Disenchanted Page 12

  The commander stretched his hand down to me and said simply, “Come.”

  I paused to fasten my purse to my belt before reaching up to him. He hauled me onto the saddle in front of him as easily as if I weighed no more than one of the roses in my garden. With his arms banded around me, he urged his mount forward.

  I have never been the sort of woman to swoon at the thought of a knight in shining armor swooping me up on his charger. But I did appreciate the feel of the commander’s protective arms surrounding me. After my harrowing ordeal, I could not help melting a little against the solid security of his chest.

  I had not expressed my gratitude enough for his rescue. But when I tried to do so, Crushington would have none of it.

  “It is I who am grateful to have been of service, Miss—” He paused before asking diffidently. “May I call you Ella?”

  “You have already done so without my permission,” I pointed out. “But you saved my life to say nothing of my money, so the answer is yes. You may call me whatever you wish, except for Prunella.”

  “And you must call me Horatio.”

  “Oh no, must I?” I blurted out before I could stop myself. “Don’t you have some sort of nickname? What do your friends call you?”

  “A Scutcheon commander does not have the luxury of friendship.”

  “Oh.” I found that truly sad. It had never occurred to me what a lonely man Crushington must be.

  “If you do not care for Horatio,” he continued, “I have other names to choose from. My full name is Horatio Alexander Samuel Edward Crushington.”

  “Goodness! Your parents were excessively generous when they christened you.”

  “Every time I am obliged to sign a document, I wish they had been a bit more frugal.”

  His tone was solemn, but when I glanced up at him, I caught a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Was it possible the commander possessed a sense of humor after all? What a day of astonishing revelations this was turning out to be. He smiled at me, a genuine smile, not his usual quirk of the lips. I smiled in return and we rode onward in silence, but it was not an uncomfortable one. The commander was not the sort of person given to idle chatter and neither was I.

  He kept his horse to a very sedate pace. I wondered if this was to prolong his time with me. I was aware Crushington liked me, but I could not be vain enough to imagine he would dawdle just to keep me held close, not a man so devoted to the pursuit of his duties. Most likely he lingered because the Bottoms were still hazy and the lanes rough and full of ruts. He would not want to risk Loyal stumbling and straining a fetlock.

  Whatever his reason, our slow progress suited me. I was not eager to reach home. My one consolation for selling my mother’s earrings had been imagining my family’s jubilation when I announced we could all go to the ball. How deliriously happy Imelda, Amy and Netta would be! Now I dreaded their reaction when I had to tell them I had only acquired enough money for two tickets. My stepsisters were too young and inexperienced to navigate the royal court without a chaperone and I certainly did not feel qualified to act in that capacity. The elite society of the Heights had once been Imelda’s world, so she must have one of the tickets. I had never had any desire to attend the ball, so Em would have to decide which of her daughters to take.

  Netta was the oldest and she possessed the sylphlike loveliness that was the current fashion. Amy was only sixteen, short and buxom. But she was much livelier than Netta and far more comfortable meeting strangers. What a difficult choice for a mother to make.

  But I knew my tenderhearted stepmother too well. Imelda would never be able to choose between her girls. She would turn helplessly to me and I would be the one obliged to decide. So which one of my sisters’ dreams would I have to shatter? Netta’s or Amy’s?

  I sagged against Commander Crushington. With the prospect of such an impossible decision looming before me, I felt weighted down by a sense of failure. I should have pressed Master Fugitate much harder, not only for more money, but for more information about my father.

  When I was young, my parents were simply that—my mother and father. It never occurred to me that they might have had lives beyond me, their own memories, their own histories, perhaps even their own secrets. By the time I had grown mature enough to ask questions, it had been far too late.

  I did know that my mother, Cecily, had been the only child of the royal forest warder. Her position in society had not been as high as Imelda’s as the daughter of a knight, but my mother would have been considered of a better class than the trades people of Midtown. I believed my father had been the only son of a prosperous wine merchant. How my parents had ever chanced to meet and fall in love, I had no idea.

  I had been only six years old when my mother died, but I had many warm memories of her. Although I had had twelve more years to become acquainted with my father, he was a shadow man to me, the quiet recluse who had haunted the library. My best memories of him were those times I had snuggled on his lap while he read to me and my mother. Even then my recollections centered more on all those wonderful stories and not the man himself.

  The blow to my head seemed to have jarred something loose in my brain. I suddenly recalled where I had learned the fairy word for jewels. My father had taught me to call my mother’s emeralds “twinkles.” This recollection was succeeded by one more startling and vivid.

  It must have been days after my mother’s funeral. I was too young to understand the final nature of death. Mal’s grandmother had told me my mother had traveled to some beautiful kingdom high among the stars where she would be well and happy and watch over me forever. I did not believe it. How could my mama be happy so far away from me?

  I trailed after my father demanding that he climb up to the stars and fetch my mother home right now. I must have driven the poor man to distraction, consumed as he was by his own grief. He engaged a nanny to look after me. I could not recall her name, only that she had been a dour, unsmiling woman. She had insisted I start acting like a big girl and accept my loss. My mother was never coming back.

  I had kicked her in the shins and she retaliated with a sharp smack. My father had heard and seen it all and he was furious. How could I have forgotten that? It was the one time in my life I could ever recall him losing his temper. He had dismissed the nanny, roaring at her to leave his house. She had been so frightened of him, she had run. My father’s anger had evaporated as he realized he was left to cope with a hysterical, sobbing child. He scooped me up in his arms, seeking to comfort me in the only way he knew how.

  The twisting lanes of Misty Bottoms, the ambling movement of the horse, the creak of the leather saddle, even the feel of the commander’s arms around me faded before the blur of memory.

  I was back in the library, curled up on my father’s lap, shuddering from the last of my sobs. My father’s voice was a soothing drone as he read to me the final chapter of The Quaint Customs and Ways of the Fey Folk.

  “And it came to pass that King Zanthypod had to depart from the High Forest for he had become a gleaner and the fey would no longer have him for their king.”

  “What’s a gleaner, Papa?” I asked.

  My father kept on reading as though he had not heard me. I placed my hand upon his bristly unshaven cheek, obliging him to look at me as I repeated my question.

  “What is a gleaner?”

  My father’s brow furrowed. It was usually my mother who answered my questions, reducing difficult words into terms a child could understand. He expelled a deep breath as he struggled to explain.

  “A gleaner is a fairy who is an outcast, a stranger to his people because he becomes obsessed, greedy to acquire the things humans value, like furniture, fancy clothes and china. That is anathema to the fairy way of life…er, they don’t like it and so they wanted their king to go away.”

  I frowned as I turned this over in my mind. “So why didn’t the king just stop doing it?”

  “I don’t think he could help it. Grief can make a fairy behave i
n a way he knows he shouldn’t, but he cannot seem to stop himself because his heart hurts too much.” My father paused to swallow. “Fairies only turn into gleaners when something really bad happens to them or they lose someone they loved very much.”

  “Like their mama?” I quavered.

  “Yes.”

  My lower lip wobbled. “But I don’t want to become a gleaner, Papa.”

  “You won’t,” my father said, gathering me closer. “You are not a fairy, Ella. You are a wise little girl.”

  “Magnificently wise?”

  “Yes,” he said hoarsely. He buried his face against the top of my head and I could feel the splash of his tears…

  My own eyes stung as the memory faded and I recollected where I was and whom I was with. I had already disconcerted Commander Crushington enough by weeping. I could not do so again, so I blinked hard to stem my tears although the resurrected memory of my father touched me deeply.

  I understood now what I had not as a child. My father had not just been trying to explain the effect grief could have on fairies, but on a man as well. The death of my mother had turned him into a gleaner of books, seeking to bury his aching heart within their pages.

  I now felt anxious to return home. I wanted to find The Quaint Customs and Ways of the Fey Folk and read it again, as though by doing so I could forge a connection with my father and find answers to my questions. If not about Julius Upton, then at least about Withypole Fugitate.

  Yet I suspected many of the things my father had known about fairies had not come from the book, but from Withypole himself. Withypole had seemed quite familiar with my father’s history. Had my father likewise been acquainted with Withypole’s past, whatever tragedy had turned the fairy into an outcast? At the very least, my father must have known enough to recognize Fugitate for what he was, a gleaner.

  My father was not the only one to do so. I tensed as I recalled the words that had provided the spark to my recovered memory.

  I fear you must have paid another visit to the gleaner, Crushington had said.

  I sat bolt upright, twisting around to stare at him. “You know!”

  The commander must have thought I was in danger of falling because he tightened his arms around me. “I beg your pardon, Ella. I know what?”

  “About Master Fugitate. You called him a gleaner.”

  “Did I? I don’t recall saying—”

  “You did! You know you did! Just as you know Withypole is a fairy.”

  “And it would seem, so do you. The reckless fool! I warned him to be careful about concealing his identity.”

  “You warned him? But aren’t you obliged to arrest him for being an unregistered fairy or for wing tax evasion?”

  “Yes, well, ordinarily that would be true. But there are times when enforcing a minor law can be overlooked. Fugitate is of far more use to me where he is than locked up in a cell.”

  “What use could that poor fairy possibly be—” I gasped as the realization hit me square between the eyes. “Fugitate is your informant. You are using him as a spy, aren’t you?”

  “I have already said more than I should, Ella,” the commander replied. “You need to be still. You are making Loyal uneasy.”

  It was not the horse I was making uncomfortable. It was his master. I lowered my voice as I continued, “How did you persuade Fugitate to spy for you? Are you paying him? Or is he simply too terrified of being arrested to refuse?”

  Crushington compressed his lips, not answering me. He did not have to, not when I remembered how terrified the fairy had been when he realized I knew his secret. I imagined that his deal with the commander hinged upon Withypole never exposing his true identity.

  “How can you!” I choked. “How can you bully that poor creature this way? Do you have any idea how miserable Withypole is already, having to keep his beautiful wings compressed and hidden? It must be heartbreaking enough for him to be cast out from his own people.”

  “That is none of my doing,” Crushington said tersely. “I am not responsible for Fugitate becoming a gleaner.”

  “But you are certainly taking advantage of his plight.”

  “The Bottoms are a lawless place. I must gather information however I can. Now, I am sorry, but I cannot discuss my arrangement with Master Fugitate any further.”

  Crushington’s voice was stern, with perhaps even a hint of warning. I should have held my tongue, but I could not, especially when something else struck me.

  “You said that you feared I had paid another visit to the gleaner. You must know about the previous times I was at Fugitate’s shop. Are you keeping some sort of record of my activities?” I demanded.

  “Not yours.”

  “Then whose?” But I already knew the answer to that.

  “Mal,” I said softly. “You are using Fugitate to gather information about Mal.”

  “Among others. I did warn you that Malcolm Hawkridge’s activities are of great interest to me when I advised you to stay away from him.”

  “Mal is my dearest friend and I have no intention of avoiding him.”

  “That man is no friend to you, Ella. Why was he not with you today? How could he allow you to take such a risk, venturing into this part of town alone?”

  “I am an independent woman. I don’t require Mal’s permission or that of any other man. Mal has been so occupied with his business of late, I did not even ask him to accompany me.”

  “Exactly what business would that be?”

  Merely a little smuggling, practicing illegal magic and plotting to break into the royal palace to steal back his grandfather’s orb.

  I replied, “Why, what else but the business of brewing medicine. After all, Mal is an apothecary.”

  “An apothecary who has been gone from his shop frequently these past two weeks.” Crushington’s hard grey eyes probed mine. “Do you have any idea where Hawkridge has been?”

  “He has probably been off gathering herbs or paying calls upon customers too old or ill to visit his shop.”

  “How noble of him,” Crushington said. There was such a bitter edge to his voice that for a moment I wondered if he could be jealous of Mal. That was surely absurd.

  “Mal can be quite noble and generous,” I said. “Your time would be much better employed hunting down a real villain like the man who attacked me.”

  “I intend to.”

  “Good! Then you can arrest someone who actually deserves it. What a refreshing change that would be.”

  I winced as soon as I said it, cursing my wayward tongue. But I was tired. I was bruised. I was angry and upset that Crushington was so relentlessly determined to prove Mal guilty of something. Still it was not wise of me to antagonize the commander.

  Crushington looked more frustrated than angry as he began, “Ella—”

  “Miss Upton,” I corrected, turning my back to him. I sat rigid in the saddle, trying to keep as much distance between us as possible.

  I heard the commander heave a deep sigh, and he fell silent. Not a comfortable one this time.

  I fumed quietly, disgusted with myself. I could not believe that I been relaxed in Crushington’s arms or even started to like him. His rescue of me had caused me to forget who he was: the Royal Scutcheon commander, the king’s hammer, the ruthless enforcer of his crushing laws. A man whose rigid sense of duty allowed him to exploit a miserable creature like Withypole and to pose a great threat to my closest friend.

  All I wanted was to get away from Crushington as soon as possible. The commander must have felt the same because he urged Loyal into a trot. Perhaps he no longer really liked me quite so much.

  As we left the Bottoms behind and clattered through the town square, we attracted a great deal of attention. Some of Crushington’s men, loitering near their barracks, pointed at us and grinned. Citizens on their way to conduct official business at Quad Hall paused to stare and smirk.

  My cheeks flamed as I realized what everyone must be thinking, that I had finally decided to w
elcome the commander’s courtship. It was even worse when Crushington was obliged to slow his horse as we passed through the marketing area. Housewives tittered and whispered behind their hands, although others were not so subtle. Some of the remarks carried to me with disastrous clarity.

  “I never knew a man to be so slow.”

  “It looks like the commander has finally gotten around to some serious wooing.”

  “Ha! More likely he is arresting her.”

  I recognized this last snide voice as belonging to my stepmother’s false friend, Matilda Dearling. As we trotted past, I shot her a venomous look. Despite the promise I had made Imelda, I would have given anything to have a large ugly toad in my pocket.

  I wondered if Crushington was finding all this speculation as humiliating as I did. I risked a glance back at him. He stared rigidly ahead, his mouth set in the familiar stern line.

  When we reached my house, he reined Loyal to a halt and dismounted. I did not wait for him to lift me from the saddle. I leapt down, but my heels struck the pavement hard and I staggered. I would have fallen if Crushington had not caught me. For a brief moment, I was once more close to him, cradled in his embrace. As soon as I recovered my balance, I thrust him away.

  I backed up a step and dropped a stiff curtsy.

  “Thank you, Commander. For everything.”

  Not pausing for his reply, I whirled about, hurrying toward my front gate.

  “Ella! Miss Upton, wait!” he commanded.

  The gate creaked as I hurled through it and slammed it behind me.

  “Miss Upton. Please…”

  I turned around reluctantly. I waited as the commander approached, but I kept the gate between us. My expression could not have been encouraging. He was silent for a moment as though struggling for words.

  “I wish there was some way to make you understand. These are dangerous times for our kingdom, far more dangerous than you realize. When I became a Scutcheon commander, I swore that I would give my life to protect Arcady and uphold its laws. I did not make such a pledge lightly.”