Page 10 of Disenchanted
“I traded our pig to a peddler down in Misty Bottoms. He gave me the seeds.”
“Magic ones?” she demanded with a fierce scowl.
“No, they looked quite ordinary to me. The peddler promised me that in time Frank will grow the most luscious melons, capable of feeding a small family for a month.”
This was all such a blatant lie I was sure Mrs. B would never believe it. We had never owned a pig. If we had, we would have eaten it long ago. When I realized she was swallowing this tale, my evil genius prompted me to add, “I plan to enter Frank in next year’s garden competition. I feel sure to win the prize for most exotic plant.”
Mrs. B reared back, her cheeks reddening with the force of her indignation. She regarded every prize in the annual competition as her due and anyone who sought to challenge her right as little better than a thief. It was probably not wise to tease a woman who already suspected me of illegal sorcery. I started to assure her I was only joking, but with her chest puffed up like an angry pigeon, she growled, “There is to be a ball at the palace.”
Expecting another accusation of witchcraft, her remark caught me off guard.
“What?” I asked, thinking I had not heard her correctly.
“There is to be a ball at the palace,” she repeated tersely. “The prince is going to choose a maiden for his bride.”
“Yes, so I have heard.”
“I hope it is you,” she spat out and stalked away before I could reply. I did not mistake her parting words as any sort of good wishes for my future happiness. Mrs. Biddlesworth had wanted to be rid of me ever since I was a child. Mal and I would sneak into her garden and raid her strawberry patch. No doubt she wished that I might marry the prince and move far away, and she would acquire a respectable neighbor who would garden in a normal, tidy fashion.
I thought of telling her that I had no intention of attending the ball, so there was not the least likelihood I would marry the prince or anyone else, but why disillusion the poor woman?Everyone was entitled to their little hopes and dreams, even Mrs. Biddlesworth.
Strolling down the front walkway, I let myself out the gate, which creaked loudly. I should oil the hinges, but I liked the idea of an early warning should trouble head my way. Closing the gate behind me, I emerged onto the cobblestone street, a broad avenue lined with oak trees and streetlamps whose whimsical shape reminded me of acorns.
To the north, this street stretched upward until it split into two forks. The left branch led out to the countryside, grazing meadows, fertile farmlands, and the Red Grove Forest. The right sloped up to the grand estates of the part of Arcady known as the Heights and eventually ended at the massive, gilded gates of the palace.
Going southward, our street curved down to Midtown proper where the markets and governing buildings were. I took that way, bracing my flat shoes against the gentle downward slope of the hill. This road was usually quiet at this time of day, but I was passed by an unusual number of grand carriages with coachmen in livery and footmen riding up behind. Many of these coaches were designed in the latest fashion for pumpkin-shaped carriages. The whimsical design was created by the Duchess of Tarkington. Unfortunately, it had been adopted by many of her acquaintances who carried the conceit to ridiculous lengths, bright orange coaches adorned with stems, curling vines and curtains shaped like seeds.
The duchess’s rival, the Countess of Pangbourne, tried to set a trend of her own for a cucumber-shaped vehicle. It never caught on because the odd shape of her coach provoked ribald comments and catcalls from the more unruly elements of the town. Humiliated, the countess returned to her stables and the cucumber carriage was never seen again.
I would be glad to see the last of the pumpkin coaches as well. Besides looking ridiculous, they were far too wide and took up too much room on the road. More than once, as I made my way to town, I was obliged to shrink to the side to allow one of these monstrosities to lumber past.
The amount of traffic heading toward town dismayed me. There was a good reason I chose to do my shopping late in the day. The markets were never crowded and that was when you could get the best bargains from the butcher, the poultry shop and the greengrocer— when they were on the verge of closing.
I imagined the increased amount of coach traffic must be due to one reason. That wretched ball! I discerned that most of the occupants of the carriages were of the fairer sex, an army of ladies preparing to descend upon the milliners, the lace shops, the dressmakers, and the Silk Emporium. I did not plan to visit any of those places, but I would have to pass through that district to reach the food markets.
The street narrowed as I drew nearer to town. I glared resentfully when I was obliged to leap into a ditch to avoid yet another pumpkin coach. I prepared to step back onto the roadway when I had to give way again, this time to a troop of the king’s Royal Scutcheons. They marched past me, looking crisp in their blue jackets and dun-colored pantaloons, their high boots striking the pavement in a synchronized rhythm.
Their sergeant, a stout fellow with a bristling mustache, bellowed out the cadence, “Left, right, hup! Left, right, hup!”
On the “hup,” the guards swung their right arms up and struck their fists across their chests in unison. I often wondered if they all ended up with bruised shoulders at the end of a day’s march.
There are many branches of the Scutcheons. Their floppy black berets and sashes identified this group as part of theplatoon whose task it was to maintain order in town, arrest malefactors and bring them to justice.
In their midst was a prisoner being prodded along. He attempted to keep step, his hands manacled before him, his grey hair straggling over a face lined with an expression of abject misery. I speculated on what the poor man might have done. It could not be anything too serious or he would have been incarcerated in the King’s Royal Prison. The grim fortress had been nicknamed “The Dismal Dungeons,” an accurate reflection of the miserable conditions of the place.
Most likely this poor fellow had committed some minor transgression which would result in his being whipped in the town square or confined for a day in the Yoke of Shame. I should have just kept my head averted as the troop marched past, but I could not help gazing with sympathy at the prisoner.
A shadow fell over me as the leader of this troop came up behind me. He was the only one mounted on horseback, a fierce-looking man, with a full dark beard. I recognized him at once but that was no great surprise. Everyone knew Commander Horatio Crushington, the head of the Midtown garrison. Nor was it any surprise that the commander was aware of who I was. Crushington made a point of knowing every resident of Midtown. He had a prodigious memory, never forgetting a name or a face.
He guided his roan gelding alongside me, a horse as massive as its master. Nodding down at me, Crushington said, “Good afternoon, Miss Upton.”
I nodded back in acknowledgment. “Commander.”
I slowed to a halt, expecting he would ride on by. I was dismayed when he reined his mount to a stop. The entire troop would have halted as well, but the commander motioned to the sergeant to keep them moving. I could not restrain a soft outcry when their prisoner stumbled and was hauled to his feet. I knewit would be far better to say nothing, but I could not restrain my curiosity.
Shielding my eyes against the sun, I craned my neck to gaze up at Crushington. “What did that man do?” I asked.
“Nothing to alarm you, Miss Upton. Farmer Grey merely sought to evade the tax on working animals. He tried to pass off his sheep-herding dog as a pet by keeping it shut up in the house. The poor beast was frantic, barking day and night until it finally managed to leap through an open window to return to its flock.”
