Emma grabbed Clarence by the front of his shirt. Very softly she said, "Get. It. Off. Now."
"Yes," Clarence assured her. "I'm pretty sure I already came across that spell, if you'll just loosen your hold so I can look—actually, so I can breathe..."
Emma let go.
Clarence found a spell called:
Sticky Fingers
which said it was good for picking up anything, and the spell on the next page said:
Loose Fingers
which he checked, beforehand, to make sure it was good for letting go of anything, rather than for having fingers actually become loose. But, just to be on the safe side, Clarence said the magic words while pointing to Emma rather than to himself to give her the Sticky Fingers.
"Now," he said, "take hold of the hair on top of your head."
"Beard," she corrected him. "It's a beard." She took hold of it, and it came off in her hands, and no more came back since it had been removed magically.
Clarence breathed a sigh of relief.
"It's stuck," Emma said, realizing she couldn't let go of the large golden cone.
"It's taken care of," Clarence told her. And he recited the Loose Fingers spell, so that the beard dropped from her hands. At this point she still had tiny little beard eyebrows, no eyelashes, and less hair on her head than she had started with.
"Let's see," Clarence said, leafing through the books and picking up various scrolls. "Here's one."
"What does it say?" Emma demanded.
Clarence picked up the scroll, one of the oldest, and read:
"A Spelle for hayre"
The instructions said that, if such was important, the conjurer could specify location for the Hayre, colour, or size.
"Size?" Emma asked suspiciously. "Size?"
Clarence shrugged. "Size, quantity, length—means the same thing. You'll be wanting big."
Emma started to shake her head, but already Clarence was saying the words.
The next thing he knew, Emma had a big blond-colored rabbit attached to her head.
Emma fainted.
The rabbit didn't seem too happy, either.
Why, oh why did I ever start this? Clarence asked himself.
He sat down at the table and began reading the books more carefully rather than trying to skim through. Eventually he found what he needed. The spell was called:
Reversing Your Previous Enchantment
Clarence said the spell, and the rabbit disappeared. He said the spell again, fervently hoping that it wouldn't simply undo the reversal. It didn't. The gold beard, which was lying on the floor next to the fainted Emma, rolled into her hands, because he'd just reversed the Loose Fingers spell, which left her, once again, with Sticky Fingers. Clarence said the words again and again to reverse himself through each spell until finally Emma's beard disappeared, but her eyebrows and eyelashes stayed so that she looked just as she had when she'd first come in.
Which was where he had started.
"Emma," he said, shaking her shoulder. "Emma."
Her eyes fluttered opened. Seeing him, she shrieked.
"I hope this has been a lesson to you," he said, which was actually something his mother liked to say to him. As though this was all part of some grand plan he had had, he said, "You should be satisfied with what you have. If your young man does not appreciate you for what you are, he isn't worth having."
"If my young man is nothing like you," Emma answered, "I will be satisfied." Without even tying her scarf back around her head, she stomped out of the house.
Clarence spent the rest of the morning putting order back in his mother's papers, picking up the articles from her sewing basket that Emma had scattered, cleaning up the food that had spilled on and around the table. He milked the goats again, said hello to the pigs, gathered the chickens' eggs, prepared a lunch for himself, and sat down to eat.
And waited, hoping somebody else would come.
Lost Soul
SHE WAS SITTING ON THE ROCK, smiling to herself, her feet dangling in the stream, and he thought she was the loveliest sight he had ever seen. She leaned backward, bracing her feet on the rock, and arched her back so that a hand span or two of her long hair dipped into the water, where the current gently tugged at it. She closed her eyes against the brightness of the sun, but still she smiled. It was wonderful to see her, he thought, to see someone so obviously in love with life.
She straightened, laughing, and shook her head so that crystal beads of moisture flew in the afternoon light. Her hair was the color of the wheat ripening in the field he had inherited when his father had died.
The wheat... a little voice reminded him. It was time for harvesting the wheat. There was work to be done, which he had put off to visit his ailing grandmother, half a morning's walk away from home. He had stayed as long as he could but left because a harvest cannot wait. Though he was eighteen years old and though he had spent his entire life helping his father, or planting and harvesting on his own, at the moment he found it difficult to remember what it was he had to do.
This forest was said to be haunted by spirits eager to devour an unwary man's soul. But he was a Christian and he knew a man's soul was his own, so he stepped out from the trees and into the clearing.
Still smiling, she gazed directly into his eyes.
He had thought she might be startled. "Excuse me," he might have said then. "I didn't mean no harm," he could have said, and come forward to show that he was, in fact, harmless. Something—something—to get started. But she only sat there, her eyes as cool and green as the stream, the smile still on those pretty lips.
"Ahm," he said, and could go no further without shuffling his feet and twisting the cap he clutched in his sweaty hands—just like the time ten or eleven summers back when he'd been caught pitching pebbles at the swans in the baron's moat.
She tipped her head and looked at him quizzically. "Yes?" she asked, still smiling.
A lady. He could tell by the way she said just that one word. A lady, despite the unbound hair and the bare feet and the plain green dress trailing in the stream. And here he was coming up to her in the woods, bold as anything, and her people no doubt just a shout away, ready to come tearing out of wherever they were waiting for her and beat him for presumption.
"Uh," he said.
"Oh," she said. "I see. Ahm. Uh. That must be how you charm the girls—by telling them such sweet, pretty things."
He felt his face go red, despite the fact that she had still never stopped smiling. "No," he mumbled.
"No?" she repeated. "No, you don't charm girls, or no, you don't tell them sweet, pretty things?"
He had no idea how to answer in a way that wouldn't make him out to be a fool. "Ahm..."
"Oh, back to ahm." She leaned back, supporting her weight on her arms, stretching slowly and deliberately.
He forced his gaze back to her face and saw that she was well aware of where he had been looking. And was pleased by it, he realized with a jolt of surprise, just as she patted the rock and said, "Come and sit by me, boy, and tell me some more sweet, pretty things."
Boy. Even though he was a man by any standard, with his own holding, which he had farmed successfully for almost two years now. Even though they looked to be much of an age. For the briefest instant he was angry, but she was still smiling at him, and he was finding it hard to breathe.
Because of the way she was sitting, he would have to step into the stream to get around her to the other side of the rock. Should he take off his boots? It only made sense, but then she would see that his feet were dirty and callused. She whose feet were white and smooth and beautifully shaped. He tore his gaze from her feet and stepped—boots and all—into the water, which was colder than he had anticipated. There was an undercurrent, too, so he teetered out of balance and sat more quickly than he had intended.
"You're sitting on my hair, boy," she said.
"I'm sorry," he breathed, and stood long enough to brush away a long, golden strand. It was
soft and smooth and fine and it smelled wonderful—she smelled wonderful: like the first day of spring after a hard winter.
She leaned forward to wring the edge of her dress, and her arm brushed against his. He didn't dare move. She looked back at him over her shoulder, then fanned the skirt of the dress, exposing long, shapely legs. Her skin was pale.
Like ivory, he thought. Not that he had ever seen ivory, but "skin like ivory" was what the ballad singers always said. So much more beautiful than the tanned legs of the girls in the village or those who worked their fathers' holdings.
She left the hem up near her knees. "You're shivering, boy," she pointed out. "The water's not that cold."
It wasn't. But he said nothing.
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Quinton." He cleared his throat and repeated it.
She laughed. "'Fifth-born,'" she said, which he already knew from the baron's chaplain. "Are you?"
It took a moment for the question to sink in. He nodded.
"How delightful." She laughed, and he ached from the beauty of the sound, though he had no idea why she laughed. He had never met anyone who talked like this, who acted like this.
"What's your name?" he asked.
Her green eyes sparkled as she looked him over. She waited just long enough for him to regret his brashness before she answered, "You may call me Salina."
"Salina," he murmured, trying out the sound of it.
"Do you like it?" she asked. "I just made it up." She put her hands around the back of her neck and lifted the mass of her hair so that it brushed against his arm. "It was very wicked of you to sit on my hair, Quinton," she said.
"It was an accident." Don't be angry, he begged mentally. "I didn't mean it."
"Of course you did, you wicked boy. You wanted to touch my hair."
"I didn't," he protested. "I swear."
"You didn't?" She looked at him soberly. "Don't you like my hair?"
"I..." Was she angry or not? "Yes," he whispered. Oh, definitely yes.
"Then you may touch it again." She turned her back to him, so that he was bedazzled by the sunlit goldenness of the hair. A waterfall of silken threads. She wasn't angry after all.
His hand shook, touching her shoulder.
"Now, Quinton." She looked back at him. "I said my hair."
He didn't know whether to say Yes, Salina, or Yes, my lady. So he only said, "Yes," and combed his fingers through her hair and was grateful that she couldn't see his rough, sun-browned hands.
She made soft, throaty sounds of approval and after a long while, leaned back against him, her hand resting lightly on his leg. He couldn't believe his good fortune, that this was happening to him. Her breathing was slow and regular, while his came faster and he had to concentrate to remember to keep his mouth closed. She was a lady, he reminded himself; he could lose everything by trying to go too fast. He worked his fingers upward, then let his hands linger on the back of her head, massaging. And when she seemed to like that, he strayed forward, to rub her temples. She settled more firmly against him, rubbing her shoulders against his chest, so he moved his hands down once more to her shoulders.
She whirled around and slapped him. "That's enough now," she said.
He sat back, surprised and dismayed. Had he been too rough? Or had she suddenly discerned what was on his mind? She had to have known, he thought. She had to have known what effect she was having on him.
She was shaking her hair out and rearranging her dress. He couldn't tell what she was thinking.
"Please," he whispered.
She didn't seem to hear him.
He looked away and saw that the sun was low in the sky. Almost dusk—where had the time gone?—and he was only halfway home. When he had first sat down, he had brought his feet up onto the side of the rock, but somehow, without his having noticed, they had ended up back in the water. They felt numb with the chill.
"Well?" Salina said.
He looked up.
"Will you be my gallant champion and carry me back to dry land?" She held her arms open, and very, very gently he picked her up. The current tugged even more strongly than he remembered, but she held tightly to his neck, which almost sent him into a panic of ecstasy.
Once back on the grassy shore, she asked, "Are you going to set me down, or will you hold me all night long?"
"Do I have a choice?" he asked.
"Silly boy. You can talk sweetly. Put me down."
He did, ache though he did to do so.
"Will you be back tomorrow?" she asked.
His heart thudded so hard he was sure it was about to burst. "Yes," he said. "Oh yes. Will you?"
"Perhaps," she said, "Quinton. You'll just have to come back and see." She turned quickly and walked into the woods.
"Wait." He took several steps, but already she was gone.
She didn't appear to have taken the path toward Woodrow, where his grandmother lived, nor the path toward his own Dunderry.
"Salina," he called into the darkening woods. She could be anywhere and he wouldn't see her in this light. "Lady Salina."
But all he saw was the dark bulk of the trees, and all he heard was the whisper of leaves.
It was dark by the time he reached his cottage on the forest side of Dunderry, but somebody had gotten a fire going: He could see the light around the edges of the door. Who? he wondered. Both his parents were dead, and the two sisters who had survived childhood had husbands and children of their own and wouldn't be here.
Salina, he thought, beyond all reason.
He flung the door open, and a dark-haired peasant jumped up from the pot she was tending over the fire. "Quinton!" she cried. "Are you all right?" She threw her arms around his neck, and for the longest time he couldn't think who this young woman might be.
"Ada," he said finally, pulling the name from a far corner of his memory. She smelled of stale earth and was suffocating him. He pulled away.
"Quinton?" Her voice grated despite the concern in its tone. "Did your grandmother ... You were gone so long. She didn't ... What happened?"
Did she know how ignorant she sounded? Did she know how stupid she looked with that worried expression? But that wasn't fair; she was only trying to be helpful. It wasn't her fault she was so dark and ugly and common.
"My grandmother?" he repeated.
"Quinton? Your poor sick grandmother, she didn't ... die, did she?"
"No." Quinton looked into the pot of stew Ada had made for him. Beans and onions. Salina wouldn't have made him a supper of beans and onions.
"Quinton," Ada demanded.
"What?" He looked up at her. "My grandmother is fine."
"Then where were you? We were expecting you back by midafternoon. Where are the baron's draft horses?"
The horses. Now Quinton remembered. He was supposed to have brought the horses for the harvest tomorrow. He, Ada's father, and several others with holdings in the baron's northern lands were going to work together. "I forgot."
She gave him that dull, uncomprehending look again.
"I'll get them tomorrow."
Would she ever close her mouth?
"I forgot!" he screamed at her. "I'll get them tomorrow. I can't very well go now." Did he have to pick her up and throw her out the door to get her to leave? He remembered the feel of Salina in his arms and moaned.
"Quinton?" Ada sounded scared.
He got into the bed in the corner without even taking off his boots. He pulled the cover up to his chin although the night was warm enough to go without, and turned his back to her. "I'm all right," he said, to get her to leave. "I'll get the damn horses tomorrow."
He heard her hesitate, then take the pot off the fire, then leave. He clutched the blanket and thought of Salina.
At first daylight he set out without breakfast. He saw Ada's father cutting through the wheat field but didn't pause. "I'm getting the horses," he shouted, waving, not stopping.
"Quinton!" he heard Hakon call, but he kept on wal
king. The baron's castle was to the east, but so was the stream where he had seen Salina. He'd go there first, then on to the castle afterward.
He didn't know how he had made it through the night without her. He hadn't slept at all. He had to see her again. Had to smell her. To touch her. Please be there, he thought. Please be there.
She wasn't.
It was still early. Perhaps he should have gotten the horses first. Maybe she would come only in the afternoon. He watched the sunlight sparkle on the stream and didn't dare leave for fear he'd miss her.
He lay down in the grass, torn between enjoying and being afraid of the sweet ache of thinking of Salina. She'll come back, he thought, and I'll see that she's not all that I remember. Pretty, but there are a lot of pretty girls.
He'd get over it. He'd get her out of his mind. Nobody, nobody could look that beautiful. Skin could not be that soft, that pale and radiant. Eyes could not be that green and deep. Hair, lips, throat could not be that perfect, that inviting. To touch her just once, just once...
He woke with a start.
His face was pressed against the grass, but he could see that the moon was out, pale and low, sharing the late-afternoon sky with the sun. He lifted his head, turned to face the stream.
Salina was there, though he had never heard her come. She was sitting on the rock, in the same green dress, watching him with that day-brightening smile.
"Sleepy Quinton," she called. She stretched, standing on tiptoe, so that her tight-fitting dress seemed to cling to every curve of her body. Then she stepped onto the grass, standing close enough that he could have touched her. "I could easily grow to love you," she whispered. "In fact, I may love you already."
Before he could catch his breath, she disappeared into the trees.
"Salina!" He jumped to his feet. But she was already gone.
He had waited so long, to see her for such a short time. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair.
He waded out into the stream, to the rock upon which she'd been sitting. It was still warm. He thought he could still smell the fresh scent of her there. He sank to his knees so that the cold water came up to his chest, and he put his cheek against her warmth on the rock.