Page 17 of Disenchanted
Mal swept me an exaggerated bow. “Your every wish is my command, milady. Allow me to escort you to the parlor.”
Mal led the way through the curtain at the back of the shop. I followed him into his kitchen and tried not to cringe. When Mal’s grandmother was alive, the place was so clean you could eat off the floor. Mal, on his own, was a total disaster. Dirty dishes were stacked everywhere, in the sink, on the counter and on the small oak table. When I walked across the hardwood floor, I could hear the grit crunch beneath my shoes. I had to skirt around a tumbled pile of wood that Mal had never gotten around to stacking in the log basket.
Mal chucked a few pieces of wood into the stove furnace to stoke up the fire. While he filled up the iron kettle, I tried to clear away some of the dishes, empty bottles, and books from the table.
“Just sit down,” he commanded. “I’ll take care of that.”
Mal swept the table clean by dumping everything into the empty log basket. I sighed but said nothing. But when he squinted at the bottom of a stained teacup and began polishing it clean with the hem of his apron, it was more than I could endure.
“No, you sit down, and I’ll prepare the tea,” I said.
Mal voiced his usual token protests, but in the end was pleased to surrender. Mal enjoyed being taken care of and he truly missed his grandmother. I have often suggested he engagea charwoman. Mal insisted he could never trust anyone to clean as well as his grandmother had. What he really meant was, he did not want any stranger in the shop, stumbling upon some of his more dubious activities.
While I gave the teacups and saucers a proper scrubbing, Mal removed his dirty apron and lounged back in one of the kitchen chairs. It amused me to notice him tugging at his neckline and scratching. Obviously more of his hair had fallen out and slipped down inside his shirt. It was a loose-fitting garment with full sleeves that closed with laces that Mal never pulled too tight.
I have never known Mal to wear anything resembling a cravat. Mal said it was because something that constricted the neck was an uncomfortable reminder of strangling which was the current method of execution in our realm. Our king had such a horror of shedding his subjects’ blood, that all condemned prisoners met their fates at an appointment with the Lord High Garroter and his thick, knotted rope, deep in the Dismal Dungeons.
This individual seldom ever came into town, but I do recall seeing him once when I was about nine years old. He was a giant of a man with thick beefy arms and hands the size of dinner plates. He had come lumbering into the sweetmeats shop where Imelda was treating me and my stepsisters to marzipan. Imelda had turned pale and hustled us all out without buying anything. Amy began to cry but was sharply hushed by her mother who declared we had to get away from “that evil man.”
I didn’t think that huge man looked evil, only rather sad and lonely. It was sometime later before I realized who the mournful giant was, the Lord High Garroter who had executed Imelda’s first husband.
When the kettle came to a boil, I scooped some loose tea in the pot and added the hot water. The tea leaves must have been reasonably fresh because a fragrant aroma issued from theteapot. It was a pretty piece of crockery that had belonged to Mal’s grandmother. The teapot was painted with vines and roses but had to be treated carefully because there was a crack in the handle where it had been glued back together.
This was not owing to any carelessness on Mal’s part but to the time Grandmother Hawkridge had chucked the teapot at her husband’s head. The teapot likely would have shattered but Granny had good aim. She hit Grandfather Hawkridge square between the eyes, and he managed to catch the teapot before it fell to the floor so only the handle was damaged.
I can only imagine what sort of skullduggery Mal’s grandfather must have been planning to inspire his patient wife to such violence. I have often felt the urge to bounce something off Mal’s head if I thought it would do any good.
As I took my place at the table and served the tea, I was tempted again to try to dissuade Mal from bottling and selling his “Elixir of Love.” But he would never listen, and I was already weary of anything to do with the royal ball. I had come here to escape from any further discussion of it.
I took a soothing sip of my tea and relaxed back in my chair, feeling some of my tension melt. I nudged the sugar bowl closer to Mal, smiling as I watched him ladle spoonsful into his cup. His grandmother used to scold him for that, declaring Mal might as well just take the sugar bowl and wet it down with a bit of tea.
I have such good memories of many cozy afternoons spent in this kitchen with Grandmother Hawkridge bustling about, ironing bed linens, pulling fresh bread from the oven, dumping another bun on my plate as she insisted I was getting too skinny. She would often pause to brush a stray curl from my brow, just as my own mother used to do. The recollection brought a lump to my throat. Mal was not the only one who missed his grandmother.
I took another swallow of tea as Mal popped open a tin and offered me a gingerbread man. I regarded the treat with suspicion and surprise. But the little cake men neither looked moldy nor hard as rocks. I accepted one and cautiously bit off a leg. It was delicious.
As I chewed, slowly savoring the morsel, I mumbled, “You have been baking?”
“Silly girl. Of course not. These were a gift from the witch next door.”
I choked and spat out what remained of the leg onto my plate. Mal laughed and said, “Relax, Ella. It really is just gingerbread, not something that will give you warts or place you under a sleeping spell.”
“How can you be so sure?” I muttered, washing my mouth out with tea. Unlike Mal’s inept spells, I have heard it rumored that Delphine possessed considerable skill when it came to the arcane arts.
“Delphine would never serve me such a trick,” Mal said. “Despite her obnoxious cat, she and I get on quite well. I believe Delphine is a bit smitten with me.” As though to convince me, Mal scooped up a gingerbread man and bit off its head, chewing and swallowing with great relish. “She often trades me cakes or pies for some of my herbs, although the gingerbread was a gift. I do have a birthday coming up which I daresay you have forgotten about.”
“How could I possibly forget your birthday?” I retorted with a wry smile. “You would never let me. So have you decided yet what you want?”
Mal crammed the rest of the gingerbread into his mouth but still managed to mumble, “I may just possibly have thought of something.”
He settled back into his chair, a mysterious smile on his lips. He clearly wanted me to coax it out of him. I refused to oblige, knowing he would tell me soon enough.
Mal and I have never bought birthday gifts for each other. Instead, we have traded favors. It was a tradition that started back years ago, during the annual Festival of the Flowers. This was celebrated every spring with a parade, dancing and feasting in the streets and the awarding of prizes for the best gardens. There were also foot races, archery contests and even jousts in the town square. Because what demonstrates the joy of spring better than one great lummox trying to knock another lummox off his horse?
The highlight of this festival was the pageant for young girls in which one simpering miss was chosen to be crowned Princess Rosebud and preside over all these celebrations. Imelda once proudly bore the title and she was determined that at least one of her daughters should achieve this dubious honor. When I turned ten, the age of entry, I was selected to become Imelda’s first victim.
In vain did I plead, trying to convince her I was not the stuff of which princesses were made. Even if I had been, I could not have hoped to compete with any of the young ladies from the Heights with their poise, their jewels, and costly gowns. No Midtown girl had ever been crowned Princess Rosebud, I told my stepmother, but Imelda insisted I would be the first.
I was groomed, primped, frizzed, and curled. I was subjected to endless lessons on how to walk, sit and smile, skills that I thought I had performed quite adequately most of my life. I had to endure endless fittings in a frothy taffeta gown that made me itch and was so restrictive I could not bend or raise my arms.
