The Faery King Chronicles
Part Three : The Baker's Battle
by Clarissa
Part I
We saw them coming long before they reached our village square. What probably used to be a squad of loyal soldiers was now a raggedy group of ruffians coming our way. We didn’t know whose side they’d been on. We didn’t care.
“Hand me your slingshot, Ian,” my mother said, holding out her hand. “Meg, the fry oil.” I handed her the small, dripping bag of dark, brown oil. It stank of chicken and was thick with flour. The three of us were crouching under the windowsill, and from what we could see, there were about fifteen of them approaching, dragging their feet lazily in the grass.
The village of Thomas Bartlemead wasn’t usually this inhospitable. The war that had started nearly four years ago had made a difference-- a very large difference in how we treated groups of armed men. They trampled our fields the year before, leaving us to starve for the winter. Since then, there have been some petty raids on a few houses and barns. As they got closer to the round base of the worn out brick fountain in the square we could see that these were the same men as before, with the same faded uniforms. If only they had waited until my father, Tom Bartlemead the younger had gotten back from the war. He would’ve taught them a more permanent lesson. But they hadn’t waited. And we couldn’t wait for him ourselves, not any longer.
Mother fired the shot of disgusting oil right at the feet of their leader. It splattered on his shoes. “Go back!” she shouted.“Go back now, while you still can!”
“We ain’t here to fight, missy,” their leader drawled. He had some kind of handkerchief wound around his head, whether for a wound or not it was hard to tell. “Haven’t you heard? The war’s over!”
“Then go home!” Mother’s lips were set into a thin, grim line. Her hands looked like they were starting to shake. The only time she yelled was usually at Ian and I when we misbehaved, not at men who could kill us all if they got close.
If only Grandad had been there. Since his leg had fully healed and Grandma had returned, he’d once again lived up to his legend of fighting injustice and causing trouble around the countryside. Old as he was, gray as he was, he could have whipped them all single-handedly. Sent them home crying. Grandma would’ve had no trouble getting them to leave either. No, she’d have them turn tail and run with only one of her lectures. But she and Grandad had gone to help a friend. They said they’d be back as soon as they could, but they were still days away.
“Surely you can spare some food for our journey, madam,” another rogue said smoothly.
My mother laughed, loud and bitter. “We’d have plenty to spare if you hadn’t trampled our fields.”
“There must be some misunderstanding. We’re not enemies anymore,” he continued.
There was no misunderstanding. We knew their faces. These were the same men that trampled our fields before. They’d been gone for a while, when the fighting had gotten more intense on the front lines, but now that the war was over, the treaty signed, they were back again. Bullies.
Old man Hodge spoke up from a few houses away. “Then are you here to plant more crops? You carry swords, not plows. You bring the war to our doorstep out of spite! Be off with you!”
“Enough of this,” their leader said. “We’re here to take what we can get. If you don’t want your families to get hurt, you’ll let us be.”
“This is the village of Thomas Bartlemead,” my mother said coldly. “Not just the elder, but his son as well. Do you really think that you’ll escape alive when he finds you?” I never thought she could sound so imperious.
“I ain’t afraid of an old man,” the leader puffed out his chest. “As for the younger, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you can’t count on him anymore. He’s dead.”
The slingshot slid out of my mother’s hand and dropped to the floor with a soft thud. Ian and I looked at each other behind her back, wide-eyed.
“I killed him myself, in fact,” the leader continued. “He fought well, you know, but he really wasn’t all they said he was.”
His men snickered. He might have been commenting on a disappointing meal. The slingshot was in my hands before I thought twice, and a small sack of flour the size of my fist was flying through the air and hitting him squarely in the face before anyone could stop me.
He staggered. He coughed. He rubbed his eyes. His head and shoulders were covered in flour. All of those slingshot contests with my brother (which had been called a waste of time) had paid off after all.
“Who did that?!” the leader demanded.
“You’re lying!” I yelled back. “He would swat you like a fly!”
“I have proof, you little whelp!” He drew his sword and held it up.
It wasn’t his. It couldn’t be. Not Dad’s.
Dad was very proud of his sword. Although he was an excellent baker, his confidence with the finer, artsy side of his trade was very low. While every loaf of his bread was delicious, he had to have my mother shape it before he’d allow it to be baked. He stayed away from any of the final touches. He was more comfortable with the ‘simple labor’, as he put it. In his frustrated moments, he’d grab his ax and say that destroying things was all he was good at, so he’d go get more firewood and leave the important things to the ladies.
His sword was different. For the first time, he really made something, from start to finish, and it was beautiful. With training from both the local blacksmith and Grandma (expert in all things magical), he made a sturdy broadsword with a garnet inlaid in the hilt. It was enchanted to be light as a feather, but to always stay sharp. It wasn’t perfect, by any means. The very next day, he dropped it on a rock and dented the goldwork on the handle. Rather than hang his head, Dad just laughed and said that now it had more character.
The ruffian with the now-floury handkerchief around his head was holding it. He was actually smirking. “You may as well surrender now. We’ll take what we want, and you can’t stop us. Be nice and we’ll spare your lives.”
There was silence. After seeing his sword, my mother was sitting on the floor, staring at the wall in shock. Ian was patting her shoulder, trying to comfort her. I turned a dark eye toward the white-faced idiot outside.
“That’s not proof, you numskull!” I roared. “You probably just found it lying around somewhere! You may be a sneaky coward and a bully, but you’re no match for Tom Bartlemead!” His lie was so pathetic that I felt like a match for him, even though I was only eleven at the time.
The floury ruffian stared. “Why you--!” They weren’t going to stand for that kind of talk, naturally, and began to rush forward toward our houses.
“Now, Ian!” I handed him the slingshot, and then the ammunition. Earlier, when we saw them come from the road, we’d cut up old sacks, put the flour and old frying oil in them, and bound them loosely with string, so they’d burst once they hit their target. I give Ian the credit for the idea, since it all started with a prank of his.
In our contests, I had always been a little more accurate with my shots, but Ian was faster. Now he slung out the bags of flour in rapid succession, delaying our enemies, but not stopping them. Next, I handed him rocks that we’d gathered from our garden. We knocked out two of them, but there were still thirteen more.
“I told you we should have boiled the oil!” Ian said reproachfully as I scrambled for more things to fire at them.
“We would have burned ourselves first, I told you,” I retorted.
The other villagers were doing what they could as well, but they were like us, the elderly, women, and children. I knew we weren’t going to last long.
“Mother, it’s going to be all right. You hear me? I’ll call for help. It’s going to be fine. Ian, use the cinnamon and pepper next.”
While those two spices had them sneezing and gasping for breath, I read the words of the spell Grandma had given me before they left. Mother didn’t like us to do magic, especially not inside the house, but this was an emergency. It was a simple spell: you think of a person, and call for their help in your heart. I called for my grandparents, but I knew they were still far away.
I hated to admit it. I still hate to admit it, but there are some things that I cannot do alone. There was only one other person nearby that I knew could help save our village. He was somewhat unreliable, with a history of holding petty grudges and kidnapping children, but...
I called for the Faery King.
Part II
“Meg! They’re coming around the side of the house!” Ian shouted. I cursed (my mother had been in shock for two minutes and already I was breaking rules), and flung myself towards the back door. Before I could shut it, one greasy-bearded man appeared around the corner and rushed to stop me. I had the momentum on my side, but he was slowly pushing it open again. With my back to the door, and my heels dug in, I looked around for something I could hit him with. I grabbed the handle of the heavy saucepan, allowed him to push the door open, and then conked him in the face. He staggered back, and I took the door again, bolting it and slamming the shutters at the window closed. Then I turned to the wood block that held all of our knives, not liking that it had come to this.
The door started rattling. The man behind it strained at the lock and hinges.
Ian’s slingshot broke. He cried out in panic, and I yelled at him to close the shutters on his side of the cottage. We heard them start to bange their fists against the locks. There were probably four of them at our house alone.
“What are we going to do?” Ian asked me.
“Powdered sugar,” my mother said from the floor. “That will buy us a little time. We just have to convince them that it’s not worth their time to keep attacking.”
“But they won’t stop if they’re mad enough,” I reminded her, grimly tucking a knife in my belt.
My mother turned weary eyes toward me. “Can you really use those knives on a human being? Can you kill them if you have to?”
I gulped. The very thought filled me with horror, but I would do what I had to. Ian and I went for the powdered sugar. If you’ve ever handled it, you should know how easy it is to make a cloud of it that fills the air and chokes the lungs. Cinnamon is more effective, but we only had a small amount of that.
The shutters near the back door gave out first. I jerked my open bag of sugar over the window, and it exploded into the air immediately. I coughed and closed the shutters again as curses and yells came from outside. They were getting really mad now.
All the banging on the doors and such stopped. We still heard some shouts from outside, but too muffled to understand. Some screams sounded from nearby houses. Excitement began to give way to terror.
And then smoke began to come through our thatched ceiling.
“Out!” My mother screamed. “Out, now!” She and Ian went for the front door, I went for the back. Two rogues were waiting for me. I made a few successful kicks at their shins, but that was put to a swift stop when one of their fists crashed against my cheek. We were all caught and dragged to the middle of the square while our house burned behind us.
It hurt. My face from where I’d been struck, my pride from our defeat, the loss of my home-- could not compare how much it hurt to be so afraid. I always thought I could squirm out of a man’s grip and get away in such a situation-- but if I made one wrong move, my family could be killed.
Our house had been the last to give way. I felt no pride in that. The other houses were being looted while the villagers huddled together, shaking in fear. The three of us were then kneeling on the cobblestones in front of the leader of these thieves, and he was getting ready to gloat. The water from the fountain in the center of the village square sloshed, even as the fire crackled behind us.
“That’s the last of them, Olly,” the second-in-command finished reporting.
“Good. So what were you saying, little girl?” he drawled again, the tip of Dad’s sword lightly touching my throat. “A coward? A liar?”
I just needed to keep him talking, give the Faery King more time to get here-- if he was coming. My speech came out slurred with my swelling lip.
“It’s not true.” I took an unnecessary pause to gasp for air. “What you said is not true.”
“It must be hard to believe your dad is dead, I’m sure,” Olly smirked. I glanced up sharply.
“Ah, I can see the resemblance now,” his second stepped up to say.
“She’s the spittin’ image of him, ain’t she?” Olly put one foot on the low ledge of the fountain and leaned down condescendingly.
“You know, missy, even with this fancy weapon, he was a sloppy fighter.”
“What, did you kill him in his sleep?” My mother spoke up.
“I fought him man to man, so I did!” Olly the liar snapped.
“Then there’s no way you could have killed him.” She said placidly, as if catching one of her children in a fib. “But he was always bad at putting his things away, so he may have just misplaced his sword.”
Olly glared at her. “Can you believe it?” he asked his second. “This woman’s trying to make a fool out of me!”
I nudged her with my elbow. She took the hint.
“Oh, no, not at all.” My mother waved her delicate hands. “I need to know how it happened in order to believe it. It is the only way I can grieve. Tell us in greater detail.”
It almost worked. Olly blinked and opened his mouth, but then gave a start. “I don’t need to tell you! He’s dead! What was his is now mine! His sword, his village, and--” his eyes whipped back to her. “His woman.”
Did he forget to whom he was talking? Mother slapped him, Ian dove forward and bit his leg, and I pulled out the little paring knife that’d been hidden behind my belt buckle and sliced at his cheek just as he jumped back. As surprise attacks go, it was satisfying to hear him yell and jump about. But our victory was short lived. We were surrounded.
I thank heaven, our luck, and my grandmother’s magic lesson for the fact that the Faery King arrived right then.
Although the battle had seemed an eternity, the Faery King had arrived within the hour. He and his men rode into our village, bridling their black, flaming steeds at the last moment and causing the smoke from their hooves to mingle with the swirling dust around them. It was an impressive entrance. Everyone, even the ruffians, stopped to look.
“Now!” the Faery King spoke loudly, standing up in his stirrups. “Where’s that Bartlemead brat who thinks I’ve got nothing better to do than to drop everything and come running when she calls?”
I waved. “Here!”
“Of course you’re there, in the center of the trouble.” He trotted over to us. The thieves jumped out of the way, left and right. Olly stood his ground, but only because his back was to the fountain. “Let’s have that fire put out first, shall we?” The king gestured towards the fire that was consuming our home, and his assistant Cusac rode over and turned the flames to foul-smelling ash in a second. The rest of us stood and watched with bated breath.
“My lady,” the king said smoothly as he dismounted. He bowed over my mother’s hand, making her blush a little. “You’re looking lovely as ever. And Master Ian, good to see you, sir,” he gave a respectful nod. Ian flushed happily and bowed back.
“Miss Bartlemead,” he finally turned to me with a smile. “Your reinforcements have arrived.” The Faery King hadn’t changed a bit. He was still handsome, still didn’t look a day over twenty-five, and he was still full of himself.
I sighed in relief. “What took you so long?”
“Tch. I am overwhelmed by your gratitude, as always.”
“Who’re you, then?” Olly tried to seem challenging, even while holding a handkerchief to the cut on his face.
The king looked down his nose at him. “All in good time. This brat and I have business to take care of.” He turned back to me, reaching out and lightly touching my cheek. “Now what happened to your face? Have you been starting brawls again?”
“Of course not!” I grasped his hand with both of mine, squeezing his fingers in desperation. “We tried to get them to leave, but they attacked us. They won’t listen.”
“Evidently.”
“Please, Faery King, make them leave! I don’t want anyone else to get hurt!” In my relief, my limbs had begun to shake.
The king raised an eyebrow. “Not anyone? That's no easy task, Meg Bartlemead. What shall you do for me in return?”
The shaking stopped and I dropped his hand. “Is now really the time to be thinking of a reward?” I said, indignant.
“Not a reward, a trade.”
“People are going to die if you do nothing!”
“Yes, that's what happens during a war. I had to fight my way through my own, and so will humans, for as long as they keep bickering.”
“The war’s over! This isn't war. This is an attack on innocent villagers. There are no soldiers here except for them!”
“I agree that it should be stopped.” The Faery King rubbed his chin. “But you aren't asking me for a favor, are you? You should know better than that by now.”
My mouth opened, “I'll--” I began, but he waved his long fingers dismissively.
“Don't say you'll do anything. Don't be stupid.”
“I'll bake for you. Anything you want baked!”
“For how long?”
“How long do you wish? Hurry and tell me!”
“Hmm. Fifty years.” The king tossed the number out, probably thinking of lemon chiffon pie.
My eyes widened. He was so greedy! “One, how about one year?”
“Twenty,” he haggled.
“One year.”
“Oi!” Olly interrupted. “You going to ignore me all night?”
“Stay out of this!” the faery king said rudely, and turned back to me. “Five years.”
“One.” I insisted.
“So stingy! Besides, I thought you didn’t need rescuing. Didn’t you say you could take care of yourself?”
That stung. “If it was just me, I could, but I have a family to take care of!” I gestured to my mother and brother behind me.
The Faery King’s expression changed and he began shaking in amusement.
“Why are you laughing?!”
“Sorry, sorry. I didn’t know I was addressing the head of the house. Of course you have your family to consider. But must I remind you that you need this bargain more than I do?”
“One year should be plenty!” I argued.
He sniffed. “I suppose I could go as low as four years. We could even call it an apprenticeship, if you like. A good career opportunity with plenty of benefits.”
From the corner of my eye I could see the smouldering roof of my house. The thieves around us were grumbling, hands on the hilts of their swords. Their wonder at the sudden magical interruption was fading, and their haggard confidence from surviving the war was returning. They were growing impatient at the chance to fight again.
I grimaced.“Two years?”
“That wouldn’t do anyone any good. You’d leave just as soon as your skills improved! You are a master of pies, granted, but your cakes leave much to be desired.”
Mother and Ian were watching us, oddly silent.
Argh, he was right. “F-four years, then!”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh, I suppose.”
“I agree to stay in your mountain and bake for you for four years! Now stop the fight and make them go away!”
The king grinned and lifted his hand, and a long parchment of a contract unrolled in the air. “I look forward to your apprenticeship! Sign here, please.” He offered a quill.
“Oh, fine!” I scribbled my name.
“Perfect.” The Faery King drew his sword, a long, elegantly thin blade, and held it high in the air for a moment. Then he drove it into the ground. A wave rippled from the impact, like a gust of wind, and the effect was immediate. The bandits dropped their weapons.
“What are we doing?” The second-in-command said to no one. They all stumbled a bit, looking confused and asking similar questions.
“I’ve got to go home,” Olly said. “They’re waiting for me.” Dad’s sword was still in his hand.
“That sword isn’t yours,” I said sharply, as he turned to leave.
He looked at me, startled. “Oh! I’m sorry.” He sheathed it and handed it to me, his eyes showing no malice, no recognition. One spell from the Faery King, and my worst enemy was suddenly a polite stranger. Just like that, they walked out of our village.
“What did you do? How?” I asked the Faery King.
“I just made them remember that they were human,” the king shrugged. “Wish it worked on goblins.”
I suppose it was fortunate that our house stood off to the side of the village and the fire hadn’t spread to other houses. Small fortune. The house was half destroyed and the roof was ready to collapse. The other villagers and my family were running in and out now, trying to save a few belongings before it caved in.
My body seemed frozen. I could only stand and watch.
“Oh, bother.” I heard the Faery King mutter behind me, and turned to see him staring mournfully at the tip of his sword. “That spell always makes it so dull.”
I laughed, a painful, hopeless laugh and sat down on the cobblestones, cradling my dad’s sword and covering my face as the tears ran down my cheeks.
Part III
The Faery King stayed until my grandparents arrived later that night. I thought he would leave right away, and force me to come immediately, but instead he dismissed his men and helped Ian fix his broken slingshot. He had my brother recount the battle while he rethreaded the strings. I hadn’t taken him for a good listener, but he was properly impressed at all of the right spots in Ian’s story. Most of the children living in his mountain were happy there, as I was shocked to discover a year before, but it hadn’t occurred to me that he ever gave them a thought or treated them nicely.
When Grandma arrived, seeing the damage, and our faces, she burst into tears instantly and gave all three of us a hug, She didn’t cry often. The knot in the pit of my stomach twisted. Something else was wrong.
They told us the truth about dad. He was dead. It was him they had heard about and had gone to help if they could. They were too late. But I was right about one thing-- Olly had been lying. Dad died saving his fellow soldiers-- and countless civilians from a sudden swarm of goblins. He saved them. But he died. Olly was just a little rat who had robbed a corpse. It didn’t matter that this made more sense, or that it honored my dad’s memory. It was ten times worse to hear it from my grandparents, because I knew they wouldn’t lie.
I didn’t want it to be true.
“Why didn’t you bring him back?” my mother asked, her voice hoarse. “Why didn’t you have him buried here?”
My grandparents exchanged glances. My grandad answered. “It wasn’t a pretty sight, Maeve. There-- there wasn’t much left to bury.”
Mother covered her face in her hands.
“It was really the last battle of the war,” Grandad went on. “Neither side was up for fighting when it was done. It’s one they’ll long remember. They’ve started calling it ‘the Baker’s Battle.’”
It wasn’t something we were likely to forget either. When I told them about my apprenticeship, they nodded solemnly.
“I think that’s for the best,” Grandad said. “You couldn’t ask for a finer place to apprentice for.” Since the house was half burned down, it was decided that none of us would stay in it anymore.
“Why don’t we go to Italy?” Grandma suggested, with a forced vigor. “My parents would love a visit. What do you think, Maeve?”
My mother looked up with ashen eyes. “Italy. Why not?”
“Would you like that, Ian?” Grandma said, bending down. “We’ll go to the sea and travel on a boat!”
“I do like boats,” Ian said. He didn’t really remember our dad. Ian had only been three years old when the war had started-- years and years ago-- was it only four years? It seemed longer. It was hard to remember a time when we weren’t at war.
So it was decided. We packed up whatever we could salvage from the house, and the villagers were very kind in feeding and housing us that night. The Faery King lingered uncertainly at the edge of our group.
“Why don’t you stay the night and see us off tomorrow?” Grandad asked him.
The king smiled, unusually shy. “If I’m not a bother.”
“You’re the hero of the evening, my good king.” Grandad put an arm about his shoulders, and his other arm around me. “Well, you and Meg both!”
“And me!” Ian added, squeezing under the same arm as me. “I knocked two of ‘em out with my sling!”
“Did ya? You do me proud.” Grandad patted his head, and mine.
The next morning, we all rode to the seashore on horses. The journey seemed fast, but it lasted most of the morning. Before I knew it, my family was hugging me tightly and then waving from the boat until I could no longer see them. Ian had loved the boat. He would laugh every time a large wave smacked against the side. Grandad said again that he was proud of me. And then they were gone.
“Well!” the Faery King said loudly as we rode back. “This is a bit different from last time. Now Thomas has practically foisted his grandchild on me! How the world has changed!”
This failed to get a reaction from me. I didn’t so much as glance up. He tried again.
“If you're going to work in my kitchens again, you'll have to learn how to make something other than pie and stew, you know. Not that I mind eating them, but it will get boring fast. There are so many other dishes in the world! You'll have to branch out!”
Silence prevailed, apart from the clopping sound of horse hooves. The king ran a hand through his shiny black hair and sighed.
“Oh, come on! Cheer up. I know things must be difficult for you, but there's a bright future ahead... you know...” he trailed off, apparently not knowing what to say.
“You don't understand,” I said finally.
“What don't I understand? A lot happened, but it was simple enough--”
“You don't understand! That man was lying-- Grandad was wrong-- they don't know what they're talking about!” My fist, still small, hit the pommel of my saddle.
“I don't pretend to know what you're feeling, but I don't think your grandparents could have been mistaken--”
"You don't understand!” I repeated. “This is my dad we're talking about! An ogre threw a tree at his head once and he was fine!”
He tilted his head to the side, as if to acknowledge my point. “It was a whole army, you know. Even I wouldn't have survived that. I doubt I would have lasted as long he did, either.” He glanced back at me. “It was a hero's death, too. He saved a lot of people.”
"He can't be dead!” I said stubbornly.
The Faery King lost patience and turned around in his saddle. “Is it my job to convince you?! What do you want me to do, show you his body? He's already buried, you know! You heard your grandfather-- he said they put a headstone there and everything! You want to dig him up?”
“Stop it!” I covered my ears, choking back a sob.
He sighed. “I’m sorry. You've been up all night and fighting bandits. Since you’re on an ordinary horse, we have a long trip ahead of us. We'll get back to the mountain by sundown, I should think. Try to sleep for now.”
As if I could. I wiped my nose with the back of my hand. “If I sleep on a horse, I'll fall.”
"Just take this.” A heavy lump of cloth hit my head and fell onto the saddle. My initial rage at having something thrown at me dissolved into confusion when I saw that it was his cloak, something I’d never seen him ride without.
“Why are you giving this to me?”
“I’m not giving it to you! I’m just letting you borrow it. It was enchanted to keep me from falling off my horse when fighting or sleeping.”
“You can have it back; I don’t need it,” I said ungratefully, and threw it back to him. He was being unusually kind, and I didn't like it. Who was he trying to charm?
“Shut up and go to sleep, all right?” the king snapped. Obviously being charming was not his objective. “I know you've had a rough two days, but I don't want to hear about what you're going through. They're your feelings, so it's up to you to sort them out, not me. Cheering you up is not in our contract.”
Neither was being kind, apparently. Glumly, I adjusted my position on the saddle, and we rode on in silence again.
“Look,” the Faery King said, thinking better of his outburst. “You lost your dad, and your home, and just said goodbye to your family. I can't imagine how you're feeling. I don't want to. It seems like a black nightmare from the start, and I don't want any part of it. I can’t think of anything to say that will help you. So... let me do this for you instead. Just rest for now.” He held out his cloak, looking at the road ahead of us.
I was tired. Although it was a warm day for April, I took his cloak and wrapped it around myself tightly. I didn’t think it would help, but it was nice to have the hood tugged down so nobody could see me. The Faery King’s cloak steadily kept me on the saddle as slumber tugged my eyelids closed.
“Are you done sleeping like a good-for-nothing?” My shoulder was shaken. “It’s lunchtime.”
I awoke with a jolt; the sun was bright, and for a moment, everything was tinted blue. I squinted at our surroundings and saw that we were at an inn on the edge of an unfamiliar town square. With my slow, ordinary horse, we were taking a different and more direct route back to the mountain. There were market stalls, a few tents, and people bustling around, selling their early crops and livestock.
“That’s hardly fair,” I answered back as he dismounted and led our horses by the reins. “You’re the one who told me to sleep.”
“Yes, well, I had thought it was a good idea until you started snoring.”
“Oh.” I reddened. “Mother says that I usually stop if someone pokes my shoulder.”
“My dear child, I assure you that no amount of poking, pleading, or scolding had any effect whatsoever. Do you feel any better?”
I felt groggy. “A little.” The pain was still there, but it was as if sleep had put a thick, warm blanket over it and tucked it into a corner. “What are we going to eat?”
The Faery King, who somehow blended right into the crowd-- even with the silver crown on his head, put a hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun. “By the looks of things, potatoes. I’ll see if I can get us some cold ham, though.”
He handed me the reins and walked a few paces over to one of the stalls. I looked around for a while, and then noticed a young man staring at me, mouth open.
I stared back, mouth closed. After a long minute, he approached me.
“Madam,” he said, and I looked over my shoulder for any nearby ‘madams.’ No, he was talking to me. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Please do me the honor of becoming my bride!”
I blinked and blinked. He was still there. I turned my head to see the Faery King stop on his way back from the market stall, food in his hands. He looked as dumbfounded as I felt. I looked back at the young man, who was now holding up a yellow daffodil and smiling earnestly.
Earlier that day, I’d wondered how long it would be before I’d really-- you know, really laugh again. Life is full of surprises. I covered my mouth, but the chuckles just spilled right out and turned into gales of laughter. “You can’t be serious,” I said, wiping my eyes.
“No, I really am.” The young man insisted. “It’s not often that such a lovely woman rides through here. I am richer than I look, too. Will you at least stay for a few days?”
“Young man,” the Faery King firmly pulled him back by his collar. “Are you drunk, or just crazy?”
“Neither! ‘Tis love at first sight!” The crazy man protested. “Unless--” He looked at the king suspiciously. “You’ve already claimed her hand?”
The king threw up his hands, dropping the food. “You do realize she’s a child, right? And a little brat to boot?”
Although I didn’t like being called a “brat,” he was right. I had only grown two inches or so in height in the last year. Perhaps my arms weren’t quite so thin now that food was no longer scarce, but at eleven years old, I was still a skinny, gangly child.
The young man looked confused. He stared at me again, squinted, shook his head twice, and smacked his temple with his palm.
“Ohhhhhhh,” he said, blushing. “I am sorry. I am so sorry; please forgive me. My foresight was still in effect.”
Our confusion only tripled at that, as you can imagine.
Part IV
“I am a fortuneteller by trade,” the young man explained from the other side of the table. “Since I was little, I’ve had the ability to look at someone and see what they will look like in the future. Sometimes I’ll see more deeply into their situations, but mostly I have to guess at their fortunes from the glimpse I get. When I have been telling fortunes all morning, the gift is hard to ignore, and I get confused.” He rubbed his neck ruefully. “This is the worst mistake yet, I’m sorry to say. I hope I didn’t frighten you.”
“Not at all, I needed the laugh,” I said, smiling. “I think the king was more frightened than I was. What does he look like in the future?”
“Oh, very much the same. Maybe a few more worry lines.”
“Why are we eating lunch with this man? I still think he’s crazy.” The king grumbled, tearing his piece of bread in half.
“He did offer to pay for it as an apology,” I pointed out. “A sign of an honorable man. But sir, I’m afraid I must reject your proposal.”
“I understand.” The corners of the young man’s mouth twitched.
“And thus concludes the first romantic chapter in our Bartlemead-brat’s life,” the Faery King said with his mouth full.
“Don’t be rude.” I elbowed him. “I intend to be very romantic in the future.” Turning back to the fortuneteller I added archly, “Come and see me in five years or so.”
The young man laughed. “The years will be long, fair lady.”
The king almost spit his food out. “You’re not serious? This grubby tomboy?”
“Bah, you can only see with your present eyes,” the fortuneteller said as he was getting up to go. “In the future, she’s a total beauty.” He waved a cheerful goodbye.
We left the town soon after, riding in silence for a while. I broke it by saying, “A total beauty, huh?”
The king shook his head. “I can only imagine a girly version of Thomas.”
It made me giggle. “The old grandfather, or the young rascal?”
His face fell. “I keep forgetting that he’s old now.”
“Why don’t you look old?” I asked. “I thought faeries didn’t age, but Grandma looks a little older, while you don’t, not by a day.”
“It’s because I’ve lived in the faery world.”
“People don’t get old there? Is time different? Will I stay a child if I live there?”
“No, no, you’ll grow up. The borders of the faery world act as a sort of barrier for the magic done there, and that keeps anyone living there looking and feeling rather youthful.” At the confused expression on my face, he looked around for a better way to explain. “So you see this stream here?” The king pointed to a ditch on the side of the road and dismounted. “If I dropped a rock in and stirred up the mud--” he did as he said. “The dirt swirls around, but will eventually settle. The water, like the borders of the faery world, contains it. However, if I kick up dust on the road,” he demonstrated, “it will dissipate and spread through the air, going wherever it will. The magic doesn’t linger as much outside of the faery world. That’s why your grandmother isn’t as aged as Thomas, but has aged more than I. Do you understand?”
I nodded slowly. “So, magic is like dust?”
“Not really, but you get the idea. If I were to spend my time outside of the faery world and hardly use magic at all, I would eventually get old and die, same as any human. Many faeries like to do that when they retire, like my parents have. They got bored, and wanted to see more of the world.”
“Are they still alive?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. Alive, active, and interfering. Pray that you never have to meet them.” He mounted his horse again.
“You should treasure them,” I said before I could stop myself.
The Faery King’s black eyes met mine, distant as ever, but not as cold as they usually were. “I suppose,” he said, looking away.
“Anyway, don’t worry about living in the faery world. Flann won’t try to sabotage your pies anymore, and there are still plenty of human children to play with. You also get days off to visit your family, too-- more than other apprenticeships would give you. Honestly, I don’t know why you were so against signing the contract last time, foolish girl.” He began lecturing me on how grand of a bargain I had made and how lucky I’d be to work in his kitchens. I rolled my eyes, but the lecture was better than my thoughts alone.
Life in the faery world consisted of the kitchens-- masterfully spacious and well stocked with the finest ingredients from all over the world-- and a small, cold room with a narrow bed. It was a bit better than the prison cell that I’d stayed in last time. The only lock was on the inside, but the emptiness of the small space was oppressing.
The head baker, Flann, was indeed much nicer than last time. His respect for me had gone up considerably since he learned that my grandmother was a former princess of the Italian faeries. And I suppose we had formed an alliance from the last time that we’d worked together to prevent my beheading... which he’d put me in danger of... somewhat unknowingly. No, he welcomed me this time, and told the other bakers and cooks to show me around.
The first few weeks were the hardest. I was used to working all day, but in a variety of tasks, like sitting and peeling potatoes, or chopping wood, or being taught to read or work magic by Grandma. Standing all day in the same room was quite different. My feet ached. I slept poorly, not used to being the only person in a stone room. I didn’t see the Faery King after that. We didn’t eat in the Great Hall, but in a common dining room next to the kitchens. He would send his compliments after eating a dish I had made, which Flann would quote word for word. “Not too bad,” was usually the case, though. It was not very encouraging. There were other human children there, but most of them were sleeping by the time I was done with work, so it was difficult to talk much.
No one was unkind to me, but I had no friends in my new life. I began to get better at the simpler tasks they gave me, and in turn was taught to make new dishes and desserts. This made me happier, but not as happy as when I finally, after three months, got to leave and visit my family for a week. I even met my great-grandparents briefly, while at the Italian court, but it was clear that Ian was their sole favorite. He’s everyone’s favorite, you know. My mother had gotten tanned and somehow more beautiful from the warm, sunny climate. Grandad said suitors had begun to write poems and fight duels over her. She only rolled her eyes. Grandma demanded that I demonstrate what I’d learned so far, and it was satisfying beyond anything to see their faces light up as they tasted what I’d made. The week was over too quickly.
Most memorable of all my days and nights under the Faery King’s mountain, was the night after I’d returned from Italy. Work was over, everyone had gone to bed. I was sitting on the cold stone kitchen floor, crying my eyes out, when the door opened. At the sound of it, I silenced my sobs and hastily rubbed my eyes dry. It was embarrassing to behave that way in front of someone else. I tried to pretend I was normal, though it was obvious someone had heard me, and normal bakers don’t sit on dirty kitchen floors.
“Has Flann been forcing you to cut a lot of onions?” the Faery King asked, leaning a hand on the counter nearby. I jumped at the sound of his voice, but didn’t look up.
“No, not at all. Do you need something, your majesty?”
“No, Miss Bartlemead. I came because a certain worried chef told me that you've been more unhappy than the average child. Are you being mistreated?”
“No.” I wiped my nose. “Is my work unsatisfactory?”
“Not at all, but... Are you ill?”
“No.”
“...Is it puberty?”
“NO!” Of all the--! He was just trying to get a rise out of me! I glared and turned away grumpily while he laughed. But then he crouched down beside me.
“Meg,” he said, and it was the most gentle I'd ever heard him speak my name. The first time he’d ever called me by my first name. “Turn your head this way and tell me what's wrong. Is it your dad?”
At the tone of sympathy in his voice—however small it may have been-- I felt even more tears well up in my eyes and the lump in my throat get bigger. Taking deep breaths, I forced it all back and tried to speak steadily. “I miss my family.”
“You miss your family? I thought you’d be happier after just seeing them.” He sounded baffled.
“I miss them so much!” All my pent-up feelings came out at once and I wailed like the child that I was, pushing my head into his shoulder. The poor king didn't know what to do. He had probably never comforted a crying person in all his life, let alone while being forced to sit on a cold kitchen floor. Flustered, he felt around in his pocket and whisked out a large handkerchief. After giving it to me, he patted my head awkwardly.
“I know I just saw them,” I tried to explain in between pathetic convulsions while he listened and nodded. “But I feel so empty now. No one is mean to me, but... I try to talk, but it doesn’t seem to reach them. It’s like I’m surrounded by invisible walls-- by silence while everyone else talks, and I don’t know how to break out of them.” Not rejected, but separate.
The Faery King sat beside me and stretched out his long legs across the kitchen floor. “It’s hard to be with people all the time. Especially those you’re not comfortable with. I understand that.”
“You do?”
“Well, I haven’t been uprooted and such, but with me-- my walls... I built them myself. I mean, being a king is being in isolation. Even though people come to you for help, even when you’re surrounded by supporters, everyone looks up to you. They expect you to behave a certain way. I can’t just be myself because I have to live up to their expectations.”
“Is that why you lie all the time?”
“What? I don’t lie!”
“You do. You say what you don’t mean instead of being honest. You pretend to be annoyed so no one knows that you’re actually excited, and act like you’re bored all the time.”
“I am bored all the time. What are you talking about?” He gave me a stern look.
I chuckled, and coughed a little, clearing my throat. “Your people already like you, but I think they’d like you even more if they knew you better.”
The Faery King turned a bit pink. “... You too,” he said, a little grudgingly.
“What?”
“The other bakers and children will like you much more once they know you better. You don’t have to be afraid that they won’t. There is nothing about you for them to dislike.”
I stared at the cupboards while my vision blurred with tears. If I had been a plant dying of thirst, those words would have been the first few drops of rain that saved my life.
“Unless, of course, they have to listen to you snore,” the Faery King added.
“--And then, Sarah and I put the fake spider on top of the icebox, and Ferghus screamed like a girl, and then Flann came in, yelling, ‘What’s going on here?’ and screamed too! And we laughed so hard and had to run away before they caught us!” I paused for breath, laughing at my own story some weeks later.
“You seem to have been causing an awful lot of trouble,” the king commented as he paused for breath himself. The mountain we were climbing was rather steep. “Is Sarah the child that was about to be eaten by a troll when we found her?”
“Yes, she started as our morning dishwasher last month,” I said. “I met her when I delivered the cookies like you told me I should. It was a good idea.”
He smirked. “Well, as a king, I have to be good at these things. How far did you say we have to go?”
“All the way to the top!” My face felt like it was splitting from smiling too much-- in a good way. I had managed to drag the Faery King up a nearby mountain, and it was turning out to be so much fun.
“Your business had better be quick! I’ve got a kingdom to run, you know. I don’t have time to be gallivanting up and down mountains just because you keep getting involved with--” The king continued his lecture, but from the look on his face, he was thinking, I’ve missed this. Oh, how I’ve missed this. The clean air, the glorious white clouds that hung around us against the blue sky, and the smile of a companion who couldn’t care less about the crown on his head.
I hopped lightly from one rock to another, feeling-- and probably looking-- very much like a mountain goat. We were almost there. I ran a little ahead just to be sure everything was set up right.
“I still don’t understand why I had to come with you. After all, couldn’t you have gotten--” The Faery King stopped and stared when he entered the sunny clearing at the top. A small gathering of faeries were waiting: Sarah, Cusac, Flann, Jonathan, Rupert, Ferghus, and Jean, all of them sitting in a circle on a plaid tablecloth on the grass, surrounding a magnificent (if a little crooked) cake.
“What--” the Faery King looked at me suspiciously. “What is going on?”
“Happy Birthday!” I yelled, stretching my arms out toward the cake. The group of friends and faeries echoed me and cheered. “I know it’s really next week, but this is my early gift to you. It was Sarah’s idea to make it a surprise, but I made the cake myself! Flann taught me how, and we decided to do a spice cake with a peach filling, and-- hey! I told you not to start eating without us!” I ran over to scold my friends.
The king came a few, slow steps closer to the picnic, but hung back, his brows knit together. So I went back and asked him what was wrong, afraid that he didn’t like it.
“It looks fun,” the king said. “But why did you do this? What do you want?”
I was confused. “I did this to thank you... I don’t want anything in return.”
“But-- doing something so nice-- you’re making me want to do something for you in return! That’s the same thing as manipulating me, you know!” He was in a mild panic.
“It is not!” I argued, miffed. “And if it comes to making people feel grateful, you started it by going out of your way to cheer me up! So it’s really your fault if you feel burdened by gratitude. I never saw the like! None of this would have been possible without you, you know! Why don’t you accept my gift and be happy?!”
The Faery King blinked, looking like he needed time to process this new idea of friendship and whatnot. He’d had friends before! I didn’t understand why he had such a hard time letting someone do something nice for him-- especially since he’d had no problem accepting a small peach pie from a skinny little girl just a year or two ago. It wasn’t really fair for me to scold him at his own party, but I felt like my character had been insulted. All my efforts would be gone to waste if he didn’t understand.
“But...” he began timidly. “Why--”
“Oh, just eat some cake and be happy, your majesty!” I ordered, pointing and imitating my grandmother. I stomped away and sat down at the picnic in a huff. After a moment, he joined us, sitting down a bit awkwardly at first, but warming up to the atmosphere soon enough. After lunch, I watched carefully as he tried the spice cake, cutting a piece from the lowest layer.
“How is it?” I tried not to sound too eager. The look on his face was so satisfying.
“Mm, not too bad,” he said, smiling. “Thank you, Miss Bartlemead.”
I smiled back. “You’re welcome, Faery King.”
And at the end of the day, there was not a crumb left to take home.
THE END OF PART THREE
We saw them coming long before they reached our village square. What probably used to be a squad of loyal soldiers was now a raggedy group of ruffians coming our way. We didn’t know whose side they’d been on. We didn’t care.
“Hand me your slingshot, Ian,” my mother said, holding out her hand. “Meg, the fry oil.” I handed her the small, dripping bag of dark, brown oil. It stank of chicken and was thick with flour. The three of us were crouching under the windowsill, and from what we could see, there were about fifteen of them approaching, dragging their feet lazily in the grass.
The village of Thomas Bartlemead wasn’t usually this inhospitable. The war that had started nearly four years ago had made a difference-- a very large difference in how we treated groups of armed men. They trampled our fields the year before, leaving us to starve for the winter. Since then, there have been some petty raids on a few houses and barns. As they got closer to the round base of the worn out brick fountain in the square we could see that these were the same men as before, with the same faded uniforms. If only they had waited until my father, Tom Bartlemead the younger had gotten back from the war. He would’ve taught them a more permanent lesson. But they hadn’t waited. And we couldn’t wait for him ourselves, not any longer.
Mother fired the shot of disgusting oil right at the feet of their leader. It splattered on his shoes. “Go back!” she shouted.“Go back now, while you still can!”
“We ain’t here to fight, missy,” their leader drawled. He had some kind of handkerchief wound around his head, whether for a wound or not it was hard to tell. “Haven’t you heard? The war’s over!”
“Then go home!” Mother’s lips were set into a thin, grim line. Her hands looked like they were starting to shake. The only time she yelled was usually at Ian and I when we misbehaved, not at men who could kill us all if they got close.
If only Grandad had been there. Since his leg had fully healed and Grandma had returned, he’d once again lived up to his legend of fighting injustice and causing trouble around the countryside. Old as he was, gray as he was, he could have whipped them all single-handedly. Sent them home crying. Grandma would’ve had no trouble getting them to leave either. No, she’d have them turn tail and run with only one of her lectures. But she and Grandad had gone to help a friend. They said they’d be back as soon as they could, but they were still days away.
“Surely you can spare some food for our journey, madam,” another rogue said smoothly.
My mother laughed, loud and bitter. “We’d have plenty to spare if you hadn’t trampled our fields.”
“There must be some misunderstanding. We’re not enemies anymore,” he continued.
There was no misunderstanding. We knew their faces. These were the same men that trampled our fields before. They’d been gone for a while, when the fighting had gotten more intense on the front lines, but now that the war was over, the treaty signed, they were back again. Bullies.
Old man Hodge spoke up from a few houses away. “Then are you here to plant more crops? You carry swords, not plows. You bring the war to our doorstep out of spite! Be off with you!”
“Enough of this,” their leader said. “We’re here to take what we can get. If you don’t want your families to get hurt, you’ll let us be.”
“This is the village of Thomas Bartlemead,” my mother said coldly. “Not just the elder, but his son as well. Do you really think that you’ll escape alive when he finds you?” I never thought she could sound so imperious.
“I ain’t afraid of an old man,” the leader puffed out his chest. “As for the younger, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you can’t count on him anymore. He’s dead.”
The slingshot slid out of my mother’s hand and dropped to the floor with a soft thud. Ian and I looked at each other behind her back, wide-eyed.
“I killed him myself, in fact,” the leader continued. “He fought well, you know, but he really wasn’t all they said he was.”
His men snickered. He might have been commenting on a disappointing meal. The slingshot was in my hands before I thought twice, and a small sack of flour the size of my fist was flying through the air and hitting him squarely in the face before anyone could stop me.
He staggered. He coughed. He rubbed his eyes. His head and shoulders were covered in flour. All of those slingshot contests with my brother (which had been called a waste of time) had paid off after all.
“Who did that?!” the leader demanded.
“You’re lying!” I yelled back. “He would swat you like a fly!”
“I have proof, you little whelp!” He drew his sword and held it up.
It wasn’t his. It couldn’t be. Not Dad’s.
Dad was very proud of his sword. Although he was an excellent baker, his confidence with the finer, artsy side of his trade was very low. While every loaf of his bread was delicious, he had to have my mother shape it before he’d allow it to be baked. He stayed away from any of the final touches. He was more comfortable with the ‘simple labor’, as he put it. In his frustrated moments, he’d grab his ax and say that destroying things was all he was good at, so he’d go get more firewood and leave the important things to the ladies.
His sword was different. For the first time, he really made something, from start to finish, and it was beautiful. With training from both the local blacksmith and Grandma (expert in all things magical), he made a sturdy broadsword with a garnet inlaid in the hilt. It was enchanted to be light as a feather, but to always stay sharp. It wasn’t perfect, by any means. The very next day, he dropped it on a rock and dented the goldwork on the handle. Rather than hang his head, Dad just laughed and said that now it had more character.
The ruffian with the now-floury handkerchief around his head was holding it. He was actually smirking. “You may as well surrender now. We’ll take what we want, and you can’t stop us. Be nice and we’ll spare your lives.”
There was silence. After seeing his sword, my mother was sitting on the floor, staring at the wall in shock. Ian was patting her shoulder, trying to comfort her. I turned a dark eye toward the white-faced idiot outside.
“That’s not proof, you numskull!” I roared. “You probably just found it lying around somewhere! You may be a sneaky coward and a bully, but you’re no match for Tom Bartlemead!” His lie was so pathetic that I felt like a match for him, even though I was only eleven at the time.
The floury ruffian stared. “Why you--!” They weren’t going to stand for that kind of talk, naturally, and began to rush forward toward our houses.
“Now, Ian!” I handed him the slingshot, and then the ammunition. Earlier, when we saw them come from the road, we’d cut up old sacks, put the flour and old frying oil in them, and bound them loosely with string, so they’d burst once they hit their target. I give Ian the credit for the idea, since it all started with a prank of his.
In our contests, I had always been a little more accurate with my shots, but Ian was faster. Now he slung out the bags of flour in rapid succession, delaying our enemies, but not stopping them. Next, I handed him rocks that we’d gathered from our garden. We knocked out two of them, but there were still thirteen more.
“I told you we should have boiled the oil!” Ian said reproachfully as I scrambled for more things to fire at them.
“We would have burned ourselves first, I told you,” I retorted.
The other villagers were doing what they could as well, but they were like us, the elderly, women, and children. I knew we weren’t going to last long.
“Mother, it’s going to be all right. You hear me? I’ll call for help. It’s going to be fine. Ian, use the cinnamon and pepper next.”
While those two spices had them sneezing and gasping for breath, I read the words of the spell Grandma had given me before they left. Mother didn’t like us to do magic, especially not inside the house, but this was an emergency. It was a simple spell: you think of a person, and call for their help in your heart. I called for my grandparents, but I knew they were still far away.
I hated to admit it. I still hate to admit it, but there are some things that I cannot do alone. There was only one other person nearby that I knew could help save our village. He was somewhat unreliable, with a history of holding petty grudges and kidnapping children, but...
I called for the Faery King.
Part II
“Meg! They’re coming around the side of the house!” Ian shouted. I cursed (my mother had been in shock for two minutes and already I was breaking rules), and flung myself towards the back door. Before I could shut it, one greasy-bearded man appeared around the corner and rushed to stop me. I had the momentum on my side, but he was slowly pushing it open again. With my back to the door, and my heels dug in, I looked around for something I could hit him with. I grabbed the handle of the heavy saucepan, allowed him to push the door open, and then conked him in the face. He staggered back, and I took the door again, bolting it and slamming the shutters at the window closed. Then I turned to the wood block that held all of our knives, not liking that it had come to this.
The door started rattling. The man behind it strained at the lock and hinges.
Ian’s slingshot broke. He cried out in panic, and I yelled at him to close the shutters on his side of the cottage. We heard them start to bange their fists against the locks. There were probably four of them at our house alone.
“What are we going to do?” Ian asked me.
“Powdered sugar,” my mother said from the floor. “That will buy us a little time. We just have to convince them that it’s not worth their time to keep attacking.”
“But they won’t stop if they’re mad enough,” I reminded her, grimly tucking a knife in my belt.
My mother turned weary eyes toward me. “Can you really use those knives on a human being? Can you kill them if you have to?”
I gulped. The very thought filled me with horror, but I would do what I had to. Ian and I went for the powdered sugar. If you’ve ever handled it, you should know how easy it is to make a cloud of it that fills the air and chokes the lungs. Cinnamon is more effective, but we only had a small amount of that.
The shutters near the back door gave out first. I jerked my open bag of sugar over the window, and it exploded into the air immediately. I coughed and closed the shutters again as curses and yells came from outside. They were getting really mad now.
All the banging on the doors and such stopped. We still heard some shouts from outside, but too muffled to understand. Some screams sounded from nearby houses. Excitement began to give way to terror.
And then smoke began to come through our thatched ceiling.
“Out!” My mother screamed. “Out, now!” She and Ian went for the front door, I went for the back. Two rogues were waiting for me. I made a few successful kicks at their shins, but that was put to a swift stop when one of their fists crashed against my cheek. We were all caught and dragged to the middle of the square while our house burned behind us.
It hurt. My face from where I’d been struck, my pride from our defeat, the loss of my home-- could not compare how much it hurt to be so afraid. I always thought I could squirm out of a man’s grip and get away in such a situation-- but if I made one wrong move, my family could be killed.
Our house had been the last to give way. I felt no pride in that. The other houses were being looted while the villagers huddled together, shaking in fear. The three of us were then kneeling on the cobblestones in front of the leader of these thieves, and he was getting ready to gloat. The water from the fountain in the center of the village square sloshed, even as the fire crackled behind us.
“That’s the last of them, Olly,” the second-in-command finished reporting.
“Good. So what were you saying, little girl?” he drawled again, the tip of Dad’s sword lightly touching my throat. “A coward? A liar?”
I just needed to keep him talking, give the Faery King more time to get here-- if he was coming. My speech came out slurred with my swelling lip.
“It’s not true.” I took an unnecessary pause to gasp for air. “What you said is not true.”
“It must be hard to believe your dad is dead, I’m sure,” Olly smirked. I glanced up sharply.
“Ah, I can see the resemblance now,” his second stepped up to say.
“She’s the spittin’ image of him, ain’t she?” Olly put one foot on the low ledge of the fountain and leaned down condescendingly.
“You know, missy, even with this fancy weapon, he was a sloppy fighter.”
“What, did you kill him in his sleep?” My mother spoke up.
“I fought him man to man, so I did!” Olly the liar snapped.
“Then there’s no way you could have killed him.” She said placidly, as if catching one of her children in a fib. “But he was always bad at putting his things away, so he may have just misplaced his sword.”
Olly glared at her. “Can you believe it?” he asked his second. “This woman’s trying to make a fool out of me!”
I nudged her with my elbow. She took the hint.
“Oh, no, not at all.” My mother waved her delicate hands. “I need to know how it happened in order to believe it. It is the only way I can grieve. Tell us in greater detail.”
It almost worked. Olly blinked and opened his mouth, but then gave a start. “I don’t need to tell you! He’s dead! What was his is now mine! His sword, his village, and--” his eyes whipped back to her. “His woman.”
Did he forget to whom he was talking? Mother slapped him, Ian dove forward and bit his leg, and I pulled out the little paring knife that’d been hidden behind my belt buckle and sliced at his cheek just as he jumped back. As surprise attacks go, it was satisfying to hear him yell and jump about. But our victory was short lived. We were surrounded.
I thank heaven, our luck, and my grandmother’s magic lesson for the fact that the Faery King arrived right then.
Although the battle had seemed an eternity, the Faery King had arrived within the hour. He and his men rode into our village, bridling their black, flaming steeds at the last moment and causing the smoke from their hooves to mingle with the swirling dust around them. It was an impressive entrance. Everyone, even the ruffians, stopped to look.
“Now!” the Faery King spoke loudly, standing up in his stirrups. “Where’s that Bartlemead brat who thinks I’ve got nothing better to do than to drop everything and come running when she calls?”
I waved. “Here!”
“Of course you’re there, in the center of the trouble.” He trotted over to us. The thieves jumped out of the way, left and right. Olly stood his ground, but only because his back was to the fountain. “Let’s have that fire put out first, shall we?” The king gestured towards the fire that was consuming our home, and his assistant Cusac rode over and turned the flames to foul-smelling ash in a second. The rest of us stood and watched with bated breath.
“My lady,” the king said smoothly as he dismounted. He bowed over my mother’s hand, making her blush a little. “You’re looking lovely as ever. And Master Ian, good to see you, sir,” he gave a respectful nod. Ian flushed happily and bowed back.
“Miss Bartlemead,” he finally turned to me with a smile. “Your reinforcements have arrived.” The Faery King hadn’t changed a bit. He was still handsome, still didn’t look a day over twenty-five, and he was still full of himself.
I sighed in relief. “What took you so long?”
“Tch. I am overwhelmed by your gratitude, as always.”
“Who’re you, then?” Olly tried to seem challenging, even while holding a handkerchief to the cut on his face.
The king looked down his nose at him. “All in good time. This brat and I have business to take care of.” He turned back to me, reaching out and lightly touching my cheek. “Now what happened to your face? Have you been starting brawls again?”
“Of course not!” I grasped his hand with both of mine, squeezing his fingers in desperation. “We tried to get them to leave, but they attacked us. They won’t listen.”
“Evidently.”
“Please, Faery King, make them leave! I don’t want anyone else to get hurt!” In my relief, my limbs had begun to shake.
The king raised an eyebrow. “Not anyone? That's no easy task, Meg Bartlemead. What shall you do for me in return?”
The shaking stopped and I dropped his hand. “Is now really the time to be thinking of a reward?” I said, indignant.
“Not a reward, a trade.”
“People are going to die if you do nothing!”
“Yes, that's what happens during a war. I had to fight my way through my own, and so will humans, for as long as they keep bickering.”
“The war’s over! This isn't war. This is an attack on innocent villagers. There are no soldiers here except for them!”
“I agree that it should be stopped.” The Faery King rubbed his chin. “But you aren't asking me for a favor, are you? You should know better than that by now.”
My mouth opened, “I'll--” I began, but he waved his long fingers dismissively.
“Don't say you'll do anything. Don't be stupid.”
“I'll bake for you. Anything you want baked!”
“For how long?”
“How long do you wish? Hurry and tell me!”
“Hmm. Fifty years.” The king tossed the number out, probably thinking of lemon chiffon pie.
My eyes widened. He was so greedy! “One, how about one year?”
“Twenty,” he haggled.
“One year.”
“Oi!” Olly interrupted. “You going to ignore me all night?”
“Stay out of this!” the faery king said rudely, and turned back to me. “Five years.”
“One.” I insisted.
“So stingy! Besides, I thought you didn’t need rescuing. Didn’t you say you could take care of yourself?”
That stung. “If it was just me, I could, but I have a family to take care of!” I gestured to my mother and brother behind me.
The Faery King’s expression changed and he began shaking in amusement.
“Why are you laughing?!”
“Sorry, sorry. I didn’t know I was addressing the head of the house. Of course you have your family to consider. But must I remind you that you need this bargain more than I do?”
“One year should be plenty!” I argued.
He sniffed. “I suppose I could go as low as four years. We could even call it an apprenticeship, if you like. A good career opportunity with plenty of benefits.”
From the corner of my eye I could see the smouldering roof of my house. The thieves around us were grumbling, hands on the hilts of their swords. Their wonder at the sudden magical interruption was fading, and their haggard confidence from surviving the war was returning. They were growing impatient at the chance to fight again.
I grimaced.“Two years?”
“That wouldn’t do anyone any good. You’d leave just as soon as your skills improved! You are a master of pies, granted, but your cakes leave much to be desired.”
Mother and Ian were watching us, oddly silent.
Argh, he was right. “F-four years, then!”
He rolled his eyes. “Oh, I suppose.”
“I agree to stay in your mountain and bake for you for four years! Now stop the fight and make them go away!”
The king grinned and lifted his hand, and a long parchment of a contract unrolled in the air. “I look forward to your apprenticeship! Sign here, please.” He offered a quill.
“Oh, fine!” I scribbled my name.
“Perfect.” The Faery King drew his sword, a long, elegantly thin blade, and held it high in the air for a moment. Then he drove it into the ground. A wave rippled from the impact, like a gust of wind, and the effect was immediate. The bandits dropped their weapons.
“What are we doing?” The second-in-command said to no one. They all stumbled a bit, looking confused and asking similar questions.
“I’ve got to go home,” Olly said. “They’re waiting for me.” Dad’s sword was still in his hand.
“That sword isn’t yours,” I said sharply, as he turned to leave.
He looked at me, startled. “Oh! I’m sorry.” He sheathed it and handed it to me, his eyes showing no malice, no recognition. One spell from the Faery King, and my worst enemy was suddenly a polite stranger. Just like that, they walked out of our village.
“What did you do? How?” I asked the Faery King.
“I just made them remember that they were human,” the king shrugged. “Wish it worked on goblins.”
I suppose it was fortunate that our house stood off to the side of the village and the fire hadn’t spread to other houses. Small fortune. The house was half destroyed and the roof was ready to collapse. The other villagers and my family were running in and out now, trying to save a few belongings before it caved in.
My body seemed frozen. I could only stand and watch.
“Oh, bother.” I heard the Faery King mutter behind me, and turned to see him staring mournfully at the tip of his sword. “That spell always makes it so dull.”
I laughed, a painful, hopeless laugh and sat down on the cobblestones, cradling my dad’s sword and covering my face as the tears ran down my cheeks.
Part III
The Faery King stayed until my grandparents arrived later that night. I thought he would leave right away, and force me to come immediately, but instead he dismissed his men and helped Ian fix his broken slingshot. He had my brother recount the battle while he rethreaded the strings. I hadn’t taken him for a good listener, but he was properly impressed at all of the right spots in Ian’s story. Most of the children living in his mountain were happy there, as I was shocked to discover a year before, but it hadn’t occurred to me that he ever gave them a thought or treated them nicely.
When Grandma arrived, seeing the damage, and our faces, she burst into tears instantly and gave all three of us a hug, She didn’t cry often. The knot in the pit of my stomach twisted. Something else was wrong.
They told us the truth about dad. He was dead. It was him they had heard about and had gone to help if they could. They were too late. But I was right about one thing-- Olly had been lying. Dad died saving his fellow soldiers-- and countless civilians from a sudden swarm of goblins. He saved them. But he died. Olly was just a little rat who had robbed a corpse. It didn’t matter that this made more sense, or that it honored my dad’s memory. It was ten times worse to hear it from my grandparents, because I knew they wouldn’t lie.
I didn’t want it to be true.
“Why didn’t you bring him back?” my mother asked, her voice hoarse. “Why didn’t you have him buried here?”
My grandparents exchanged glances. My grandad answered. “It wasn’t a pretty sight, Maeve. There-- there wasn’t much left to bury.”
Mother covered her face in her hands.
“It was really the last battle of the war,” Grandad went on. “Neither side was up for fighting when it was done. It’s one they’ll long remember. They’ve started calling it ‘the Baker’s Battle.’”
It wasn’t something we were likely to forget either. When I told them about my apprenticeship, they nodded solemnly.
“I think that’s for the best,” Grandad said. “You couldn’t ask for a finer place to apprentice for.” Since the house was half burned down, it was decided that none of us would stay in it anymore.
“Why don’t we go to Italy?” Grandma suggested, with a forced vigor. “My parents would love a visit. What do you think, Maeve?”
My mother looked up with ashen eyes. “Italy. Why not?”
“Would you like that, Ian?” Grandma said, bending down. “We’ll go to the sea and travel on a boat!”
“I do like boats,” Ian said. He didn’t really remember our dad. Ian had only been three years old when the war had started-- years and years ago-- was it only four years? It seemed longer. It was hard to remember a time when we weren’t at war.
So it was decided. We packed up whatever we could salvage from the house, and the villagers were very kind in feeding and housing us that night. The Faery King lingered uncertainly at the edge of our group.
“Why don’t you stay the night and see us off tomorrow?” Grandad asked him.
The king smiled, unusually shy. “If I’m not a bother.”
“You’re the hero of the evening, my good king.” Grandad put an arm about his shoulders, and his other arm around me. “Well, you and Meg both!”
“And me!” Ian added, squeezing under the same arm as me. “I knocked two of ‘em out with my sling!”
“Did ya? You do me proud.” Grandad patted his head, and mine.
The next morning, we all rode to the seashore on horses. The journey seemed fast, but it lasted most of the morning. Before I knew it, my family was hugging me tightly and then waving from the boat until I could no longer see them. Ian had loved the boat. He would laugh every time a large wave smacked against the side. Grandad said again that he was proud of me. And then they were gone.
“Well!” the Faery King said loudly as we rode back. “This is a bit different from last time. Now Thomas has practically foisted his grandchild on me! How the world has changed!”
This failed to get a reaction from me. I didn’t so much as glance up. He tried again.
“If you're going to work in my kitchens again, you'll have to learn how to make something other than pie and stew, you know. Not that I mind eating them, but it will get boring fast. There are so many other dishes in the world! You'll have to branch out!”
Silence prevailed, apart from the clopping sound of horse hooves. The king ran a hand through his shiny black hair and sighed.
“Oh, come on! Cheer up. I know things must be difficult for you, but there's a bright future ahead... you know...” he trailed off, apparently not knowing what to say.
“You don't understand,” I said finally.
“What don't I understand? A lot happened, but it was simple enough--”
“You don't understand! That man was lying-- Grandad was wrong-- they don't know what they're talking about!” My fist, still small, hit the pommel of my saddle.
“I don't pretend to know what you're feeling, but I don't think your grandparents could have been mistaken--”
"You don't understand!” I repeated. “This is my dad we're talking about! An ogre threw a tree at his head once and he was fine!”
He tilted his head to the side, as if to acknowledge my point. “It was a whole army, you know. Even I wouldn't have survived that. I doubt I would have lasted as long he did, either.” He glanced back at me. “It was a hero's death, too. He saved a lot of people.”
"He can't be dead!” I said stubbornly.
The Faery King lost patience and turned around in his saddle. “Is it my job to convince you?! What do you want me to do, show you his body? He's already buried, you know! You heard your grandfather-- he said they put a headstone there and everything! You want to dig him up?”
“Stop it!” I covered my ears, choking back a sob.
He sighed. “I’m sorry. You've been up all night and fighting bandits. Since you’re on an ordinary horse, we have a long trip ahead of us. We'll get back to the mountain by sundown, I should think. Try to sleep for now.”
As if I could. I wiped my nose with the back of my hand. “If I sleep on a horse, I'll fall.”
"Just take this.” A heavy lump of cloth hit my head and fell onto the saddle. My initial rage at having something thrown at me dissolved into confusion when I saw that it was his cloak, something I’d never seen him ride without.
“Why are you giving this to me?”
“I’m not giving it to you! I’m just letting you borrow it. It was enchanted to keep me from falling off my horse when fighting or sleeping.”
“You can have it back; I don’t need it,” I said ungratefully, and threw it back to him. He was being unusually kind, and I didn't like it. Who was he trying to charm?
“Shut up and go to sleep, all right?” the king snapped. Obviously being charming was not his objective. “I know you've had a rough two days, but I don't want to hear about what you're going through. They're your feelings, so it's up to you to sort them out, not me. Cheering you up is not in our contract.”
Neither was being kind, apparently. Glumly, I adjusted my position on the saddle, and we rode on in silence again.
“Look,” the Faery King said, thinking better of his outburst. “You lost your dad, and your home, and just said goodbye to your family. I can't imagine how you're feeling. I don't want to. It seems like a black nightmare from the start, and I don't want any part of it. I can’t think of anything to say that will help you. So... let me do this for you instead. Just rest for now.” He held out his cloak, looking at the road ahead of us.
I was tired. Although it was a warm day for April, I took his cloak and wrapped it around myself tightly. I didn’t think it would help, but it was nice to have the hood tugged down so nobody could see me. The Faery King’s cloak steadily kept me on the saddle as slumber tugged my eyelids closed.
“Are you done sleeping like a good-for-nothing?” My shoulder was shaken. “It’s lunchtime.”
I awoke with a jolt; the sun was bright, and for a moment, everything was tinted blue. I squinted at our surroundings and saw that we were at an inn on the edge of an unfamiliar town square. With my slow, ordinary horse, we were taking a different and more direct route back to the mountain. There were market stalls, a few tents, and people bustling around, selling their early crops and livestock.
“That’s hardly fair,” I answered back as he dismounted and led our horses by the reins. “You’re the one who told me to sleep.”
“Yes, well, I had thought it was a good idea until you started snoring.”
“Oh.” I reddened. “Mother says that I usually stop if someone pokes my shoulder.”
“My dear child, I assure you that no amount of poking, pleading, or scolding had any effect whatsoever. Do you feel any better?”
I felt groggy. “A little.” The pain was still there, but it was as if sleep had put a thick, warm blanket over it and tucked it into a corner. “What are we going to eat?”
The Faery King, who somehow blended right into the crowd-- even with the silver crown on his head, put a hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun. “By the looks of things, potatoes. I’ll see if I can get us some cold ham, though.”
He handed me the reins and walked a few paces over to one of the stalls. I looked around for a while, and then noticed a young man staring at me, mouth open.
I stared back, mouth closed. After a long minute, he approached me.
“Madam,” he said, and I looked over my shoulder for any nearby ‘madams.’ No, he was talking to me. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Please do me the honor of becoming my bride!”
I blinked and blinked. He was still there. I turned my head to see the Faery King stop on his way back from the market stall, food in his hands. He looked as dumbfounded as I felt. I looked back at the young man, who was now holding up a yellow daffodil and smiling earnestly.
Earlier that day, I’d wondered how long it would be before I’d really-- you know, really laugh again. Life is full of surprises. I covered my mouth, but the chuckles just spilled right out and turned into gales of laughter. “You can’t be serious,” I said, wiping my eyes.
“No, I really am.” The young man insisted. “It’s not often that such a lovely woman rides through here. I am richer than I look, too. Will you at least stay for a few days?”
“Young man,” the Faery King firmly pulled him back by his collar. “Are you drunk, or just crazy?”
“Neither! ‘Tis love at first sight!” The crazy man protested. “Unless--” He looked at the king suspiciously. “You’ve already claimed her hand?”
The king threw up his hands, dropping the food. “You do realize she’s a child, right? And a little brat to boot?”
Although I didn’t like being called a “brat,” he was right. I had only grown two inches or so in height in the last year. Perhaps my arms weren’t quite so thin now that food was no longer scarce, but at eleven years old, I was still a skinny, gangly child.
The young man looked confused. He stared at me again, squinted, shook his head twice, and smacked his temple with his palm.
“Ohhhhhhh,” he said, blushing. “I am sorry. I am so sorry; please forgive me. My foresight was still in effect.”
Our confusion only tripled at that, as you can imagine.
Part IV
“I am a fortuneteller by trade,” the young man explained from the other side of the table. “Since I was little, I’ve had the ability to look at someone and see what they will look like in the future. Sometimes I’ll see more deeply into their situations, but mostly I have to guess at their fortunes from the glimpse I get. When I have been telling fortunes all morning, the gift is hard to ignore, and I get confused.” He rubbed his neck ruefully. “This is the worst mistake yet, I’m sorry to say. I hope I didn’t frighten you.”
“Not at all, I needed the laugh,” I said, smiling. “I think the king was more frightened than I was. What does he look like in the future?”
“Oh, very much the same. Maybe a few more worry lines.”
“Why are we eating lunch with this man? I still think he’s crazy.” The king grumbled, tearing his piece of bread in half.
“He did offer to pay for it as an apology,” I pointed out. “A sign of an honorable man. But sir, I’m afraid I must reject your proposal.”
“I understand.” The corners of the young man’s mouth twitched.
“And thus concludes the first romantic chapter in our Bartlemead-brat’s life,” the Faery King said with his mouth full.
“Don’t be rude.” I elbowed him. “I intend to be very romantic in the future.” Turning back to the fortuneteller I added archly, “Come and see me in five years or so.”
The young man laughed. “The years will be long, fair lady.”
The king almost spit his food out. “You’re not serious? This grubby tomboy?”
“Bah, you can only see with your present eyes,” the fortuneteller said as he was getting up to go. “In the future, she’s a total beauty.” He waved a cheerful goodbye.
We left the town soon after, riding in silence for a while. I broke it by saying, “A total beauty, huh?”
The king shook his head. “I can only imagine a girly version of Thomas.”
It made me giggle. “The old grandfather, or the young rascal?”
His face fell. “I keep forgetting that he’s old now.”
“Why don’t you look old?” I asked. “I thought faeries didn’t age, but Grandma looks a little older, while you don’t, not by a day.”
“It’s because I’ve lived in the faery world.”
“People don’t get old there? Is time different? Will I stay a child if I live there?”
“No, no, you’ll grow up. The borders of the faery world act as a sort of barrier for the magic done there, and that keeps anyone living there looking and feeling rather youthful.” At the confused expression on my face, he looked around for a better way to explain. “So you see this stream here?” The king pointed to a ditch on the side of the road and dismounted. “If I dropped a rock in and stirred up the mud--” he did as he said. “The dirt swirls around, but will eventually settle. The water, like the borders of the faery world, contains it. However, if I kick up dust on the road,” he demonstrated, “it will dissipate and spread through the air, going wherever it will. The magic doesn’t linger as much outside of the faery world. That’s why your grandmother isn’t as aged as Thomas, but has aged more than I. Do you understand?”
I nodded slowly. “So, magic is like dust?”
“Not really, but you get the idea. If I were to spend my time outside of the faery world and hardly use magic at all, I would eventually get old and die, same as any human. Many faeries like to do that when they retire, like my parents have. They got bored, and wanted to see more of the world.”
“Are they still alive?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. Alive, active, and interfering. Pray that you never have to meet them.” He mounted his horse again.
“You should treasure them,” I said before I could stop myself.
The Faery King’s black eyes met mine, distant as ever, but not as cold as they usually were. “I suppose,” he said, looking away.
“Anyway, don’t worry about living in the faery world. Flann won’t try to sabotage your pies anymore, and there are still plenty of human children to play with. You also get days off to visit your family, too-- more than other apprenticeships would give you. Honestly, I don’t know why you were so against signing the contract last time, foolish girl.” He began lecturing me on how grand of a bargain I had made and how lucky I’d be to work in his kitchens. I rolled my eyes, but the lecture was better than my thoughts alone.
Life in the faery world consisted of the kitchens-- masterfully spacious and well stocked with the finest ingredients from all over the world-- and a small, cold room with a narrow bed. It was a bit better than the prison cell that I’d stayed in last time. The only lock was on the inside, but the emptiness of the small space was oppressing.
The head baker, Flann, was indeed much nicer than last time. His respect for me had gone up considerably since he learned that my grandmother was a former princess of the Italian faeries. And I suppose we had formed an alliance from the last time that we’d worked together to prevent my beheading... which he’d put me in danger of... somewhat unknowingly. No, he welcomed me this time, and told the other bakers and cooks to show me around.
The first few weeks were the hardest. I was used to working all day, but in a variety of tasks, like sitting and peeling potatoes, or chopping wood, or being taught to read or work magic by Grandma. Standing all day in the same room was quite different. My feet ached. I slept poorly, not used to being the only person in a stone room. I didn’t see the Faery King after that. We didn’t eat in the Great Hall, but in a common dining room next to the kitchens. He would send his compliments after eating a dish I had made, which Flann would quote word for word. “Not too bad,” was usually the case, though. It was not very encouraging. There were other human children there, but most of them were sleeping by the time I was done with work, so it was difficult to talk much.
No one was unkind to me, but I had no friends in my new life. I began to get better at the simpler tasks they gave me, and in turn was taught to make new dishes and desserts. This made me happier, but not as happy as when I finally, after three months, got to leave and visit my family for a week. I even met my great-grandparents briefly, while at the Italian court, but it was clear that Ian was their sole favorite. He’s everyone’s favorite, you know. My mother had gotten tanned and somehow more beautiful from the warm, sunny climate. Grandad said suitors had begun to write poems and fight duels over her. She only rolled her eyes. Grandma demanded that I demonstrate what I’d learned so far, and it was satisfying beyond anything to see their faces light up as they tasted what I’d made. The week was over too quickly.
Most memorable of all my days and nights under the Faery King’s mountain, was the night after I’d returned from Italy. Work was over, everyone had gone to bed. I was sitting on the cold stone kitchen floor, crying my eyes out, when the door opened. At the sound of it, I silenced my sobs and hastily rubbed my eyes dry. It was embarrassing to behave that way in front of someone else. I tried to pretend I was normal, though it was obvious someone had heard me, and normal bakers don’t sit on dirty kitchen floors.
“Has Flann been forcing you to cut a lot of onions?” the Faery King asked, leaning a hand on the counter nearby. I jumped at the sound of his voice, but didn’t look up.
“No, not at all. Do you need something, your majesty?”
“No, Miss Bartlemead. I came because a certain worried chef told me that you've been more unhappy than the average child. Are you being mistreated?”
“No.” I wiped my nose. “Is my work unsatisfactory?”
“Not at all, but... Are you ill?”
“No.”
“...Is it puberty?”
“NO!” Of all the--! He was just trying to get a rise out of me! I glared and turned away grumpily while he laughed. But then he crouched down beside me.
“Meg,” he said, and it was the most gentle I'd ever heard him speak my name. The first time he’d ever called me by my first name. “Turn your head this way and tell me what's wrong. Is it your dad?”
At the tone of sympathy in his voice—however small it may have been-- I felt even more tears well up in my eyes and the lump in my throat get bigger. Taking deep breaths, I forced it all back and tried to speak steadily. “I miss my family.”
“You miss your family? I thought you’d be happier after just seeing them.” He sounded baffled.
“I miss them so much!” All my pent-up feelings came out at once and I wailed like the child that I was, pushing my head into his shoulder. The poor king didn't know what to do. He had probably never comforted a crying person in all his life, let alone while being forced to sit on a cold kitchen floor. Flustered, he felt around in his pocket and whisked out a large handkerchief. After giving it to me, he patted my head awkwardly.
“I know I just saw them,” I tried to explain in between pathetic convulsions while he listened and nodded. “But I feel so empty now. No one is mean to me, but... I try to talk, but it doesn’t seem to reach them. It’s like I’m surrounded by invisible walls-- by silence while everyone else talks, and I don’t know how to break out of them.” Not rejected, but separate.
The Faery King sat beside me and stretched out his long legs across the kitchen floor. “It’s hard to be with people all the time. Especially those you’re not comfortable with. I understand that.”
“You do?”
“Well, I haven’t been uprooted and such, but with me-- my walls... I built them myself. I mean, being a king is being in isolation. Even though people come to you for help, even when you’re surrounded by supporters, everyone looks up to you. They expect you to behave a certain way. I can’t just be myself because I have to live up to their expectations.”
“Is that why you lie all the time?”
“What? I don’t lie!”
“You do. You say what you don’t mean instead of being honest. You pretend to be annoyed so no one knows that you’re actually excited, and act like you’re bored all the time.”
“I am bored all the time. What are you talking about?” He gave me a stern look.
I chuckled, and coughed a little, clearing my throat. “Your people already like you, but I think they’d like you even more if they knew you better.”
The Faery King turned a bit pink. “... You too,” he said, a little grudgingly.
“What?”
“The other bakers and children will like you much more once they know you better. You don’t have to be afraid that they won’t. There is nothing about you for them to dislike.”
I stared at the cupboards while my vision blurred with tears. If I had been a plant dying of thirst, those words would have been the first few drops of rain that saved my life.
“Unless, of course, they have to listen to you snore,” the Faery King added.
“--And then, Sarah and I put the fake spider on top of the icebox, and Ferghus screamed like a girl, and then Flann came in, yelling, ‘What’s going on here?’ and screamed too! And we laughed so hard and had to run away before they caught us!” I paused for breath, laughing at my own story some weeks later.
“You seem to have been causing an awful lot of trouble,” the king commented as he paused for breath himself. The mountain we were climbing was rather steep. “Is Sarah the child that was about to be eaten by a troll when we found her?”
“Yes, she started as our morning dishwasher last month,” I said. “I met her when I delivered the cookies like you told me I should. It was a good idea.”
He smirked. “Well, as a king, I have to be good at these things. How far did you say we have to go?”
“All the way to the top!” My face felt like it was splitting from smiling too much-- in a good way. I had managed to drag the Faery King up a nearby mountain, and it was turning out to be so much fun.
“Your business had better be quick! I’ve got a kingdom to run, you know. I don’t have time to be gallivanting up and down mountains just because you keep getting involved with--” The king continued his lecture, but from the look on his face, he was thinking, I’ve missed this. Oh, how I’ve missed this. The clean air, the glorious white clouds that hung around us against the blue sky, and the smile of a companion who couldn’t care less about the crown on his head.
I hopped lightly from one rock to another, feeling-- and probably looking-- very much like a mountain goat. We were almost there. I ran a little ahead just to be sure everything was set up right.
“I still don’t understand why I had to come with you. After all, couldn’t you have gotten--” The Faery King stopped and stared when he entered the sunny clearing at the top. A small gathering of faeries were waiting: Sarah, Cusac, Flann, Jonathan, Rupert, Ferghus, and Jean, all of them sitting in a circle on a plaid tablecloth on the grass, surrounding a magnificent (if a little crooked) cake.
“What--” the Faery King looked at me suspiciously. “What is going on?”
“Happy Birthday!” I yelled, stretching my arms out toward the cake. The group of friends and faeries echoed me and cheered. “I know it’s really next week, but this is my early gift to you. It was Sarah’s idea to make it a surprise, but I made the cake myself! Flann taught me how, and we decided to do a spice cake with a peach filling, and-- hey! I told you not to start eating without us!” I ran over to scold my friends.
The king came a few, slow steps closer to the picnic, but hung back, his brows knit together. So I went back and asked him what was wrong, afraid that he didn’t like it.
“It looks fun,” the king said. “But why did you do this? What do you want?”
I was confused. “I did this to thank you... I don’t want anything in return.”
“But-- doing something so nice-- you’re making me want to do something for you in return! That’s the same thing as manipulating me, you know!” He was in a mild panic.
“It is not!” I argued, miffed. “And if it comes to making people feel grateful, you started it by going out of your way to cheer me up! So it’s really your fault if you feel burdened by gratitude. I never saw the like! None of this would have been possible without you, you know! Why don’t you accept my gift and be happy?!”
The Faery King blinked, looking like he needed time to process this new idea of friendship and whatnot. He’d had friends before! I didn’t understand why he had such a hard time letting someone do something nice for him-- especially since he’d had no problem accepting a small peach pie from a skinny little girl just a year or two ago. It wasn’t really fair for me to scold him at his own party, but I felt like my character had been insulted. All my efforts would be gone to waste if he didn’t understand.
“But...” he began timidly. “Why--”
“Oh, just eat some cake and be happy, your majesty!” I ordered, pointing and imitating my grandmother. I stomped away and sat down at the picnic in a huff. After a moment, he joined us, sitting down a bit awkwardly at first, but warming up to the atmosphere soon enough. After lunch, I watched carefully as he tried the spice cake, cutting a piece from the lowest layer.
“How is it?” I tried not to sound too eager. The look on his face was so satisfying.
“Mm, not too bad,” he said, smiling. “Thank you, Miss Bartlemead.”
I smiled back. “You’re welcome, Faery King.”
And at the end of the day, there was not a crumb left to take home.
THE END OF PART THREE