Page 122 of Charmless
I flopped back against my pillow. After all the events of last night and this morning, I felt engulfed in a tide of exhaustion. I only meant to close my eyes for a few minutes, but I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. When I awoke, I was alarmed to see the shadows lengthening across the room. It had to be late in the afternoon.
As I groggily knuckled the sleep from my eyes, I noticed that at some point one of my sisters had tiptoed into my room and left a tray on my nightstand. I regarded the dried-out toast and cold tea with little enthusiasm. But when my stomach growled, I wolfed both down. The meagre fare was enough to fortify me.
I got out of bed, washing, and dressing as quickly as I could. Donning one of my work-a-day gowns, sensible stockings, and shoes, I didn’t have time to worry about beautifying myself. I winced as I brushed my hair, ruthlessly working out the knots.
I cringed as I regarded myself in the mirror. There was nothing to be done about the exhausted shadows beneath my eyes, but I managed to pinch some color into my cheeks. That would have to do.
When I crept downstairs, I was relieved to find the house empty. Em and my sisters must still be in town, busy soaking up all the gossip and shopping. I felt a pang of my old worry about how much Em might be spending. Then I reminded myself that would soon be Lord Redmond’s problem, not mine.
As I hurried along the lane outside my house, I noticed that most of my neighbors had already hung the royal mourningwreaths on their front doors. Even Mrs. Biddlesworth had erected one, although hers was a trifle shabby from disuse. It had been a long time since Arcady had lost a king, longer than I could remember. I had not even been born when King August had ascended the throne.
When I reached Midtown proper, it was easier than ever to slip by unnoticed. The shopkeepers had chosen to remain open longer than usual to accommodate the rush of customers seeking the required purple and black fabric for mourning clothes. I dreaded encountering Em and my sisters, with the awkward explanations and prevarications that would entail. Fortunately, they were lost somewhere in throng of women shoppers, and I was able to work my way past the crowd and on to the relative quiet of the town square.
The plaza before Quad Hall was deserted which I would have expected, all government offices closed, owing to the death of the king. I was irritated to see the heap of floral offerings deposited at the feet of Florian’s statue. But my indignation was somewhat assuaged when an obliging bird flew over and frapped on his head.
With all the offices closed, I was afraid that I might find the entrance to Quad Hall locked. But the massive doors were open as usual. As I crossed through the marble-tiled entryway, I found Major Frackles supervising two Scutcheons on ladders as they draped mourning swags between the hall pillars.
When he saw me, the major headed in my direction. I noticed that he and the other soldiers had added black armbands to their uniforms. Frackles greeted me with a sad smile.
“Good afternoon, Miss Upton. Although I should not saygood.What astonishing and tragic news for our kingdom.”
Astonishing perhaps, but I could not agree it was tragic. Still, I solemnly nodded my head.
“I was hoping to see Commander Crushington. Is he up in his office?”
“No, miss. The commander received an urgent note from that shopkeeper in Misty Bottoms demanding he come at once.”
“Shopkeeper? You mean Malcolm Hawkridge?”
I tensed wondering what the blazes Mal was up to now. Had he decided that he could not depend upon me to persuade Horatio to fight for the throne? Perhaps Mal meant to take matters into his own hands, even if he had to hold Horatio captive until he convinced him he was the lost heir. Mal was so obsessed with the legend I would not put anything past him.
But Major Frackles brought an end to my worried thoughts when he corrected me. “No, it wasn’t that scoundrel Hawkridge. It was that other odd hunched over fellow who sent the note. The one who runs that bric-à-brac shop.” Frackles snapped his fingers as he struggled to recall the name. “You know the man I mean.”
“Withypole Fugitate?” I murmured.
“That’s the fellow.”
I was more puzzled and alarmed than ever. Why would Withypole summon Horatio in such an abrupt fashion? It had to have something to do with Sidney Greenleaf about to seize control of the kingdom.
Dashing toward the exit, I left a startled Major Frackles gaping after me, my desire to find Horatio acquiring a new urgency.
A very different mood prevailed in Misty Bottoms than the rest of the kingdom. No one was hanging any mourning wreaths here. Despite the threat of any punishment, theBottoms dwellers were making no effort to disguise their joy over the death of the king and his son. There was much hugging, laughing, and dancing in the street, the unrestrained glee encouraged by the landlord of the Winking Goblin lavishly providing everyone with free ale.
One raggedy fellow attempted to engage me in a wild jig while an old lady tried to shove a flask into my hand. I managed to avoid being swept up in the revelry, forcing my way to the end of Rock Gunnel Street until I reached Withypole’s shop.
The sign posted in the grimy window announced that the shop was closed. But someone had added a hastily painted word.
Forever
What did that mean? The sign increased my mounting dread. I tested the doorknob, expecting to find it locked, but when it turned easily in my hand, I entered the shop.
The cramped room was so silent, I could hear the dust settling. The shelves were piled with an incongruous assortment of dishes, books, toys, porcelain figurines, vases, and paintings. I had always found this shop a sad testimonial to the desperate people who needed to part with their precious items for the sake of a few coins. On more than one occasion, I had been one of them.
Now that I knew Withypole’s story, I realized the shop bore witness to the fairy’s despair as well, the tragic loss of his love that had turned him into a gleaner with a gaping hole in his heart that could never be filled.
I threaded my way past wooden soldiers and tin trains, the painted eyes of dolls seeming to sadly follow my steps. As I made my way to the shop counter, I called out, “Withypole? Horatio?”
“Back here, Ella.”
