Chapter Nine

Lizzie

O nce the truth was out, neither Mormor nor Norva were content with anything less than the full story. They listened, punctuating Lizzie's recap with exclamations of shock or disgust.

"When I told him that I would not marry Prince Shea, Father became visibly angry and yelled that he would marry me to the next man to come to the door. As it happened, the next man was a wandering minstrel with a beard so bushy and unkempt that a bird could have made a nest in it, and no one would know."

Norva's hand flew to her mouth. "Surely your father reconsidered. He knew absolutely nothing about the man."

Lizzie shook her head. The memories of that night had brought with them an echo of the embarrassment, fear, and anger, though time and distance had muted them to nothing more than an uncomfortable buzz in her chest and twisting in her stomach. They certainly would not have been enough to spur her into action now. "He announced to the man and everyone else in the room that we would be married in the morning."

A sound of disgust left Mormor's mouth. "The man isn't fit to be a father, much less a king. As I always say, "A crown sits heavily on the head of a king, and it will topple him without a brain as counterweight.'"

"So you left before the wedding, I take it?" Norva looked pointedly at Lizzie's bare fingers.

"Yes. I packed a bag and left that night."

Mormor looked at her curiously. "You seem to be taking all of this rather well. A betrayal like that would have brought most women to tears."

She folded her hands over her basket, half-finished and abandoned for the time-being. "I have been living with my father's temper my entire life. Though the consequence was surprising, the situation behind it was not. He's a brilliant politician and a strong king, but he's never been a kind man. The most surprising part of all of this was his ready willingness to blatantly ignore a previous agreement with an ally country."

"And what agreement was that?"

"I am—or was, I suppose—engaged to the prince of Kysta. Given my father's actions, I would not be surprised if the betrothal is no longer in place."

Norva scoffed. "You were betrothed already, and he was lining up suitors for your hand? This requires another pot of tea." She rose heavily and crossed the room to the stove.

"I'm no expert in politics," Mormor added, "but I'm sure that's an offense your fiancé would not have taken lightly."

"Perhaps."

The old woman's gaze sharpened. "Or perhaps you wanted him to take offense?"

"Not at all. Freddy is a good person, and Kysta is a lovely country. They are valuable allies to maintain."

"Spoken like a woman in love," Mormor commented dryly.

"Oh hush, Mormor," Norva chided over her shoulder. "You know that political marriages rarely involve affection."

"Well, they should. After all, as I always say, ‘Marriage is the heart of the home.' If the king's own home is in disrepair, how on earth is he to be expected to look after the state of the country? That war between Brisia and Cabriole, for example—that all was started because the Brisia's queen was sneaking around with some Cabriole noble."

"I heard it was because Brisia got greedy and wanted to expand their borders." Norva returned to her seat, bracing herself against the arms as she lowered down.

"By first seizing the land of his wife's lover." Mormor clucked her tongue. "Make no mistake, the war was coming eventually, but it was issues from within his marriage that dropped the first blow."

Norva leaned forward and began pulling out shoots to start a new basket. "But back to your situation, my dear. If your fiancé is a good man, as you say, why didn't you just go to Kysta? It would have been a much shorter journey, not to mention the weather is much more enjoyable this time of year."

"We did not part on the best of terms. We were meant to be married earlier this year, but there were some unusual circumstances that caused the ceremony to be interrupted. My father took offense, and we left. I have not spoken to him since."

Mormor nodded wisely. "Ah, a lover's quarrel. You worry he is too proud to offer you assistance? Too fickle?"

"No." Lizzie shook her head. "Freddy is more loyal than a puppy, and he would give the shoes off his feet to help someone if they needed it." Even without her emotions in the way to muddy the waters, Lizzie couldn't deny the truth of the statement.

"You seem quite sure of this."

"We've known one another since childhood."

Norva hummed thoughtfully. "Do you find him handsome?"

"Almighty bless you, Norva. Looks aren't everything." Mormor shook her head. "As I always say, ‘Often is an ugly heart hidden behind a pretty face.'"

"But she just said that his heart is pretty. Perhaps the reason she avoided Kysta is that he's quite unfortunate-looking."

Both women turned to her with expectant, inquisitive expressions.

Lizzie saw no reason to answer in any way but truthfully. "He's handsome."

Norva clapped her hands and squealed like a schoolgirl. "Tell us more. But wait just a moment," she added as the whistle of the tea kettle interrupted. She handed Lizzie a steaming cup, and the green, slightly bitter smell awakened her senses.

"Now then, what is he like?" Norva leaned forward eagerly. "Is he dark and handsome, like your Norditch-speaking friend?"

She pictured Freddy's blonde head, bleached even lighter by his time in the sun, and his ocean-blue eyes. "The opposite."

"Is he serious and solemn?"

"No. He's the type of person who is friends with everyone." Lizzie sipped her tea. "He smiles more often than not."

Mormor narrowed her eyes. "I don't understand you, Eliza. You speak of this handsome, genial, kind-hearted fiancé with less enthusiasm than Norva speaks of her rhubarb plant. Something isn't right here, and I'm not just talking about your basket attempt."

Lizzie looked down at the sad, lopsided bundle of willow in her lap.

Yes, this is clearly not a marketable skill.

"Mormor, be polite. Perhaps Eliza simply wishes to keep her feelings to herself." Norva paused for a moment, then added. "Though you certainly don't have to hide them on our account. It's been so long since we've experienced the joy of young love that it's nice sometimes to live it vicariously."

"There is no love."

"Oh." The old woman seemed taken aback. "But I thought you said you knew one another as children."

"We did."

"But then—"

"I don't love him. I can't."

Norva smiled sympathetically. "I know it can be frightening, but friendship is a wonderful basis for romance."

Lizzie shook her head but didn't care to argue the point any further.

It doesn't really matter what they think. Freddy is gone. I am here. The only thing that matters right now is finding a means to earn a living.

She stood, tossing her handiwork onto the floor. "Thank you for the lesson, but I don't think basket weaving is the trade for me." She reached her sore fingers into her skirt pocket for her coin pouch and pulled out one of her last two copper coins. "I hope that this will cover the cost of the materials and your time. I will be on my way."

"Put that money away, child," Mormor demanded. "And don't you think for a second that we're going to let you go back to that pathetic little shack."

"You're going to stay here," Norva added. "I've a loft you can sleep in—my grandchildren like to use it when they come to visit. It might be a bit cramped, but it's warm."

Lizzie tilted her head, struggling to make sense of the offer. Her father had drilled the importance of profitable trade bargains and economic policies into her brain from a young age. Exchanges were not made without an advantage on both sides; every offer came with an ulterior motive.

"But I can't pay you for that."

"Oh, tush. As I always say, ‘The only gift that should come with strings attached is a kite.' We take care of one another here in Schnebel." Mormor took Lizzie's hand, still outstretched, and closed it around the copper coin. "You've been through enough."

The simple gesture, the unexpected generosity, and the warm, honest glow of care in the old woman's eyes all combined in force, and Lizzie felt a stirring of emotion deep inside her chest.

A tiny crack appeared in the icy barrier around her heart.

"Today is a spinning day," Norva announced cheerfully as Lizzie climbed down the ladder from the loft the next morning, feeling more rested than she had in weeks. It was truly amazing the difference that kindness and a warm blanket could make.

"I know exactly as much about spinning as I did about basket weaving." Lizzie watched as Norva bustled around the small kitchen.

Polite manners dictate that I should offer to help, but I am certain that I would be unable to carry out even the simplest of tasks. I never realized how unprepared I would be for life outside of the palace.

She cleared her throat. "How would you like me to assist you?"

"Oh, don't worry about it, dear. You just sit over down there and keep me company until Mormor comes along. She always breaks her fast with me on spinning days."

As if summoned by her hostess's words, a knock at the door announced Mormor's arrival. She entered immediately without waiting for an answer, stomping the snow off her boots and unwinding her long, red scarf from her face.

"I swear, spring feels more like a second winter every year. I'll be surprised if the ground thaws enough for me to plant the garden before midyear."

"You've been saying that for fifty years, Mormor," Norva responded pleasantly, not even bothering to look up from the pot she was stirring on the stove.

"And I'll say it for the next fifty, because it's true." The old woman pulled out a chair beside Lizzie at the table and sank down with a grateful sigh. "I would tell you not to grow old, Eliza," she said, patting Lizzie's hand, "because it's terribly uncomfortable. There are some mornings where I have to bend my own knees to get them moving. But it does have its perks. As I always say, ‘Wisdom is hidden within the wrinkles of age. Youthful faces are much too smooth for it to stick.' You don't get to be as old as I am without having learned a thing or two."

Norva set down a pot of bubbling porridge and three bowls. "That's your cue to ask her how old she is," she whispered to Lizzie.

"How old are you?" Lizzie dutifully asked, nodding her thanks as Norva served her breakfast.

"I'll be one hundred and twelve next month."

Lizzie paused with her spoon halfway to her mouth. "Really?"

"Oh, yes." Mormor nodded proudly. "Good sea air—that's the secret. Sea air and a spoonful of fish oil every morning and night."

The porridge was still too hot to eat. Lizzie folded her hands in her lap, mindful still of the table manners that had been drilled into her since childhood. "Have you lived here your whole life?"

She was caught off guard by her own question. It had been years since she had taken more than a shallow, cursory interest in another person, years since she had felt the urge to connect.

Something is happening.

Lizzie retreated into herself, barely registering Mormor's answer.

Lindy told me the curse couldn't be broken. Although I suppose she was wrong about the ice blocking all emotions; there are still some that manage to break through to the surface. But if it can be broken, how?

As it had the day before, the conversation flowed easily around her without her participation. Norva and Mormor seemed to make an effort at first to include her, but after her third one-word answer, they left her in peace. Once breakfast was cleared away, Norva hauled a spinning wheel to the middle of the room, and Mormor procured a basket of wool and some carding brushes from one of the overstocked corners.

"Come, sit," Norva called, patting the stool she had set up before the spinning wheel. "We'll start with the fun part."

Lizzie did her best to absorb all the information as Norva instructed her how to use the treadle and draft the wool fiber. It seemed simple, but as soon as Lizzie attempted to do it on her own, the wheel spun too fast, or too slow, or she drafted too much, and the yarn was too thick. Too little, and it was too thin.

"It takes time for all of us." Mormor gave her an encouraging pat on the shoulder as she examined Lizzie's work. "Just keep trying."

Her legs soon found a rhythm and her hands learned the feel of just how much wool to pull at a time. The fibers caught on her already chapped fingers, but she pushed through the discomfort at the satisfying sight of the skein slowly growing thicker. The morning hours had nearly passed when a loud knock on the door startled them all.

"Were you expecting anyone, Norva?" Mormor asked as she pushed herself from her rocking chair and slowly crossed the room with stiff steps.

"Not today. Bjorn doesn't bring the milk delivery until tomorrow."

Lizzie kept her eyes on her task. She heard the door swing open behind her with a creak. "Good morning," Mormor greeted the knocker cheerfully. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm looking for a young woman."

Lizzie's eyes widened at the man's voice. It seemed familiar, somehow, yet she couldn't place it.

But the fact that he's looking for a young woman can't be a coincidence. Father must have sent him.

"There are a lot of young women in Schnebel, young man. You'll have to be more specific."

Thank you, Mormor.

"Oh, right." The man chuckled. "She's not from around here, if that helps. She's tall, nearly my height, with hair like gold and the most beautiful blue eyes you'll probably ever…Lizzie?"

Lizzie froze.

Turned.

And suddenly recalled where she had heard the man's voice before.

Thrushbeard was standing in Norva's doorway, his tall frame and broad shoulders taking up most of the space. A gray knit hat was shoved down over his head, causing the dark hairs to stick out at messy angles that mirrored his shaggy beard. His blue eyes—how had she not realized before just how blue they were? —were wide, staring at her as if she were some sort of apparition. He whispered her name again.

"Lizzie."

Mormor cleared her throat, stepping between them as if her tiny, aged frame could somehow block Lizzie from sight. "Who are you? And just how do you know Eliza?"

Thrushbeard blinked and shook his head, then smiled down at the old woman. At least, she assumed he smiled, based on the way his eyes were crinkled at the corners. She couldn't actually see his mouth through the beard.

"My name is Malakai. Eliza is my wife."