The Sweetest Spell Read online

  There’d be no keeping this secret. Fee would tell the other milkmaids that I’d hurt her. She’d probably tell Mother. That was not a scene I was looking forward to. Owen Oak, I told you to stay away from the milkmaids!

  I would. I would stay away from them from now on. It always ended badly, anyway. I rubbed my shin, then walked back to the butter room.

  Emmeline stood over the churning bucket, wringing her hands, her face clenched in a worried sort of way. Had she overheard me and Fee? “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’ve ruined it. I’ve ruined the butter.”

  “What do you mean?” I pulled the paddle from the bucket. Peaks of soft butter clung to the paddle’s sides but instead of the usual creamy yellow hue, the butter had turned dark brown.

  Emmeline whimpered. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I’ve ruined it.”

  Had she ruined it? I’d watched her and she’d done everything properly. “There must have been dirt in the bucket,” I said. “I didn’t check to make sure it was clean.” I carried the bucket to the back of the room and left it on the counter. It was a waste of cream, but there was plenty more. Then I grabbed a new churning bucket, cleaned it with a burlap rag, poured in cream, and set the paddle into place. “Let’s try again.”

  “But—”

  “You love butter, right? So let’s make some and we can give it to Nan.”

  She nodded.

  We both sat, side by side, our knees almost touching. I tried not to think about Fee running home in tears. Her father would surely pay my father a visit. At least I’d been smart enough not to go beyond kissing.

  Emmeline churned and right before my eyes the yellowish cream began to take on a light brown hue. “It’s happening again,” she said.

  I leaned over the bucket. “Huh? But I cleaned it.”

  “Maybe it will go away,” she said, desperately turning the handle.

  But it didn’t go away. The light brown cream changed into dark brown cream. Emmeline hesitated. “Keep going,” I whispered, amazed by the transformation—like watching the sky slowly darken at night. The cream thickened as she churned until it was the consistency of butter. I stuck in my finger and scooped some out.

  “What are you doing?” Emmeline asked, grabbing my arm as I tasted the discolored butter. “You’ll get sick.”

  Smooth, creamy, just like the usual Oak Dairy butter, but what was that flavor? I tasted again. “My God, it’s delicious. I’ve never tasted anything like it. Try it.”

  Hesitantly, Emmeline stuck her fingertip into the muddy concoction. Then she took a small taste. A smile broke across her face. “It’s amazing. But it doesn’t taste like butter.”

  I scooped more into my mouth. “It’s not butter.” Nothing made sense. “The bucket was clean, the cream was fresh. And yet somehow the butter changed into whatever this is. It’s the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten. It’s sweet and …” I froze, a realization gripping me hard, almost squeezing my breath out. “No, it can’t be.”

  “What can’t be?” Emmeline asked.

  I hurried to the other churning bucket. The first batch of dirty butter had hardened. I turned the bucket upside down and knocked a few times until the hardened, dirty butter cracked and fell out in pieces. Then I bit into one of the pieces. It melted on my tongue, creamy and sweet. I wanted to eat more. I wanted to eat all of it. It filled me with … desire.

  The most delicious food ever known, chocolate was a sweet delicacy that melted on the tongue and filled its host with desire. Though its dark, muddy brown color was unappealing, the taste was pure ecstasy.

  “Emmeline?” I said, wiping my mouth on my sleeve. “Do you think …?” I could barely contain myself. It was the same powerful feeling I got when I stepped into the fight circle. “Do you think …?”

  Wide-eyed, Emmeline took the piece from my hand. She stood so close I caught the scent of rose soap that clung to her hair. A few dots of perspiration sat on the bridge of her nose.

  “Remember the legend I read?”

  Emmeline slid the piece between her lips and took a small bite. She closed her eyes as she chewed. Upon swallowing, her eyes flew open and a smile burst across her face.

  “Owen,” she said. “Did I make chocolate?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I liked the Oaks’ kitchen, which was so much bigger than the kitchen we had in our cottage in Root, before the flood took it away. It was always warm in there because Nan never seemed to stop cooking. And it was full of food. No empty shelves, no empty baskets. The Oaks had plenty. Was this the way Owen’s life had always been? Had he never known hunger?

  I sat at the table watching Nan pace. She stopped to peer into the bucket of brown butter, then paced some more. Maybe it was chocolate. I didn’t really know. I’d never heard the word until Owen read from that book. But he seemed to think I’d made chocolate. And he’d rushed off to town to get his parents from the shop. So there I sat, waiting for them to come back.

  Waiting for Owen.

  He was being nice to me because he felt sorry for me. I knew that. It was nothing more than the same kind of pity he’d feel for a half-drowned dog. But in his bedroom at night, I liked to imagine pity had nothing to do with it. I was a different girl, a girl from Wander. My red hair was brown just like theirs. I was a whole girl with two perfect feet. And I was his.

  Nan glared at me. “I don’t know what you’re smiling about,” she said. She’d refused to taste the brown butter. Refused to touch it. “Don’t know what that is,” she said, pointing to the churning bucket. “Don’t know what young Owen is thinking. Dirty butter is nothing to get excited about.”

  “He says it’s chocolate,” I reminded her.

  “I know what he said, dirt-scratcher girl.” She put her hands on her hips. “You don’t have to tell me what he said. I heard it with my own two ears.”

  We’d been waiting a long time. I didn’t like being alone with Nan. It wasn’t because of the wary looks she gave me; that was nothing new in my life. It was because she always called me “dirt-scratcher” in a way that made the word sound like it was made from cow dung, or worse.

  At the sound of horse hooves and wheels, Nan rushed to the kitchen window. Soon after, Mister and Missus Oak, led by Owen, hurried into the kitchen. I scrambled to my feet, reassured by Owen’s beaming smile. Missus Oak’s bonnet was askew and she wrung her hands. “You know I don’t like to leave Polly alone in the shop. She’ll eat her weight in cheese.”

  “I’m losing patience,” Mister Oak sternly told his son. “Tell us what has happened.”

  Owen’s smile disappeared and he cleared his throat. “Sit down,” he said as if about to tell them that someone had died. Mister Oak grumbled, then plunked into a chair.

  “Oh dear,” Missus Oak said as she sat next to her husband. “Owen? What have you done?”

  Owen folded his arms. “What did I do?”

  “Yes, what did you do?” Missus Oak asked.

  “This time I am innocent, Mother. It’s Emmeline you should be asking.” He raised his eyebrows at me.

  Missus Oak grabbed her husband’s hand, as if to steady herself for whatever news was coming her way. “What has happened? Did someone see her hair? Do they know we’ve been housing a dirt-scratcher girl?”

  “No one saw her hair,” Owen said. He grabbed the bucket of dirty butter and set it on the table. “This is why I brought you home. This is what I wanted you to see.” He turned the bucket upside down, thumped his hands against its sides until the contents slid onto the table. Then he set the bucket aside. We all stared at the circle of hardened brown butter.

  “What is that?” Mister Oak asked.

  “Emmeline made it,” Owen said. He pulled his knife from his pocket and plunged it again and again, breaking the circle into smaller pieces. Then he picked up one of the pieces and held it out to his father. “Taste it.”

  “Emmeline made it?” Missus Oak asked. “Nan let Emmeline cook?”

  “Never,” Nan i
nsisted. “That mess has nothing to do with me. It looks like something a cow left behind.”

  I almost laughed. It was a pretty good description.

  “Father,” Owen insisted. “Try it. Let it melt on your tongue. I promise you won’t regret it.”

  Mister Oak took the piece, sniffed it, then popped it into his mouth. We all leaned closer, waiting for his reaction. At first it was hard to tell if he was disgusted or if he liked it because he closed his eyes and just stood there. It was melting, that I knew. It was filling his mouth with the most amazing flavor ever. He swallowed, then opened his eyes. “Delightful!” he exclaimed. “I shall have another.” And he did.

  “Mother?” Owen said, offering her a piece.

  Missus Oak carefully pinched the piece between her fingertips. Like her husband, she sniffed it. Then she delicately nibbled the corner. “Oh my,” she said, her other hand pressing to her chest. “Oh my, oh my.” She popped the rest of the piece into her mouth. Nan inched forward, watching Missus Oak chew. Satisfied sounds of “oh” and “ooh” escaped her lips. Her eyes rolled back. “That is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.” She grabbed another piece. “What is this, Emmeline? However did you make it?”

  “I really don’t know,” I said with a shrug.

  “From our cream,” Owen said. “She churned our cream and it turned into this.”

  “But what did she add to the cream?” Mister Oak asked, his lips glistening as he chewed. “We must have the recipe.”

  “I didn’t add anything,” I said. “It just … happened.”

  “I watched it happen,” Owen said. “I watched her churn. When the cream thickened, it changed color. It was like some kind of magic.”

  “Dirt-scratcher magic,” Nan whispered, her eyes widening fearfully. “Black magic. Don’t eat it. It’ll cast a spell over you.”

  “Now, Nan, calm down,” Mister Oak said. “There’s no such thing as magic.”

  “I’d usually agree with you,” Owen said. “But now I’m not so sure.” He turned to me. “Shall we show them?”

  A new churning bucket was brought into the kitchen. And so, as the afternoon passed, I churned cream until my arms went numb. And each time, without fail, the cream thickened and turned dark brown. They tasted it when it was still soft. Then they tasted it after it hardened. “I could eat this every day,” Mister Oak said.

  “Me too,” Missus Oak said.

  Nan finally tried a piece and, like the rest of us, ate until her stomach ached. I stopped churning. My arms felt like deadwood.

  “Now do you finally believe me?” Owen asked, leaning back in his chair and opening his book. He read, “I am the chieftain of the Kell. She who takes my life will be forever cursed. I take from Her what She most cherishes, and I give it to one of my own.” He closed the book. “It’s chocolate. It has to be.”

  “Emmeline,” Missus Oak said, wrapping an arm around my waist and giving me a gentle squeeze. “You’ve been blessed.”

  “And we’ve been blessed too,” Mister Oak said. “Our customers will love it. We could sell enough to make up for all the coin we’re losing to the king’s new butter tax.”

  “But, Father,” Owen said. “The chocolate is not ours to sell.”

  “Not ours to sell?” Mister Oak scratched his beard. “It’s made from our cream.”

  “But it’s Emmeline’s magic.”

  All eyes turned to me. My cheeks began to burn. My magic? How was it possible that I possessed this magic? “You can have the chocolate,” I said. “I will happily give it to you for all you have done for me.”

  Mister and Missus Oak shared a long look. Then Mister Oak cleared his throat. “That is very generous, but my son is correct. We Oaks did not make the chocolate so it is not ours to sell.” He stood at the kitchen window, his arms folded behind his back. A pair of cows stood outside, their noses pressed to the glass. “Emmeline, do you realize what this means? No one has seen or tasted chocolate for many generations. But you alone can make it.”

  “You’ll be rich,” Owen said.

  “But she’s a dirt-scratcher,” Nan said.

  “No one’s going to care where Emmeline comes from once they’ve tasted the chocolate,” Owen said. “They’ll line up for days just to get a piece. She’ll be very rich. Maybe the richest woman in the kingdom.”

  A shiver ran down my spine. Then it felt as if someone was squeezing the breath out of me. “Rich?” The word sputtered from my mouth. “Me?”

  Owen smiled.

  My head filled with a million thoughts. No Flatlander had ever been rich. “Do you think I could make enough coin to buy my father’s freedom from the king’s army?”

  “It’s possible,” Mister Oak said.

  “Do you think I could make enough coin to build my father a new cottage?”

  “I bet you could build a hundred cottages,” Owen said, smacking his palm on the table.

  Do you think I could buy a husband? Someone like you? But this I didn’t ask.

  How could I ever leave this wonderful place? “I would like to stay here and be one of your milkmaids,” I said. “I’ll make the chocolate, and if you’ll sell it in your shop, then we can split the coin.” It was a bold suggestion. I tried to keep my voice from wavering. I might have asked too much. I waited, as did everyone else, for Mister Oak’s reaction.

  “So be it,” he said, eagerly shaking my hand. “So be it.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Poor Emmeline. She fell fast asleep at the kitchen table. Father swept her into his arms and carried her to my room, where he tucked her into bed. When he returned, an amused smile crinkled his face.

  “Who would have thought,” he said, shaking his head. “Who would have thought a tiny little creature could hold such a big secret.”

  While Father finished the chores, Mother, Nan, and I spent the late afternoon working with the chocolate. In its soft form it was easy to cut into perfect squares. Nan pressed our seal into the top of each square, leaving an oak leaf imprint. The squares hardened quickly, a glossy sheen forming at the surface. Mother discovered she could roll the soft chocolate into little balls. Then she dipped each ball in lavender sugar. They were delicious.

  As evening fell, Father returned to the kitchen. I expected him to start hollering about the fact that Nan hadn’t made supper, but instead he grabbed a bowl. “Give me some of that chocolate.”

  “What for?” Mother asked.

  “Might as well start spreading the news.” With his forearm, he swept some of the chocolate squares into the bowl, then hurried outside. “Girls,” he hollered. The milkmaids were heading toward the road, their day’s work done. Fee glared at me, as did a few of the others. I’d clearly been the subject of conversation that afternoon. “Girls,” Father called again. “Wait until you see what I have for you.”

  I watched from the doorway as he dumped a handful of chocolate squares into each girl’s basket. “Take these home and share them with your friends and family. Tell everyone that the Oaks will be selling these tomorrow at Oak and Son’s.”

  “What are they?” Fee asked.

  “Chocolate,” Father said. “Tell everyone you meet that the Oak Dairy will be selling chocolate.”

  The girls laughed with disbelief, but quickly ate every piece so that Father had to get more from the kitchen. Fee’s anger vanished. She pushed to the front of the pack to get more. “Save some for your families,” Father said. “If you spread the news, I’ll give you more tomorrow.” Their baskets refilled, the girls hurried off.

  Emmeline slept past supper. We didn’t wake her. I’m sure she was overwhelmed by everything that had happened. After a long conversation with Father about how much we should charge for the chocolate and how we might advertise, I walked to the bunkhouse as I had every night since Emmeline’s arrival. The bunkhouse had been built for calving season, when the calves came so quickly it was necessary to bring in hired hands. But the season had come and gone so I was out there alone.


  Maybe it was a stomach full of chocolate that caused my unsettled feeling. I stretched my arms behind my head and stared up through the darkness at the pine beams of the bunkhouse ceiling. The day had been filled with wonder, so why did an anxious sensation bite at me like an insect?

  When I’d found Emmeline at the river, she seemed frail enough to break. With each passing day she’d grown stronger. At first she’d seemed to despise me, the way she glared up at me from my bed. But lately she’d begun to smile, sometimes when I spoke to her, sometimes simply because I’d walked into the room. She enjoyed it when I read to her, asking all sorts of questions and wanting me to read more. And that day, in the butter room, she’d blushed when our hands touched. Could she feel something for me?

  Time spent thinking about her flowed without measure. When I wasn’t with her, I wanted to be with her. Even when I was thinking about other things, she lingered between those thoughts. When I woke, I wondered what she was doing. When I went to bed, I imagined her beside me. An ache filled my body.

  On the other side of the bunkhouse wall, the cows stirred, then broke into a chorus of agitated mooing. A fox or rat had probably dug its way inside the barn. Cows are easily disturbed so I wasn’t too worried. Still, I rolled off the bunk and grabbed a lantern, lighting it with a box of matches we’d bought from Peddler.

  Moonlight filtered through the cracks in the barn, illuminating the cows’ shaggy backs like a landscape of rolling brown hills. Suddenly the cows began to stomp and shift, worked up about something. I held the lantern high, watching for scurrying movement along the floor. Then I heard it—a muffled cry from outside. I raced into the yard.

  All was still. I cocked my head, listening for any unusual sounds. But even the crickets had quieted. Then the muffled cry came again. I ran around the barn. A tented wagon stood in the roadway, just outside our dairy. Even in the dim moonlight I recognized the wagon that carried Peddler’s trinkets.

  Peddler’s silhouette was unmistakable, his skinny leg propping up his long, pocketed coat. He was shoving something into the back of the wagon.