Page 82 of Charmless
Withypole released me. As I rubbed my bruised wrist, he swayed dangerously, appearing on the verge of tumbling out of his chair. But he gripped the edge of the table, steadying himself.
“You must understand about Mercato. He’s a fake, a…”
The fairy’s voice trailed off as though he was losing track of his words. He lifted the bottle and squinted inside it as though he expected to find his missing thoughts swirling there.
“That old wizard is what?” I prompted. “A liar? A trickster? A betrayer?”
“Betrayer, yes.” Withypole latched on to the last word. His eyes filled with tears. “No, that was me.”
“Who did you betray?”
“M-my darling Marigold. Oh, I can’t speak of it. Too ashamed.”
I took his hand, saying gently, “It is all right. Please just tell me.”
He pulled away from me and grabbed his bottle. Nothing remained of the brew except for a few drops which he lapped up desperately with his tongue.
He moaned. “If only I had ever found the courage to declare my love to Marigold, maybe it never would have happened.”
“What? What happened?”
“Marigold. She fell in love with someone else. A mere mortal. He was nothing but a lowly Scutcheon, but Marigold was completely besotted. She was willing to surrender everything to become his bride, her wings and all her fairy magic.”
“Was such a thing possible?” I asked in astonishment.
“Yes, the king of the fairies could have granted her wish, but she would have been condemned to live out her days as a mortal. I would have had to watch her age and die. She would have been lost to me forever, so I knew I had to stop her.” Withypole fixed me with a piteous gaze. “You must understand, I loved her so much. I became crazed with despair and jealousy, or I would never have done anything so terrible.”
I dreaded to ask. “What did you do?”
Withypole’s breath hitched with a suppressed sob. “I tricked Marigold’s lover into meeting me at this tavern. I sought to erase all memories of Marigold from his heart, b-but I had had too much to drink. My magic went awry, and I completely shattered the man’s mind. He ran totally mad and ended up taking his own life.”
“Oh, Withypole.” I exclaimed. “And Marigold, what became of her?”
“She - she died of grief.” Tears poured down Withypole’s face faster than he could check them, even though he tried to stem the flow with his sleeve. “So sweet and generous was Marigold, she forgave me on her deathbed, b-begged me to protect the orb and Anthea’s heir. And I promised her. But I am so weak. I became a wretched gleaner.”
I knew from Papa’s book that was the peculiar fate of a fairy who suffered some great loss, an uncontrollable compulsion to acquire and hoard the kind of material objects most fairies disdained. Withypole’s shop bore mute testimony to his obsession, crammed from floor to ceiling with furniture, old clothes, musical instruments, books, even toys.
Giving way to his grief, he shook with sobs that were dreadful to hear. I slumped back in my chair, helpless to comfort the distraught fairy.
What he had done was terrible and his love for Marigold had proved to be of a most selfish kind. But he had paid a heavy price for his actions, and I could not help but pity him.
“I - I failed so badly. I let the orb fall into the king’s hands and I b-broke my promise to Marigold, to your father to l-look after the children.”
He was crying so hard, his muffled words punctuated by such sobs and hiccups, I barely understood him. But one word stood out clearly, causing me to bolt upright in my seat.
“Children?”I repeated. “You mean me, but who else? The missing prince? Do you know who he is? Where can we find him?”
Withypole raised his tear-streaked face and opened his mouth as if to speak. But his eyes rolled back, and his head clunked down upon the table. I tugged frantically at his arm, but he appeared to have succumbed to all the cheap whiskey he had consumed. All my efforts to rouse him were in vain.
I bit down upon my lip, fretting over my next course of action. My first impulse was to find Horatio and warn him. If he had managed to seize the orb from Mal, I had to stop Horatio from giving it to Mercato. But I could hardly abandon Withypole in such a state, especially without discovering the identity of the lost prince.
What should I do? Before I could decide, the door to the Winking Goblin burst open. Fearing the return of the tavern’s rough patrons, I leaped up from my chair, wielding the Fear Blade.
But the short man who stumbled inside was not a stranger to me. I recognized him at once as Long Louie, a friend of Mal’s who had been engaged to drive our coach the night I had attended the ball.
“Help!” Louie panted, striving to catch his breath. “It’s Mal. Something terrible has happened to him. The League has been betrayed. We’ve got to hide the weapons before they come for the rest of us and - and where is everybody?”
He gazed about him, taken aback to find the tavern deserted. He appeared even more confounded when he caught sight of me.
