Page 2 of Disenchanted
“What is your name?” I asked.
The new herald bowed with a great flourish, his soft round stomach doubling over his belt. “Rhufawn Smythe, at your service, miss.”
“Rhufawn?” I chuckled.
He straightened, scowling at me. “I am sure it is no more amusing than being called Prunella.”
Although I utterly loathed my first name, I said, “Prunella is an old family name among the Uptons.”
“So is Rhufawn among the Smythes.” He sniffed. “You know, I think it very unfair that we royal heralds should constantly be subjected to such mockery and abuse. It is not our fault that the news coming from the palace is not always pleasant. We are simply doing our duty and—”
“All right!” I cut him off with an upraised gesture to call a truce. “So do your duty.
But no trumpet,” I warned as I returned the instrument to him.
He pouted, but he attached the horn back to the loop on his belt. Rhufawn delved into the large leather pouch which I could see was crammed with rolled parchments. He produced one and prepared to unfurl it.
“Just give it here.” I grabbed the parchment, but the new herald was prepared this time. His pudgy fingers clamped down, refusing to release it.
“I am supposed to read it to you.”
“I have been reading since I was three.” I tugged harder. He pulled just as stubbornly in the opposite direction.
“It is protocol, miss. I must make sure you have heard and understood the proclamation. And you will want to hear because I assure you it is good tidings.”
Good tidings from the palace? That was as unlikely as the fabled cow being able to jump over the moon. Our tug of war continued until the royal parchment was likely to be torn in half. That would not have bothered me, but the prospect alarmed Rhufawn enough that he released his grip.
“Very well, Miss Upton. But you must promise me you will read it. You won’t just chuck it into the fire or anything. Because it is really good news.”
“Yes, yes.” I waved him off, preparing to retreat into the house. But his hand shot out to stop the door being closed.
He cleared his throat, “Er… I understand it was the custom of old to offer the royal messenger a small token of appreciation. Just a penny or two. It wouldn’t even have to be silver. Bronze would be quite acceptable.”
Was he serious? “You expect me to tip you for bringing me bad tidings?”
“I told you it is good news, great news, exciting news. News so wonderful it has inspired many of your neighbors along the street to be quite generous to me. It would be such a nice gesture, welcoming me to my new route. A new beginning as itwere, after what happened with poor George. Not that you were entirely to blame for his coming undone.”
Rhufawn fluttered his pale lashes at me, his humble demeanor not quite able to disguise the sly calculation in his eyes.
I smiled sweetly at him. “Here’s a tip for you.” When he leaned eagerly forward, I used my forefinger to smudge his pug-like nose with soot. “Find yourself a better kind of employment.”
Stepping back, I slammed the door in his face. I heard a muffled sound that could have been a curse or a pitiful “ow” because he had been standing too close.
My attention had already shifted away from the royal herald to the battered parchment I clutched in my hand. I stared at it, as though it might explode at any second. Despite all the herald’s assurances, I could not believe the parchment held anything that could be construed as good news.
No doubt the proclamation would be worded with a cordial elegance. It would even contain a charming note of regret as the royal government went on to explain there was to be another new excise levied much as King August deplored the necessity of it. The new tax, whatever it was, would be made to sound very reasonable.
I regarded the parchment glumly, wondering what sort of tax our greedy king had dreamed up this time. We were already taxed on our food, our clothing, our wine, our candles, our livestock, our horses, our carriages, our dogs— providing that they were working dogs such as hunting hounds or herding collies. Household pets were exempt.
Whatever the latest exaction might prove to be, I did not feel up to dealing with it. I tossed the parchment atop the hall table next to a dapper-looking top hat and kid gloves. At that moment, the parlor door opened and my two stepsisters, Amy and Netta,fluttered out like two gauzy white moths released from the confinement of the winter cupboard.
Their proper names are Amethyst and Garnet, their late father, Albert Wendover, having been a wealthy and distinguished jeweler. At least he was until he had been caught trying to pass off colored glass as a costly dwarf sapphire in a medallion he’d designed for the king. His trial and subsequent execution had been swift and brutal.
Determined to distance herself from her husband’s infamy, my stepmother, Imelda, had insisted her daughters adopt the Upton name when she married my father. She seldom referred to her girls as Amethyst and Garnet— not unless she was excessively vexed with them.
My stepsisters had inherited their mother’s luxuriant ebony hair, but otherwise there was little resemblance between them even though Imelda still found it precious to insist the girls dress alike. This morning, they were clad in similar gowns cut according to the current fashion for high waists and puffed sleeves although in a small display of defiance, Netta had opted to wear a blue sash instead of pink.
At the age of eighteen, she was two years older than Amy. She was as tall and angular as Amy was short, dimpled, and plump. But their familial resemblance was marked as they drew up short, regarding me with twin expressions of horror.
