"It becomes more and more apparent to me," said Arbican, "you mortals have been both industrious and ingenious in fabricating accounts of matters you know nothing whatever about. And then, in typical human fashion, you've convinced yourselves that such products of your fancy are true, simply because you want them to be true. I suppose it's a harmless occupation, but I find it disconcerting. What a blessing you don't have magical powers! I hate to think what would happen if your wishes were granted: gowns, feather beds, bags of gold, horses and carriages-believe me, if they all came tumbling out of the sky, you'd soon find little pleasure in them. Of all things to wish for, you chose the most useless."
"That's not fair to say," Mallory protested. "You make it sound as though gowns and feather beds were all I cared about. What I wished, more than anything, was for my parents to be alive and all of us happy together."
"As for that," said Arbican, not quite so gruffly, "there has never been enchantment strong enough. Magic can't work miracles."
"One wish did come true," Mallory insisted. "I used to wish for my fairy godmother to come and find me. And here you are."
"Well, I'm certainly not your godmother," retorted Arbican. "And if I don't reach Vale Innis, I'll soon be nothing at all."
"What do you mean?"
"I'll die," Arbican answered flatly. "In short order. I've already lived beyond my time here."
"Why didn't you say so in the first place?" cried Mallory. "That's terrible. Are you sure?"
"Quite sure," answered Arbican.
"How can you say that?" asked Mallory, more dismayed at Arbican's words than the enchanter himself appeared to be. "How can you sit there and talk so calmly about dying?"
"I create illusions," replied Arbican. "I don't indulge myself in them. This is what will happen. I don't say I look forward to it in the least."
"You won't die," Mallory declared. "No, not after I saved your life. I'll help you. I'll do everything I can."
"To think I'd see the day when I have to rely on a mortal," the enchanter groaned. "Ludicrous, incongruous, and a little humiliating. Very well. If I'm to get my powers back again, I shall need a few things: some bread, a piece of cheese, a slice of meat; if possible, a jug of ale."
Mallory frowned. "For a magic potion?"
"For me to eat. In addition to your other misconceptions, do you imagine enchanters don't get hungry?"
Clutching her basket, Mallory hurried from the cave and through the underbrush. At the fringe of the woods, she followed a narrow footpath bordering a new plowed field; then turned down a sunken lane that led to the first low-roofed houses of the village. Burnet, the weaver, had already opened his shutters and she caught sight of him threading his loom. By this time of day, Emmet the harness maker should have been at his workbench in the open-fronted shop. Instead, the harness maker and half a dozen of the villagers stood intently listening to a man in rough homespun. Mallory recognized him as one of the cottagers who came each week to huckster what they could spare from their vegetable patches. Today, however, the cottager was brandishing a sheet of paper covered with seals and stamps:
"There's the notice," Mallory heard him declare. "See for yourselves. I'm not quick at my letters, but as I make it out, Squire's putting us off the land, and we tenants there since my great granddad's time."
"Well, Hullock, you can't say nay to him," put in one of the village men. "It's Scrupnor's property now, he has the right side of the law."
"Be damned to him, even so," exclaimed Hullock.
"The old squire would never have done. Not tear down a man's house and home for the sake of a filthy lump of coal. Where do I live then, with wife and little ones?"
"Don't take on," said another of the villagers. "You can lodge with us awhile, till you're settled again."
"And how earn my bread?" cried Hullock. "Grub in Squire's coal pits like a blind mole?"
"It may come to that for us all, sooner or later," answered the villager.
Despite her haste, Mallory stopped to listen. There had been talk, before now, of coal pits to be dug in place of the smallholdings, but no one had really believed Scrupnor would do it. As Mallory stood a moment, the harness maker caught sight of her and sadly shook his head.
"I'd wish you a good morning," said Emmet, "but it's far from that. Not for Hullock and his neighbors."
"What, all of them?" asked Mallory, dismayed.
The harness maker nodded. "Every one. They've had their notices to vacate. That's not the worst of it, you'll see. This day a year, mark my words, there won't be man, woman, or child who doesn't work for Scrupnor's wages, and he'll call the tune for all of us. Once the road's done, there'll be no need for craftsmen here; not when it's easy to get shoddy goods and ready made from Castleton. A blessing your dad's not alive, it would break his heart. Now it won't be the skill in a man's hands that counts, but the money in his pocket."
Mallory dared stay no longer. As much as the harness maker's news distressed her, Arbican's needs were the more immediate and urgent. As she turned away, Emmet called after her:
"You watch your step, lass. Mrs. Parsel's been looking for you. Squire's at the cookshop now, and the notary with him."
Thanks to Emmet's warning, Mallory followed a narrow alley that brought her unseen to the rear of the cookshop. Scrupnor's bay mare was indeed tethered in the stable, along with two others. Mallory cautiously crossed the yard and ventured to open the back door. Seeing no one in the kitchen, she slipped inside and made her way to the larder.
Beyond the kitchen lay the shop itself, half common room, half parlor. At one of the trestle tables sat Mrs. Parsel in her finest lavender shawl; nearly eclipsed by the stout figure of his wife, Mr. Parsel leaned across the table, cupping his ear as though he feared to miss even one of Scrupnor's words.
CHAPTER 3
"Now, that settles most of our business," the squire was saying. He picked up the sheets of parchment in front of him and his heavy jaws worked up and down as if he were about to chew the documents, red tapes, wax seals and all. Scrupnor's brass buttoned riding coat, a black mourning band around one arm, stretched tight across his shoulders; his neck overflowed the linen stock, and he seemed at any moment about to explode out of his clothes. His hair, reddish and short-cropped, scarcely covered all his head, and his bare temples bulged like a pair of clenched fists. "Item, indebtedness. Correct. Item, hypothecation-that's mortgage, Mr. Parsel. The terms are all set forth."
Pulling at his side whiskers, Mr. Parsel nodded eagerly, as if being hypothecated were the dearest wish of his life. Before he could speak, however, Mrs. Parsel heaved herself closer to the table and replied in his place:
"What it agglomerates down to, Squire, our cookshop's to be made into an inn, and none other in the village. Parsel's to have the keeping of it, him and none other."
"But, now, Squire," Mr. Parsel put in, "as for the meat and drink-the victualization, we call it in the trade-that's to be bought from you?"
"Correct," replied Scrupnor. "In exclusivity, to put the proper legal term on it."
"I've always dealt with Farmer Tench," said Mr. Parsel. "He gives good value for money, especially in the matter of vegetables."
"From now on, you'll deal with me," said Scrupnor. "That, sir, is the very nature and essence of exclusivity."
"Tench won't be happy to lose my trade," said Mr. Parsel, "and he does need the business. If we could make an exception, say, at least, for carrots and parsnips-"
"Squire has better things to think about than carrots and parsnips," Mrs. Parsel broke in, with such a glance at her husband that the inn-keeper-to-be choked off his words and began thoughtfully paring his nails with a tortoiseshell clasp knife.
"Indeed I do, ma'am," said Scrupnor. "Your cookshop, for one. I mean to have it rebuilt for you. You'll have a new public room, bedchambers, another stable. Once my road's done, it's a straight line between here and Castleton High Road. You'll draw more trade than you ever saw in your life. Your husband will b
e a rich man, Mrs. P. And a lucky one, on top of it all, with such a helpmeet as you."
A purple blush spread over Mrs. Parsel's cheeks. Though her attempt at a giggle came out more in the way of a snort, she batted her eyes girlishly and from her taut bodice pulled a handkerchief which she fluttered at the squire.
From the kitchen, Mallory could not help overhearing the exchange between the Parsels and Scrupnor; but her thoughts were only to lay hands on whatever leftovers she could find and take them to Arbican as fast as she could. She snatched up half a loaf of bread and a remnant of cheese and dropped them into her basket.
In the common roam, Rowan the notary had been sitting a little apart, chewing at the end of a clay pipe. Dark-suited, hair powdered in the old style, he glanced at Scrupnor with a certain air of distaste, then leaned forward in his chair, and said quietly to Mr. Parsel:
"You understand, don't you, Parsel, that Squire holds title to the property. In short, the inn belongs to him until you've paid it off with interest."
Scrupnor turned quickly to the notary. "That's all been gone through. No need for your opinion."
"Hardly an opinion," replied Rowan. "I merely remind Mr. Parsel of the terms as they're drawn up. He has a right to understand his position clearly; indeed, he must give knowing consent."
"He consents," declared Scrupnor. "Leave off with your lawyer's pettifogging." He turned to Mrs. Parsel. "The terms are generous, as you well know. We've agreed on them and so has every tradesman of any account. I don't deny the existence of invidious malcontents. The harness maker, for one; the cooper for another. That, ma'am, is their loss if they choose to fall by the wayside, deaf to the voice of progress, blind to the golden vistas of the future. They'll shut up shop by mid-year, I guarantee. Let others more deserving enjoy the blessings of prosperity. Hodge will have a new saw mill and timber yard-naturally, I shall provide the lumber. Burnet shall be cloth merchant in exclusivity, once I've put up my weaving sheds. We'll soon outshine Castleton itself. There won't be a fallow field or a useless bit of woods or a creek that isn't turned to some good purpose. That's progress, ma'am; that's vision."
Scrupnor rolled his eyes upward as if the keenness of such vision could bore through the cookshop ceiling. Then in a hushed voice of wonder, he added:
"That's coal."
"Coal?" repeated Mr. Parsel, squinting in the same direction as the squire. "Where do you see that?"
"I see it," answered Scrupnor, in a resonating prophetic tone, "gleaming like gold under a threadbare cloak of lead, asking only to be brought into the light. I refer to the land presently rented to the cottagers on the north fields. I've made investigations, had expert reports which confirm what I always knew: that land has better use than to be scraped and scrabbled for crops not worth planting. A blessing for those cottagers, too, in the long run. As soon as the pits are dug, I mean to let them work there, snug underground, out of the wet and weather. Those dirty, drafty kennels they now occupy will be deconstructed. Notice to that effect has been served this very day. In due time, what was a rabble of idlers will be uplifted to the ranks of honest working folk, strong of arm, clear of eye, obedient of heart. And thirsty, too, ma'am, which means all the more trade for your inn, at least as concerns the ale house aspect of it."
"Squire," said Mrs. Parsel, "it's an inspiration to hear you speak. I urge you, and in my capacity as presiding officer invite you to address the Ladies' Benevolence. We shall devote an entire evening to your discouragement."
"Gladly," replied Scrupnor, "as soon as my onerous duties allow me that pleasure. Meantime, I look to the Ladies' Benevolence as the hub around which our social graces and good works must revolve."
Hearing this, Mallory made a furious face, since the charitable works of Mrs. Parsel's Ladies' Benevolence consisted mainly in offering each other suppers, accompanied by an ample array of wine bottles, lasting far into the night. Nevertheless, she kept filling her basket. The floor creaked behind her, though before she could turn, an arm was flung tightly about her waist and a hand seized her by the hair.
Mallory choked back a cry and twisted around to find herself staring up into the grinning face of Bolt, the squire's gamekeeper. The more she struggled, the more Bolt tightened his fingers in her hair until her eyes watered so heavily she could scarcely see. She beat her fists against his jacket while Bolt only laughed at her efforts.
"I saw you come sneaking in," he said in her ear, pulling Mallory closer. "Little baggage, what are you up to? You'll catch it from Mrs. P. But you be cheerful and friendly, now; stay on my good side and she'll never know you're here."
For answer, Mallory kicked him twice in the shins. Bolt let out a roar, snatched away his hands to rub frantically at the injured parts, jigging up and down on one leg then the other. The gamekeeper's bellowing, however, brought the Parsels and their company hurrying into the kitchen. Mallory would have tried to escape then and there and face the consequences later. But as the girl stooped to retrieve the scattered leftovers, Mrs. Parsel, showing amazing lightness of foot, laid hold of Mallory and, unhesitatingly, began boxing her ears; alternating gasps of indignation with clucks of apology to Scrupnor.
"Lay on," cried Bolt, as if Mrs. Parsel needed further encouragement. "My dear," Mr. Parsel murmured to his wife, "shouldn't we know what she's done?"
"She's like to paralyze me, the little beast, isn't that enough?" the gamekeeper declared.
"Quite enough," agreed Mrs. Parsel, never missing a stroke. "You stay out of this, Parsel. She's in one of her fits. If you ask me, it's the fairy tales that does it. Her head's so stuffed with those tales; I try every way to beat them out, but no use."
"Pernicious and unwholesome," said Scrupnor nodding gravely, while Bolt limped to the kitchen table and sat down. "A heavy burden you bear, Mrs. Parsel. But I fear not much can be done. Once these fancies infect the brain, they're not easily cured. I tell you, Mrs. Parsel, I'd rather a dozen cases of the smallpox than one case of the fairy tales."
"It's in her blood," said Mrs. Parsel. "Handed down from her mother, as you might say a family curse."
"I always enjoyed hearing the old stories," Mr. Parsel murmured.
"Yes, and you see what they've done to you," retorted Mrs. Parsel. "Turned you into a soft headed fool. If it hadn't been for my pushing and prodding, you'd have never seen what a fortune Squire offered you. Brace yourself up, Parsel. Drain such nonsense out of your mind. Why, that girl's downright contagious!"
Mrs. Parsel had meanwhile finished her duties with Mallory. "Now, then," she said, in a tone promising further ministrations at a more convenient time, "set out glasses, and that bottle of port wine for Squire. And a plate of cakes. Make a nice tray, do you hear, with the clean napkins."
Though her ears rang and her cheeks smarted, Mallory forced herself to stay silent, for the sake of avoiding any more delay in returning to Arbican. Inwardly, however, she raged and wept, and wished for even the smallest portion of the enchanter's magical powers. "I'd put a spell on her she'd not forget," Mallory said to herself. "Let her break out in boils! In warts! In toothaches!" Furiously, she seized goblets and silverware from the cupboard, threw them onto the tray, and set down the wine bottle with such a jolt that the knives and forks danced into the air.
Crediting Mallory's energy and haste to the salutary effect of the ear-boxing, Mrs. Parsel bobbed her head in satisfaction; then, laying a hand on Scrupnor's arm, drew him toward the table:
"Come, Squire, partake a little refreshment of that port wine. I'll even swallow a drop of it myself, as I need revivifying. You can't believe the effort of training such a creature. That girl will be the exhaustion of me, and the sorrow of my days. But you have your own griefs and sorrows, Squire, as to which we are very condolative."
"Thank you, Mrs. Parsel," Scrupnor answered solemnly. "I find your sympathy very heartening in my bereavement."
"You bear your loss with such courage, and set the example to us all," said Mrs. Parsel. "Poor Mr. Sorrel. How you
must grieve for him. But I tell you, Squire, he'll never rest easy in his grave until his heartless assassinator comes to the bar of justice."
"Nor will I rest easy," declared Scrupnor, with a sigh. "I was his bailiff, his confidential clerk; no more, you might say, than engaged in a fiduciary relationship. Remuneration per annum. Hired and paid. That's the cold way of putting it. But I tell you there was a filial affection nothing less than paternal between I and that blessed old man. I couldn't have been fonder of Squire Sorrel if he was my own father.
"I recriminate myself," Scrupnor went on. "I should never have gone to Castleton. The business could have waited. I should have been at his side. Not a moment of the day passes, but I wish I had stayed with him."
"There, there, Squire," said Mrs. Parsel, as Scrupnor bowed his head so deeply that his chin vanished into the folds of his neck cloth. "I know it's hard for we sensitive souls not to suffer from our feelings. Damn that little slut, where's the wine?"
"The deplorable event has incinerated itself forever in my memory," said Scrupnor. "I still tremble at the recollection, though it's already a month gone by. I came back from Castleton, business done to the old squire's profit. But all useless. All shattered. The servant girls beside themselves. The master smothered with a pillow in his very bed."
"We're none of us safe in our beds nowadays," Mr. Parsel observed. "Highwaymen, footpads, cutthroats, every sort of desperate fellow lurking about."