The Sweetest Spell Page 8

  “Do I finally get to meet our guest?” he asked after clearing his throat.

  “Husband,” Mother said. “This is Emmeline Thistle.”

  “We are happy to see that you’ve recovered,” Father said. He pulled out a chair on the opposite side of the table from me. “Please sit down.”

  “You’ve already met my son,” Mother said, narrowing her eyes at me. “He was not supposed to enter his bedroom while you were recovering, but he has a habit of breaking my rules.”

  “Hi,” I said. Emmeline nodded but didn’t smile. Then she walked around the table, her steps uneven. That’s when I remembered her curled foot. It was amazing she could walk at all. As she sat in the chair, my gaze swept over her. She was stunning! The red hair had looked like tangled yarn when I’d found her at the river. Now it fell in sheets that looked as soft as silk. I wanted to reach across the table and touch her hair. I wanted to bury my face in it. I wanted—

  “Owen?” Father poked my arm. He and Mother were seated, both looking at me. “Why don’t you pick up your chair, son?”

  I did. As I sat, Nan headed back to the kitchen, grumbling about a dirt-scratcher sitting at the supper table. Emmeline gripped the armrests of her chair, her knuckles turning white.

  “Blessings upon this family,” Father said with a quick bow of his head. Then he grabbed the platter of roasted hen. “Let’s eat.”

  Mother spooned food onto Emmeline’s plate. “You need to eat,” she encouraged. “Eat as much as you can, then eat some more. You’re not much more than skin and bones.” It was true. I remembered Emmeline’s thin ankles when I’d taken off her boots, the way her hip bones had protruded from her skirt. The yellow dress she wore was loose, even though my sister, the previous owner of the dress, had been a rail of a thing.

  “Why aren’t you eating?” Father asked, handing me a slice of bread. I started to shove it into my mouth, then remembered all those lectures about table manners. I chewed with my mouth closed, then thought how ridiculous it was to be worried about impressing a dirt-scratcher. Did her people even eat at tables? They probably ate everything with their fingers.

  “Eat,” Mother insisted, pointing her fork at Emmeline’s plate.

  Emmeline picked up the fork and stabbed a carrot. She chewed slowly. We watched her chew, then swallow. Her mouth turned up slightly. “It’s good,” she said.

  I held out the platter of ribs. She frowned. “What kind of meat is that?”

  “Cow,” I said.

  “My people don’t eat meat that comes from cows.”

  “Oh.” I put the platter on the table. “What about hen?”

  “Aye,” she said. “I’ll eat that.” And so we ate our supper. Emmeline ate everything put on her plate.

  “There’s color in her cheeks,” Father said, waving a hen’s leg. “You’ve done well, wife. She looks ready to travel.”

  Emmeline stopped eating. “I can travel?” Her voice was stronger, which made her unusual accent easier to understand. The way she rolled some of her letters was strange and took a bit of time to get used to. “Does that mean I can go home?”

  Father shared a long, worried look with Mother and me. We knew things that Emmeline did not yet know, news that had come to us that very morning by way of the civil engineer. “You should tell her,” I said.

  “It’s too soon,” Mother whispered. She reached out and placed a protective hand over Emmeline’s. “She’s still very frail.”

  “Tell me what?” Emmeline asked, her eyes widening.

  Father set the hen leg onto his plate and folded his hands, a serious pose for the delivery of serious news. “The road is destroyed. No one has ridden in or out of the Flatlands since the flood. But a small raft came downriver, carrying a tax-collector and two of his guards.” He paused.

  “She needs to know,” I quietly urged. As horrid as it was, she had the right to know what had happened.

  Father unfolded, then folded his hands. “The news is not good. The flood swallowed one of the villages. I think it was called Root.”

  “Root is my village.” Emmeline’s shoulders sank. She seemed to shrink within the dress itself. “Swallowed?” she repeated, her lower lip trembling.

  “I’m afraid so. No buildings were spared. The river took everything.” There was more to be told, but I knew from his tender expression that he would save the details for later, when Emmeline had regained her strength. For it wasn’t only a raft that had made its way downstream. Over the past few days, planking and household goods had piled up along the distant riverbank, as had ten bodies—all red-haired. Because rotting corpses spread disease, our tax-collector had ordered the bodies to be buried in a mass grave outside of town.

  Panic surged in Emmeline’s eyes. I’d seen the same look in a calf ’s eyes when it had been separated from the herd during a windstorm. I shifted in my chair. “I’m sure your family survived and are waiting for you,” I said.

  Emmeline stared at her plate. “My father is not waiting for me.” We had to lean close to hear her words, her voice soft, her lips barely moving. “He was taken away to fight in the war.”

  “War?” Father and I asked at the same time.

  Emmeline’s eyes sparkled with tears. “The war in the mineral fields,” she said.

  “War in the mineral fields?” Father rubbed the back of his neck. “I don’t know of any such war.”

  “But the soldiers came,” Emmeline said. “They came on horseback with a scroll from the king.”

  “When?” I asked.

  She wiped at a rolling tear. “Just before the rain. The king needed men to fight. That’s what the scroll said. So they took all the unmarried men.”

  “Are you sure they were the king’s soldiers?” I asked. “Did they wear yellow tunics with the white swan crest?”

  She nodded.

  “But why did they take your father?” Mother asked.

  “My mother died when I was ten and my father never took another wife.”

  Father sat back in his chair and ran his fingers through his beard. “This is very strange. If a war raged in the mineral fields, surely we would have heard of it.”

  “Why would there be a war in the mineral fields?” I asked. “I thought that place was long abandoned because of the deadly gases.”

  While Father and I sat perplexed, Mother turned her attention to Emmeline. “Have you no one else?” she asked. “An aunt or uncle? Cousins, perhaps?” Nan walked into the supper room and began to clear the table.

  “I have no one,” Emmeline said.

  “What about friends? Surely there will be someone you can stay with.”

  Emmeline sat very straight. “I can take care of myself. You’ve helped me more than I can repay. Since I’m well enough to travel, I’ll leave in the morning.” How beautiful she looked, her hair draping over her small shoulders, her lips the same color as the jam we ate at breakfast.

  “You can’t leave,” I blurted. “I mean, not yet. The road isn’t repaired. You’ll have to stay until the road is repaired.”

  “Stay here?” Nan balanced an armful of dishes. “Dirt-scratchers are supposed to stay in the Flatlands. It’s against the king’s law for them to leave. It’s against the king’s law for her to be here.”

  “She didn’t leave,” I said. “She was pushed out. There’s a huge difference. And besides, how could the king expect Emmeline to stay in the Flatlands when her village is gone?”

  Mother began pouring tea. “Owen is right, husband. We can’t send Emmeline back to nothing. We should keep her.”

  “Keep her?” Father pulled his pipe from his pocket and tapped its contents onto his plate. “She’s not a stray cat, wife. What would we do with her?”

  “Why not give her a job?” I said with a shrug.

  “A job?” Emmeline’s eyes brightened. “Yes. I will work for you, to pay back my debt.”

  “She could help Nan in the kitchen,” Mother suggested, though her tone was half-hearted. We all knew
Nan’s reaction before it burst from her lips.

  “I don’t want anyone messing with my kitchen,” she insisted, her cheeks turning red. “I do the kitchen work, no one else.”

  “Why not make her a milkmaid?” I said.

  Nan gasped. “You’re going to let a dirt-scratcher milk your cows? What will the townsfolk say?”

  Father frowned. “We can’t make her a milkmaid.”

  “Why not?” I asked. “The cows seem to like her. They never looked in my bedroom window before. And that cow at the river—”

  “The cows aren’t the issue,” Father said. “The law is the issue. It’s against the law for a dirt-scratcher to live outside the Flatlands. It’s been that way ever since they came to this land as invaders. Ever since they cursed our queen and the chocolate disappeared.”

  In my schoolhouse years, I’d learned all about the terrible dark day when the chocolate had disappeared. Everyone knew the story. That’s why I couldn’t believe my ears when Emmeline, her lips glistening with butter from the carrots, innocently asked, “What is chocolate?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Father sputtered, his pipe dangling from his lower lip. “Surely you jest.”

  Emmeline frowned. “Jest?”

  “Emmeline?” I asked. “You really don’t know about chocolate?” She shook her head. “But that’s the reason your people were sent to the Flatlands. Don’t they teach you history in …?” Then I remembered that Nan had said dirt-scratchers don’t send their children to school.

  I reached into my vest pocket and pulled out the book I’d been carrying around. Normally I wouldn’t have spent so much time reading, but what else was I supposed to do with a broken rib and Mother’s orders to rest? The days moved slower than a caterpillar across a field. “This book contains the famous legends of Anglund,” I said. “There’s a chapter on chocolate if you’d like to borrow it.”

  Emmeline’s frown deepened. “I can’t read.”

  “Oh.” I should have guessed that. As I opened the book and shuffled through its pages, Nan brought a platter of honey cakes to the table. “One of us can read it to you, if you’d like,” I said.

  “Do you think that’s wise?” Mother asked. “It’s a most upsetting story and Emmeline is still frail.”

  “I’m not frail,” Emmeline insisted. “I want to know why we can’t leave the Flatlands. I want to know why …” Her gaze darted to Nan. “I want to know why people hate us.”

  “Are you going to read The Sweetest Spell?” Nan asked. “That’s a real good story.” She pulled a chair from the corner and sat behind Mother.

  Back when my sister was alive, we used to do this all the time—read from one of our favorite books, right there at the supper table. But those days seemed so long ago.

  Though there were no windows in the supper room, night had crept in, seeping around the furniture. Mother lit two candles and set them close to me. “You sure you want to hear this?” I asked after finding the page. “It’s about your people and it’s not a nice story.”

  “My life has never been a nice story,” Emmeline said.

  And so I read.

  The Sweetest Spell: The Story of Chocolate

  As recorded by Filibus Minor, Royal Secretary to Queen Margaret, divinely bequested ruler of the Kingdom of Anglund.

  In the reign of Her Royal and Rightful Majesty Queen Margaret, there was great prosperity and peace. This era, known as the Years of Happiness, was brought about by the magnificence of the Queen Herself. A renowned scholar and philosopher, Queen Margaret understood that trade could be a more powerful purveyor of peace than the sword. Thusly, in accordance with Her grand plan, She withdrew Her warships from the Southern Sea. Merchant ships could now sail the waters between our island kingdom and our enemies’ distant shores, enriching our land with silk, porcelain, and oil in exchange for the one commodity our enemies desired more than anything else—chocolate.

  During my reign as Royal Secretary, Queen Margaret possessed the magic for making chocolate. The secret was delivered to Her in a divine dream. 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. Queen Margaret shared the magic with Her royal chefs. In the vast underbelly of the palace, where the royal kitchens spread like a labyrinth, chocolate was made every day. The scent wafted out the palace windows and drifted down the streets and was almost impossible to resist. Anglunders with coin were never without the precious treat. During the annual Festival of the Swan, the Queen supplied a piece of chocolate to everyone in the kingdom, even the poorest families. Such was Her generous nature.

  With the trade routes open and word of chocolate spreading, dignitaries began to arrive from all over the world to taste the delicacy. They laid treasures at Queen Margaret’s feet, in the hopes that She would trade chocolate. More chefs were hired and trained to meet the demand. Another wing of the palace was converted into an enormous kitchen. The royal barn, which housed the royal cows, quadrupled in size. Cream, a main ingredient in the chocolate-making process, became highly sought after. Anglund’s dairymen grew wealthy. And Queen Margaret grew more beloved each year of Her reign as her power to create chocolate gave the country wealth and influence.

  Then tragedy struck. In the thirtieth year of Queen Margaret’s reign, a wild wind invaded our kingdom. A cloud of dust descended over the land, choking those who couldn’t find shelter. The dust cloud stayed for three long days, blocking out the sun. On the fourth day, it blew away as quickly as it had appeared, but in its wake came a strange tribe of invaders, a red-haired people who …

  I stopped reading and glanced up at Emmeline. She stared intently at my lips, as if trying to see the story as it emerged from my mouth. Mother and Nan munched honey cakes. Father smoked his pipe. I continued reading.

  …a red-haired people who called themselves the Kell. Their chieftain, whose fiery hair fell to his knees, claimed they’d been forced from their land by the dust storm, which had strangled most of their people, animals, and crops. Queen Margaret, in Her benevolence, made the following decree. “We shall grant the Kell sanctuary in our land. They are welcome here.” Because they came without belongings, the Queen offered them food, shelter, and clothing in exchange for their work in the mineral fields.

  “The mineral fields?” Emmeline interrupted. “My ancestors used to work in the mineral fields?”

  “Yes,” Father said. “The very same place where your father has been taken.”

  “Shall I keep reading?” I asked her.

  “Aye,” she said.

  It was Queen Margaret’s kind heart that blinded Her to the true nature of the Kell chieftain. He was not satisfied with the work given to his people in the mineral fields. A greedy spirit hid beneath his fur pelts. “Why should my people live as slaves?” he demanded. “The Kell are proud. The Kell are strong. Give us land and we will take care of ourselves.”

  “Why should We give you land?” Queen Margaret asked. “We have granted you sanctuary and work. That is enough.”

  But the chieftain wanted more. He wanted to rule Anglund. He wanted to share the Queen’s bed. He wanted to share Her wealth. When She refused, he led an uprising of his strongest men, and they invaded the palace kitchens, where they murdered most of the royal chefs. Only two chefs survived and these the chieftain held as hostages. “Give me the magic of chocolate or I will slit their throats,” he threatened the Queen.

  Soldiers of the royal army stormed the kitchen and valiantly fought the devil-haired barbarians. The scent of chocolate mixed with the scent of fresh blood, rivers of which ran along the corridors. The chieftain was eventually captured, but only after he’d murdered the last two chefs.

  When the chieftain stood on the execution platform, he made the following declaration: “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 gi
ve it to one of my own.”

  At the stroke of the blade, when the chieftain’s head rolled from his neck, his curse flew through the air and pierced Queen Margaret’s heart. Her magic disappeared. Never again could She make chocolate. Sadness fell over the entire kingdom. The merchant ships left our ports, never to return.

  Despite the brutality to Her Person and Her people, Queen Margaret’s heart remained pure and kind. The remaining Kell, mostly women and children, were sent to the uninhabited region known as the Flatlands and left there to take care of themselves. But never again would they be allowed to wander the kingdom. Never again would they be trusted to be full citizens of the realm.

  As I, the Royal Secretary, record this history, our beloved, beautiful Queen has locked Herself inside Her chamber, seeking slumber, hoping for the divine dream to return. Hoping, once again, to possess the magic of chocolate.

  I closed the book, wondering what Emmeline’s reaction would be. But she said nothing, lost in thought. Mother broke the silence. “Have a honey cake,” she said, holding the platter out. “They are delicious. I’m sure they are even better than chocolate.”

  Emmeline took one of the cakes but set it on her plate without taking a bite. Her hair had fallen over her shoulders, gently framing her oval face. “Is it true?” she asked.

  “Of course it’s true,” Nan mumbled.

  “It is legend,” Father said, moving his pipe to the other side of his mouth. “Legend is part truth and part story.”

  “Husband, we still have the matter at hand.” Mother wiped the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “How are we breaking the law if there is no way for Emmeline to return to the Flatlands? The road is closed. No boat can go up that part of the river. What is she supposed to do? Fly?”