Page 10 of A Court of Hearts and Hunger
“The Chief Steward?”
Fin laughs. “That pompous windbag? No. Andil and her wife will do a far better job of overseeing the kingdom.”
“Oh, yes! Excellent choice.”
“I’m glad you approve.” He kisses the top of my head, then pulls the sheets over us. The tiny magical orbs that light our bedroom dim their glow without a word from him, controlled by his very thoughts. “If you have trouble sleeping, wake me and I’ll give you a sweet to help with that.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Promise you won’t put me into a deep sleep and then leave without me?”
His pretty face sobers, not a trace of a smile. “You think I would do that to you?”
“I would hope not. But youareFae.”
“To anyone else, I’d do that in a heartbeat. But not you. I wouldn’t break your trust that way, sugar.” He sighs, settling down with his shoulder pressed against mine. “Fuck me, I think you’re right—I need you along for this, or I might break.”
Lightly I press my hand to his bare chest, over his heart, reveling in the steady beat I can feel through my palm. “I’ll be there every step of the way.”
Sometimes, in the flow of our daily life, I forget how powerful he is. Maybe he forgets, too.
Maybe love is simply reminding someone how wonderful they are, how strong they are. Showing them the shining potential you can see. Lifting them up to be the best of themselves.
I wonder if the girl Alice has someone who loves her, someone besides her employer to notice that she has slipped away from the mortal world and fallen into a dark, dangerous hole with a wicked White Rabbit.
4
Springtime always makes me more curious than usual.
Which makes me more of a bother, Mam says. Less useful to her around the house, where seven little ones must be fed, dressed, and changed when they’re soiled. Seven mouths always talking or crying, seven pairs of eyes always watching, seven pairs of small hands just itching to get into mischief.
When you’re caring for seven children under the age of ten, you’ve no time left for asking questions and learning things. Which is why I was so excited to be given the chance to work at the big house of the great local inventor, Master Drosselmeyer.
I have to give all my earnings to my family, but I don’t mind. With Pap’s crop failing in the fields, and Mam barely able to keep up with her laundering business and the home chores, they could use the money. The neighbor girl, Dorothy, helps with the little ones in my place, in exchange for a whole pig at butchering time, while I—I am miraculously free.
Not free, exactly—a servant. But a servant earning wages, instead of a servant working unpaid in the same four rooms, the same chicken yard, and the same garden, doing the same tasks every single day. I'm not trained as a maid, but thankfully Master Drosselmeyer’s housekeeper doesn’t mind. “Slim pickings around here,” she said, when I went in to ask about the job. “We’ll teach you what you need to know.”
Taking this position wasn’t about the money, at all. I hoped to be able to steal a moment, here and there, to look at a few books, ask a few questions. See something new.
I didn’t expect Master Drosselmeyer to shout at me so loudly when I found his workshop door ajar and wandered in to “dust” the books. I was so flustered I didn’t think to replace the tiny volume I’d taken from a shelf—I just held it behind my back until he was done yelling, and then dropped it into my apron pocket on my way downstairs.
I kept it in that pocket overnight, hoping to have a chance to quietly return it to the workshop the next day. But he’d locked everything up tight, and I didn’t dare leave it lying around, or he’d know I took it. So I kept the little volume in my apron. I suppose that makes me a “crimmaging sneakthief,” as Pap would say.
I don’t think “crimmaging” is a word. Pap does that often, mixing words to make new ones. Cringing and rummaging—crimmaging.
The little book is the reason I volunteered to gather blooms from the garden today, to fill the vases in the front hall. I hope to find a quiet corner and have a few minutes to peek at the pages.
With my basket on my arm and the clippers in my hand, I hurry through the garden. There are some strange plants here, blooms I’ve never seen before. Of course, I’ve never been anywhere much, except the town market and a few neighboring farms. Still, the plants seem more colorful than is natural. Like a poke in the eye, but one that makes you want to keep looking even as your eyes water.
There’s one especially large, rangy plant, like a rosebush, but with longer thorns and bigger blooms. It’s taller than a rosebush has any right to be—taller than I am, in fact, and I’m as tall as Pap. Its vines reach out like long arms, eager to gather in the other plants and crush them to its thorny heart. Its leaves aren’t just pointed at the edges like a normal rose’s—they’re ragged, serrated. They’ll tear right through your skin if you let them.
It’s my favorite plant in the whole garden. And the best part is, the other servants stay away from it, ever since one of the gardeners lost the tip of his finger to a leaf. He swears the plant reached out and sliced his fingertip right off after he pruned one of its stems. His blood sprayed all over a few of the big white blossoms, painting them red.
He swears the rosebush was taking its revenge for the piece he trimmed.
Everyone else thinks he was drunk and cut his own fingertip off, because plants don’t avenge themselves on people.
But I believe him. I think plants have feelings, and thoughts too. Maybe even speech, of a kind we don’t understand.
On this bright morning, the rosebush seems to be reaching upward, lifting the faces of its blooms toward the warm sunshine. Three of its white blossoms have a splash of scarlet across them—a brilliant, rich red. It’s been a week since the gardener’s incident. Shouldn’t the bloodstains have washed away or turned brown?
