“When you asked Amy about where the king was earlier… You don’t think he’s the Evil One, do you?” I asked.
She shook her head. “No. Well, I did think he might be, but I don’t think so anymore.”
“You don’t have to do this alone, you know,” I said, though I didn’t know what help I’d be.
Truthfully, she seemed to have a better grasp on how to be the Chosen One than me. I’d been so busy just trying to survive that I’d been happy to leave the investigation up to the guards, while she was apparently Sherlock Holmes–ing all over the castle.
She snorted softly. “Oh, good. I feel much better about the chances of two people being able to save the entire world than I did about one.” But her sarcasm was gentle enough it held no real bite.
The door to the house banged open, spilling lamplight onto the cobblestones. “Are you going to come in and help or not?” An older woman, who must have been the girls’ mother, stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips. “Lavender saw you out here. She says you’re the traveler who gave her the chair.”
A few pudgy faces peeked around her waist. “Mama!” one of the girls said. “You can’t ask them to help. They’re the Chosen…”She fell silent. To keep them safe, Courtney must have instructed her not to reveal our titles.
Courtney stood. “Of course we can help.”
Together, we followed the woman through the doorway and into a delightfully disheveled home. Clutter covered every rickety piece of furniture in a haphazard but somehow organized way that indicated every item had its place, as chaotic as it might look. The kitchen and dining space were all in one room, while the sitting room was separated by a door. In the corner, a staircase wound up to what I assumed were the bedrooms.
Gathered around the worn table in the middle of the room were the rest of the family: an older man, who must be the father, and a plethora of daughters—even more than the ones who had been with Courtney earlier. One of them bounced a baby on her knee while the others were preoccupied with the bag of coins spilling out onto the table.
“This is from selling the chair you gave us,” one said, sounding almost guilty, as though she needed to explain, as though she wasn’t allowed to have it.
The mother introduced herself only as “Mama” and the father was simply “Pop.” The girls’ introductions were a jumbled mess of laughter and squeals, but I found if I uttered a random name of a plant, I had a good chance of one of them responding.
“We’re baking tarts to sell at the market tomorrow,” Mama said, indicating the pastry mess covering the counter by the hearth. “Maybe we cannot give our money to others in need, but if a few coins happen to slip into the batter, and if a few good people happen to find those coins in their tarts, well they might as well keep them.”
“Wait,” I said. “I’m confused. Why can’t you just give people the money?”
“It is not the way of things,” she said simply.
Courtney stepped forward. “Is that why your daughters didn’twant to accept the chair at first? They had to view it as payment before they would take it.”
Mama shrugged. “Things must be done a certain way. We are peasants. We must work to earn our keep. The soldiers must fight. The servant must serve. It is not our place to accept wealth.”
Maybe this was why Amy wanted us to stay away from the villagers. The social infrastructure of this world seemed deeply rooted in tradition, with rules about what you could and couldn’t do, depending on what class you belonged in. If the world ran smoothly this way, maybe Amy didn’t want us shattering the walls of decorum and tradition by telling people things could be different. Maybe Edna Johnson, the last Chosen One, had tried to do that, and that was why it was now forbidden.
Still, it was strange these rules were just accepted, especially because people like Mama were actively trying to find ways around them. But this was a differentworld. If someone from this world came into mine, they’d probably find our cultural norms senseless too. Like the way everyone universally agrees to saybig stretchwhen their cat stretches, or the unspoken one-urinal-buffer-zone rule, or how, if anyone says,this one time, you’re legally obligated to throw in,at band camp.
“Do you wish to help, or not?” Mama asked. “Idle hands have no place here.”
A few of the girls who knew we were the Chosen Ones cringed and offered apologetic looks, but Courtney brushed them off. “Let’s get to work.”
CHAPTER 22INWHICHCHEKHOV’SCONDOMSFOILOURPLANS
COURTNEY
This family was so different from mine—their smiles real, their interest genuine. One of the oldest girls had recently had a baby, who was now happily bouncing on Bryce’s lap. Bryce himself looked shell-shocked to have found himself holding a miniature human. He handled the child as though he thought it might break apart. Meanwhile, the baby thrashed around unconcernedly, cooing and dribbling drool over Bryce’s fingers.
Instead of asking the new mother what milestones the baby had reached like it was a competition to see which infant in the family would achieve things faster, her family asked questions likeHow are you?andWhat’s it like being a mother?andYou’ll let us know if you ever need help, right?
The kitchen was nothing like my parents’ either. Not a trace of marble in sight. It was all warm woods, cream plaster, and cast iron. Thanks to Mama’s brisk instructions, I soon had a decent idea what I was doing. We formed an assembly line—some making dough, some rolling, some forming the tarts. It was efficient, but there were also plenty of shenanigans, which Mama loosely refereed, and Pop blatantly encouraged.
The girls had some sort of ongoing game they calledshleekshelock, which, from what I understood, roughly translated to Kill the Guy with the Ball. The rules of the game were what you would expect. They had a small wooden ball, and if someone spotted you with it, they were allowed to obtain it from you by whatever means necessary. Physical violence was encouraged, though there was also a certain amount of strategy involved. The trick was to sneakily pickpocket the ball and hide it before anyone knew you had it.
They’d already roped Bryce into the game, though I declined after learning “Once you agree to playshleekshelock, you’re a player for life.”
Every so often, I looked up from my work, seeking Bryce,needingto see what he was doing. Each stolen glimpse was a reward, sending endorphins straight to my heart, whether a ten-year-old was commanding him to toss berries into her awaiting mouth, or he was being dogpiled by every child in the house as they wrestled him for a ball.
Sometimes I caught him looking at me, just grinning, with a thoughtful look in his eyes.
