen him take out earlier. “I need to make a quick stop on the way, if you do not mind.”

  I shake my head. “We should probably stop at the butcher shop, too. In case my father came by there to walk me home.”

  We begin the two-block walk, the sack swinging on his shoulder. I can smell the fresh bread, and once again my stomach growls. Without me having to say anything, he reaches in and pulls off a chunk of the new loaf. It is delicious. The best I have ever tasted, which I do not think is due purely to hunger.

  My feet slow as we approach the butcher shop. “Perhaps this is a bad idea. He might still be angry with me.”

  “I am sure he has forgotten all about it,” Handsome says. “We better check if your father awaits inside.”

  I nod and follow him up the lane. I am truly hoping Papa is not there, for I am not anxious to tell him that I lost two jobs today. The butcher comes around the back of the shop, dangling a (bloody) cleaver at his side. He stops when he sees me. “You!” he cries, raising the cleaver into the air. “You lost my best pig! Your father shall pay for that!”

  Handsome grabs my arm and we run in and out of alleys until we can no longer hear the butcher yelling. Even though I was just threatened with a cleaver, it feels good to run. It would be easier if I weren’t wearing this stupid dress.

  We cross into the center of the market, and Handsome slows to a halt. “All right,” he says, panting. “Perhaps his memory of you lingers still.”

  “It would appear so.”

  “You should probably steer clear of him for a while.”

  I nod in agreement. “That seems wise. Do you think he meant it about making my father pay for the pig?”

  “Probably. I would tell you otherwise to make you feel better, but I try not to fib.”

  We make our way across the square, checking behind us every few steps to make sure no irate butchers are following us. We soon find our path blocked by a large crowd gathered outside the apothecary shop. As we get closer, we can hear shouting. I peek over shoulders until I see the apothecary, Master Werlin, kneeling on the ground outside his shop. A man sits beside him, babbling nonsensically, alternately fainting and sitting back up again.

  “Joan!” Master Werlin shouts into the store. His assistant comes running out, clutching at her skirts, her face blotchy with tears.

  “How much did you give him?” he demands.

  “J … just a pinch, sir, in a cup of tea. I swear it.”

  “Burdock root does not cause this reaction,” he yells. “Are you certain that is what you gave him?”

  She runs back into the store. The crowd holds its collective breath as Master Werlin pulls on his hair. I have visited the apothecary shop upon occasion, and found him to be a brilliant though quite unpleasant man. He has always been able to cure Papa’s aches and pains (and the occasional boil on his rear) with swiftness and discretion. He must not be easy to work for, though, for I have never seen the same assistant twice.

  The woman called Joan returns with a bundle of roots in a large glass jar. She holds them out. He snatches one and holds it up to the rapidly fading sunlight. Then he drops it back into the jar as though it burned him. “This is nightshade! The man came in for an itchy scalp and you poisoned him!”

  She peers at it, frowning. “But it looks just the same….” she says, her words trailing off. Even from my position I can see the words Atropa belladonna, Nightshade, Dangerous printed clearly on the label.

  “Can you not read, woman?” he bellows, grabbing the jar from her hands.

  I can tell the answer by the reddening of her cheeks.

  The apothecary reaches down and helps the poisoned man to his feet. “Come inside and rest,” he says. “I have called for the doctor. Now that we know the cause, we shall fix it.” Without even looking at Joan, he says, “You are fired.” He flips the OPEN sign over to CLOSED, and the door bangs shut behind him.

  Joan bursts into tears, pushes her way through the crowd, and runs down the street wailing.

  “I trust you took your own firing with a tad more dignity?” H
andsome whispers.

  “Which one?” I joke.

  The crowd begins to break up. I turn to go, too. “Wait,” Handsome says, pulling me toward the entrance to the store. “The apothecary needs an assistant now.”

  Before I can respond, I find myself pushed inside the door. The man sits on a wooden stool while Master Werlin spoons what looks like honey or molasses into his mouth. Judging by the large pan set on the floor at the man’s feet, the apothecary must be trying to get him to vomit. I try to turn back around, but Handsome holds me firmly in place. I clear my throat.

  Master Werlin looks up at us, then scowls. “You are not the doctor. What do you want?” Up close, I can see the worry sketched onto his forehead.

  “If you are looking for an assistant,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady, “I would like to apply for the job.”

  The poisoned man gags and makes a retching sound. We all jump back in case the retching leads to worse. I glare at Handsome, but he motions me to keep talking. “Um, I can read quite well, and I am reliable and trustworthy.”

  Master Werlin spoons more of the syrupy mixture into the man’s mouth, then turns back to me. “You are the book merchant’s daughter, correct? What do they call you?”

  Handsome nudges me from behind. “My name is Beauty,” I force myself to say as I step forward.

  Master Werlin raises a brow, then coughs. I figure I have gotten off easy.

  Then the poisoned man vomits all over my shoes.

  I can hear Alexander and Father coming up the stairs so I duck into the first door I come to — the castle library — and hold my breath. I have no intention of being seen with assorted squash, corn, yams, potatoes, nuts, and berries hanging off my back and down my sides. I would never, ever, hear the end of it. Why would Mother wish me to wear this? Clearly I am being punished. Was it because I blew up the lab?