Page 12 of Disenchanted
Keeping my opinion of the prince to myself, I said, “I daresay I am a very strange woman because I have no interest in becoming a princess.”
Something in the commander’s eyes brightened. “I am very glad of that.”
“Of what? That I am strange?”
“No, that you do not desire a prince, that perhaps in time, you might even consider—”
Terrified of what he might be about to say, I interrupted. “My goodness, how late it is getting! I fear I have detained you from your duties far too long. I am sure you must be a very busy man, reports to file, troops to drill, prisoners to whip. And I need to get on with my marketing.”
“Of course,” he agreed, but continued to grip my hand and regard me wistfully.
“And to do that, I really need you to release me. I have always been a two-handed shopper.”
“Oh yes, certainly.” He let go of me, his cheeks reddening with embarrassment. He looked as though he wanted to say more, but mercifully could not find the words. He settled for a stiff bow, clicking his boots together. He turned back to his mount. Any other horse might have used its master beingdistracted to wander off or crop at grass, but I could have sworn that gelding stood to attention the entire time.
Crushington swung up into the saddle. Looking down at me, his lips pulled upward in that peculiar twitch. “Farewell, Miss Upton. I hope we meet again soon.”
I managed a stiff smile and shook my hand. He probably thought I was waving, but I was only trying to work the circulation back into my numbed fingers. That man did not know his own strength.
He gigged his horse into motion. I remained where I was until he trotted off down the road and disappeared around the bend. When he was gone, I had to resist the urge to flee back home and bolt myself inside my room, never to emerge again.
Heretofore Commander Crushington and I had been nothing more than passing acquaintances, the more distant, the better as far as I was concerned. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that he looked upon me with anything approaching a friendly eye. I could only wonder in dismay what I could have done to attract such a solemn, humorless man. If I ever figured it out, I vowed never, ever to do it again.
It was not that I considered the commander evil. He was nothing like many of the other Scutcheon officers, corrupt, power-mad bullies. But he was something just as frightening, a man rigid in his sense of duty, incapable of seeing shades of grey or indulging in the quality of mercy. I was quite certain he would arrest his own grandmother if she were guilty of something he considered an infraction of the law.
Now this ruthless upholder of law and order had his stern gaze trained in my friend’s direction. I wanted to race down to Misty Bottoms to warn Mal at once. But I was restrained by the fear that Crushington might still be lurking somewhere ahead. I was going to have to head for the market first. Even if the formidable Scutcheon commander had developed an alarminginfatuation with me and threatened to clap my dearest friend in irons, the Upton family still needed to eat.
When I rounded the bend, I quailed at the scene that met my eyes. Midtown’s shopping district had descended into utter madness. The dratted pumpkin coaches were everywhere, blocking the street as grooms tried to keep their restive horses calm. One of the carriages had locked wheels with an ale wagon. The carter and the bewigged coachman appeared ready to come to blows, swearing and shouting insults.
Such a dispute would have drawn a crowd on an ordinary day, but no one was paying much attention amid the rest of the chaos. Women and girls thronged the street, fighting to make their way to the shops. Grand ladies from the Heights were trailed by maids and footmen as they tried to sweep majestically forward. Midtown women, usually deferential, elbowed duchesses and countesses aside to get first pick of the merchandise.
The lacemaker’s, the milliner’s and the glove and ribbon shops looked crowded with clamoring females to the point of bursting out their bow front windows. The worse congestion was of course at the Silk Emporium. Dearling, the shop’s proprietor, had conceived the brilliant notion he could relieve the crush inside his store by setting up a display outside.
The hapless clerk assigned to this task got as far as setting up a table. The young man, in his innocence, clearly expected the ladies to wait patiently while he unpacked the silks and arranged the fabrics in a pleasing display. As soon as he opened the first box, he was swarmed by the eager, squealing throng. The poor boy’s arms flailed desperately as he struggled to remain upright before he disappeared completely, engulfed in a sea of petticoats.
Scutcheons were everywhere, frantically trying to keep order. One private made the mistake of trying to get between twostout dames fighting over a length of lace and ended up being scratched and bitten. I saw no sign of Commander Crushington, but I doubted that even his fierce demeanor could have gained control over these ravening hordes of women.
There was nothing like the prospect of wedding a handsome prince to rouse something feral in the bosom of the demurest maidens and their ambitious mamas. If I could have hung back and watched from a safe distance, I might have found the whole thing amusing, especially if I’d had Mal with me to enjoy this melee over fabric and furbelows.
Alas! If I wanted to reach the food markets, I was obliged to fling myself into the very heart of this insanity. Fortifying myself with a deep breath, I took the plunge, struggling for every inch of pavement that I gained. I was a slender person, but I still had to balance my basket on top of my head to squeeze through the thicket of savage shoppers. My toes were trampled, and I was stabbed in the rib cage with something— I believe it was some dowager’s parasol. My basket tumbled from my grasp, but there was no hope of retrieving it. If I had tried to bend down to find it, I would have ended up flattened like one of those hot cakes that bakers smack thin with their spatulas.
By the time I reached the other end of the street, I was panting like a swimmer who had finally fought free of a powerful undertow. The area where the foodstuffs were sold appeared like a veritable haven. I staggered toward it, grateful to find these shops as empty as I would have expected at this time of day.
Unfortunately, I was about to encounter yet another unpleasant consequence of this royal ball madness— greed. My intention had been to splurge on a plump pullet, as though a fine chicken dinner might somehow console my stepsisters for their disappointment over the ball. A ridiculous ploy I knew, but it was the best that I could devise.
I discovered that even providing this small treat was impossible when I entered the poultry shop and Mr. Barclay quoted me the price of a small hen.
“What!” I cried. “That is almost quadruple of what you were charging last week!”
Mr. Barclay shrugged his bony shoulders. He was a scrawny man whose neck skin sagged like a rooster’s wattle. “Prices can’t stay the same forever, miss.”
“Why? Have your hens started laying golden eggs?”
He crowed out a laugh, displaying the gap between his front teeth. “No, miss. If that was the case, I’d keep all the hens for myself.”
“That must be what you are planning to do if you charge these prices. Is there a poultry shortage that I don’t know about?”
“No, but I expect there will be. With this year’s royal ball being a much larger and grander affair, I fancy the palace will be ready to buy up all the chicken I can supply and at any price I name.” He hooked his thumbs beneath his apron straps and looked so smug, I wanted to smack him.
