Page 11 of Charmless
“What!” Her mouth collapsed into its usual surly expression. “Why not?”
I edged further away from her, nervously eying those shears. “Well, because— because?—”
“Listen, you idiotic girl. Instead of climbing fences and running about like some half-mad hoyden, you need to go grab that man and get him to the altar before the spell wears off.”
“Spell? What spell?”
“Whatever enchantment you put on Prince Florian to make him fall in love with you.”
“I assure you I did nothing to bewitch the prince. Quite the contrary. I am sorry if I have teased you in the past, but truly, I am not a witch.”
“Ha! Of course, you are not.” She snorted. “And I should truly regret having to imply otherwise to the royal authorities.”
“Are you threatening me, Mrs. Biddlesworth?”
“Not at all, my dear.” She forced her lips back into that hideous grin. “Merely offering you the wisdom of my council.”
“Uh… thank you. I shall certainly take all that you have said under advisement.” I replied, moving toward the path that would lead me to her front gate. “Now you must excuse me. I really need to be going.”
“You do that. Go find your prince and set a date.”
As I darted around the side of her house, she shouted after me, “And you better start acting more like a princess. I’ll be watching you.”
“What else is new,” I muttered as I crouched down, slinking toward her gate. I managed to make it across the street unseen and ducked into the bushes of the house opposite, pausing to catch my breath. With Florian vowing to pursue me, half of the neighborhood crowding into my house to congratulate me and Horatio believing I had thrown him over for the prince, I had not seen how this situation could get any worse.
But now I had Mrs. Biddlesworth hinting that she would denounce me as a witch. She had often threatened to do so before. This time she might be provoked into doing it if I disappointed her by not marrying the prince and moving far, far away.
Being a witch or a wizard in our kingdom was not illegal if one had the proper permit. These were quite costly and very difficult to obtain. Practicing magic without a license carried heavy penalties and lengthy confinement in King’s Royal Prison, a grim fortress, more commonly known as the Dismal Dungeon.
I shoved all worries about Mrs. Biddlesworth aside for the moment. My immediate concern was getting to town without being accosted by any more of my neighbors, well-wishing or otherwise.
At least the house whose bushes sheltered me was quiet, the windows still shuttered, although for a sad reason. The entire Hanson family along with several other Midtown citizens had been arrested at the ball last night. Myrtle Hanson had faked a swoon to attract the attention of the prince. The poor girl had been unaware that our king had recently enacted another of his petty decrees. This absurd law had made fainting in the presence of royalty a serious crime. When Myrtle had been seized by the palace guards, her brothers had tried to rescue her, starting with a bout of fisticuffs which degenerated into an all-out brawl between Midtown boys and some of the young aristocrats from the Heights.
It had been fortunate for me because it had supplied the distraction I needed to sneak into the king’s treasure room and steal the orb. But not so fortunate for the Midtown folk who ended up incarcerated in the Dismal Dungeons. But Horatio had intervened successfully on their behalf, appealing for mercy from the second most powerful man in the kingdom, His Majesty’s Chief Wizard, the Great Mercato. Horatio had secureda promise from Mercato that the Hansons would be released soon.
I continued to skulk in the Hanson shrubbery until I was convinced it was safe to emerge. The excitement occasioned by Prince Florian's eruption into our neighborhood appeared to have dissipated. The lane was empty except for a farmer’s wagon trundling past, followed by one of those oversized pumpkin shaped carriages that were the current rage among the aristocrats in the Heights.
As I passed by the main street where most of the shops were located, I pulled my shawl up over my head like a hood to avoid being recognized. It turned out to be an unnecessary precaution. In the days preceding the ball, the shops had been crammed with rabid women shoving and poking each other to get first pick of the finest silks and furbelows.
Today the town was devoid of clamoring customers, so I ventured to come out from beneath my shawl. Almost faint from hunger, I was overwhelmed by the scent of fresh baked honey rolls emanating from Crumpet’s Bakery and Tea Shop. I seldom indulged myself, but when my stomach emitted a loud growl, the temptation was too great to resist.
I cracked open the door, taking a cautious peek inside. Ordinarily at this time of day, all the linen-covered tables and chairs would be occupied by ladies sipping tea, buttering scones, and gossiping. After Florian’s performance at my house this morning, I feared much of that gossip would involve me.
But perhaps most of the bakery’s usual customers were still abed, nursing sore feet from dancing at the ball. Much to my relief, the shop was empty except for a young man standing at the counter. Despite the obvious quality of his clothes, he appeared rather disheveled, his fine lawn shirt untucked and hanging over his breeches. Besides lacking a frock coat, he was also shoeless, his white hose stained with mud and grass.Something about him struck me as disturbingly familiar, but I could not see his face because he had his back to me.
Unlike the sort of plump, jolly woman one might expect a baker to be, Mrs. Crumpet was tall and angular. A widow with far too many children, she frequently appeared harassed and impatient, but I had never known her to be downright hostile to a customer.
Moving a tier of honey rolls out of the young man’s reach, she was red-faced and all but shouting at him. “You better pay for all those rolls you took.”
“Pay? But you urged me to try them, so I thought they were free,” he faltered.
“Free! I should think not! How do you expect me to support six children by giving my wares away?”
“I don’t know,” he squeaked. “Six children? Oh my!”
“By my count, you scarfed down three of those rolls, so you owe me three coppers.”
“But I don’t have any money.” As the young man shifted to turn his breeches pockets inside out, I caught a glimpse of his profile.
