The Bookseller's Eldest Daughter and the Witch's Girl
The first chapter is here; the previous chapter is here.
Chapter Seven
As you can imagine, the next day was, for the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, both a frantic nightmare of preparation for a wedding nobody wished to take place, and also an interminable wait for the evening in anticipation of what might happen. She was twisted about this way and that by dressers and seamstresses making last minute alterations to her wedding gowns (it had been decided by others that she would wear both the blue and the green, changing between the ceremony and the wedding breakfast) and was frequently sent to stand in her corner as the ladies-in-waiting argued over every little decision and unforeseen difficulty.
At midday, however, the Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife arrived and immediately authorised herself to be her sister’s go-between with the tyrannical attendants. She gently discouraged the more abominable of the ideas suggested by the Ladies-in-waiting, saw that the dresses fitted well, approved the roses chosen for the bridal crowns, and even made sure that her sister was given a late luncheon and time aside to eat it.
“I’m enjoying myself, even if you aren’t,” she said cheerfully, watching the dressers tidy away shifts and rejected hair-ribbons. “This is what I always wanted in a sister: the chance to play at being fine ladies, and not always having to be knights or explorers or whatever you were interested in at the time.”
“Huh!” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter rudely, with her mouth full of stew.
“You would have made such an elegant and refined princess,” said the Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife sweetly. “It’s almost a shame that this wedding is never going to take place (and I trust, for the poor Prince’s sake, that it isn’t).”
The Bookseller’s eldest daughter threw a piece of bread at her, scandalising the nearby ladies and awakening the kitchen cat, who had appeared at some point in the afternoon and immediately fallen asleep on top of a particularly hideous bonnet.
By the late afternoon the Bookseller’s eldest daughter had bid goodbye both to her sister (“You do have everything in hand, don’t you, Ophelia?” the Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife had whispered, and “I think so,” was the answer) and to the ladies-in-waiting, who ignored her. And the attendants and dressmakers were just packing their things away when the King’s son appeared, looking earnest.
“I thought perhaps you might like some company,” he said, blushing, as the attendants exchanged suspicious looks and glared at this wicked enchantress who was enthralling the royal family.
The wicked enchantress, who hadn’t had a moment to herself since dawn, suppressed a sigh and politely asked the King’s son to sit. He did so, and then produced a book of courtly love poems that he haltingly offered to read aloud.
“I suppose so, if you like,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, “Although actually, before all this happened, I was halfway through reading such an interesting volume called The Winding Sheet: Thanatological Studies Of Many Cultures, and had just gotten to the chapter on the different methods of laying revenants. But it’s at home, of course — I don’t suppose you have a copy, do you?”
Unfortunately the King’s son didn’t have a copy, so she suggested some titles that she should enjoy hearing almost as much; and when the Queen looked in on the two of them some time later her son was ponderously reading from A True Arte of Defence: A Manual of Swordsmanship while the girl looked over his shoulder and tried out the different thrusts with a poker.
The Queen paused to take in the scene with raised eyebrows until the Bookseller’s eldest daughter noticed her and relaxed her guard, and then the older woman accepted the hastily proffered seat and announced that everything had been arranged. “You know, it’s a lucky thing about the bellringers,” she added, “Apparently someone stopped in at the Cornishman’s Head last night and happened to mentioned how the bellringers of Linenburgh had just preformed a five hour peel of changes and were going to be awarded a commemorative plaque by the bishop; and thus our bellringers had spent the rest of their evening working out a set of new changes that would last seven hours — all night, in fact. They seemed very pleased at having been given leave to put their work to the test so soon.”
“That is lucky,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, her eyes narrowing slightly.
“But it’s touch and go with the King, I’m afraid,” the Queen went on briskly. “The bells will certainly ring, but His Majesty may still suddenly decide to order them silent. So, Samuel, you and I shall all have to stay close and keep him diverted. Beginning now, my boy, so put that book away! Meanwhile, I suspect the palace has gone through a month’s worth of candlewax in an afternoon, though I won’t know until I next oversee the accounts.”
The Bookseller’s eldest daughter nodded and tried to look confident, and the Queen softened and took her hand. “Don’t worry, my dear. If this all comes apart we’ll think of something else,” and the girl nodded and attempted a smile.
The bells began sounding as the Bookseller’s eldest daughter was eating her supper, and she almost ran for her earplugs because, her chamber being so close to the chapel, the noise was tremendous! But for the first time in days she was able to watch the sun set and remember it afterwards. She decided to take this as a propitious omen.
And later, once she was in her too-short nightgown and had blown out the candle, she knelt on the window seat and looked down into the darkened rose garden and beyond. It seemed to her that there were shadows, or less than shadows, creeping among the hedges and rosebushes. They would advance upon the palace, like a breeze passing over a field of long grass, and then another loud peel of bells would begin and they would be forced back. But so dim were these faint indications of people that the Bookseller’s eldest daughter could not be sure if they were real or the constructions of her own wild fancies. Eventually all the shadows vanished away, though for a moment she wondered if she could still discern a swift and secret activity retreating away down what streets and lanes were visible to her over the palace wall.
She went to bed that night with the pillow over her head and the little black cat under the covers with her, but I am afraid neither of them got much sleep.
In fact even with the wax earplugs I doubt that anyone in the palace managed to sleep that night, what with the constant peeling of the bells. Courtiers, finding themselves still awake in the small hours, would eventually go about seeking servants (for ringing was, of course, of no earthly good) to fetch them wine, hoping that this might prove soporific. And the poor servants found themselves turned out of their beds again and again by the wakeful nobles to procure bread-and-cheese, or an apple, or a pack of cards, or to mend the fire for it was coming on cool.
But perhaps no-one strove so vigilantly as the Queen did that night. She had to stay awake and alert throughout, for every time the King awoke furious at the noise of the bells — and who wouldn’t be annoyed at such a clamour, fairy enchantment or not? — she must needs be there to distract him from ordering the bellringers to cease their labours. She did this by reminding him of various other things that had enraged him in the previous few days, such as the soup being too hot at Thursday luncheon, or that appalling laggard of a second footman who was never ready with the King’s coat when he took a sudden notion to step outside. She would dutifully take down the names of all those who the King decided he would have removed from his service, or imprisoned, or executed. But as the night went on the Queen was encouraged to note that despite his bad-temper, the King’s punishments and retributions were becoming milder and milder. Finally, an hour before dawn he interrupted his diatribe over the state of the couches in the second-best parlour to blink twice and say:
“Why— What a lot of rot!”
And then he turned astonished eyes into the poor tired Queen and said “Oh my love! I’ve been talking utter nonsense! How in the world have you managed to put up with me?” and she threw the list of punishments away and kissed him [1].
“Yes, you have been talking nonsense,” she said, “But you’re not anymore, and besides it wasn’t at all your fault.” And then she told him all about the fairies’ revenge and the enchantment of the Very Wonderful Person and the wedding between his son and the Bookseller’s eldest daughter and their plan to break the spell.
The King was quite pale by the end of the story. “What a horribly near thing! And not just for all the people I might have had thrown in prison and so-on. Why Samuel might not even have wanted to marry some shopkeeper’s daughter!” and then he thought a little more and said “She might not have wanted to marry Samuel!”
The Queen patted his arm kindly and said Well, but it was over now. And just at that moment the sun appeared over the horizon and the toll of the final bell faded away. Perhaps you can imagine the relief felt throughout the palace as ear plugs were removed, and heads lifted from under pillows, and those who were important enough to do so decided to steal a few hours of sleep before they rose.
Things were in such an upheaval that nobody came to wake the Bookseller’s eldest daughter as they usually did, and so she was able to luxuriate in bed for some time before she rose at a leisurely seven o’clock to sit down at a breakfast that had arrived far later than was typical in that place. She was just examining her egg (which was, as always, cold — she hadn’t been forgiven by the servants), when the Queen arrived to inform her that she wouldn’t be getting married that day after all.
The Bookseller’s eldest daughter lit up “Oh Madam! Really?” and then, feeling that she had possibly been a little tactless, “Although of course it would be a great honour to marry into—”
“Oh hush, child!” said the Queen, smiling, “Finish your breakfast and get dressed.” She signalled to the handmaidens who were waiting a little sulkily outside the door. “The King would like to speak to you himself in the reception hall. I’ve dismissed the guards that were outside your door, so come straight down.” And off she went to go about the tiresome business of cancelling a wedding and working out what to do with five-hundred pairs of gloves.
“Ah, there you are,” said the King a little while later as he rose to greet the Bookseller’s eldest daughter. “My dear, I believe I owe you an apology.” And he — the King of that entire kingdom! — bowed (slightly) to her.
“Oh!” said the girl, “That’s all right. I mean, you weren’t to blame.” She tried to think of something elegant to say but couldn’t.
“Well, I must say that it is very kind of you to take it that way,” said the King briskly. “It’s never bad policy to stay on the right side of a sorceress, that’s what I always say!”
“Well, I’m not actually a—”
“Exactly!” nodded the King magnanimously. “I’m so glad you think so. Now, I have just been talking to your father—” and here the Bookseller’s eldest daughter noticed her father standing grumpily to one side, clearly annoyed at being summoned again, “—and no wonder you didn’t want to marry my son! Why, my girl, you should have told us that you already had a sweetheart! Although,” he added, thinking it through, “perhaps it’s as well that you didn’t.”
The Bookseller’s eldest daughter opened her mouth, reconsidered, and closed it again.
“Now, if you ask me, I think you should marry him at once!” went on the King, “And with all the accoutrements that were prepared for this false fairy wedding. No, no, I insist! You have done us a Great Service bringing Samuel home, and then, under, er, regrettable circumstances, managed to do us another. So, what d’you say to that?”
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter quietly, and the Queen looked sharply at her.
“Yes, yes, that’s as well, then,” remarked the Bookseller. “A very agreeable solution, sir.”
The King beamed at him. “I am very glad that you can say so, sir. Oh, and, of course there will be all the food!” he turned to the Steward, “I suppose the kitchens have been working day and night, preparing for a grand wedding breakfast?”
They had been, the Steward informed him.
“Well then, a full quarter of that feast shall go to… where did you say you lived, sir? Ah, of course: the Antique Quarter, yes, it shall be delivered there and be the wedding breakfast for our brave young friend here and her paramour. The rest,” he announced grandly, “we shall have in the Great Hall tonight, as planned — but instead of a wedding we will hold a proper celebration of the happy return of our son!” He looked around the room at everyone, very satisfied with himself.
“I shall see to it at once, Your Majesty,” said the Steward, and the Bookseller (pleased at the thought of marrying his troublesome eldest daughter off without having to pay for it himself) nodded too.
“We are very grateful, sir,” he said. “Well then, I suppose I must hurry back and inform the Inkmaker that he shall be married this morning,” [2] He began to turn on his heel, then remembered himself and turned back. “With Your Majesty’s permission?”
His leave was kindly granted and the Bookseller strode out of the reception chamber rubbing his long hands together and, for the moment, not appearing overly discontented with life.
The King turned back to the Bookseller’s eldest daughter with a kind smile, “So, my dear, all’s well with the world! We shall, of course, remember to drink a toast to you and your new husband tonight!”
She gave him a rather stiff smile in return. Apparently this marriage was to be her reward for all her troubles. She thought she could probably contrive a way out of such an unwanted alliance, but prudently decided not to do so until she was far away from the palace and its figures of authority.
The Queen, who had been watching the girl carefully, stepped closer to her husband. “Henry, I am afraid that our young friend’s reputation has been rather tarnished by this whole matter… Perhaps an outward sign of our favour and goodwill …?”
The King thought that this was an excellent idea. “The Bookseller’s daughter shall travel home in our own royal carriage,” he announced to all, nodding to the Steward to make it happen. “And now,” he said to the girl, “You will want to pack your things and leave us, I am sure! We can’t keep a girl from her wedding day with all our carry on! Good-bye, my dear. Good luck with all the sorcery and that.” And he wandered out of the chamber, followed by the Steward and his other attendants.
Now, the Bookseller’s eldest daughter really only wanted her red dress, her boots, and her satchel, but when she returned to the bedchamber that had been her prison for so many days she discovered such bustle, with maids and ladies everywhere, that for a moment she wondered if it was being prepared for another guest! But that was not so, and within a surprisingly short amount of time all the dresses and ribbons and bonnets and shawls that had been made for her were wrapped in muslin and packed away into two large boxes. Then the ladies retired from that chamber without a word or a glance for the girl. Of her red dress there was no sign, so she found she must continue to wear the fashionable Prussian blue gown she had been dressed in that morning; but, paying not the slightest bit of notice to the disapproving noises the handmaidens were making, she kicked off the uncomfortable court shoes, put on her sensible old walking boots, and then pulled out all the ribbons from her hair so that it fell around her shoulders in its usual tangles. Of the kitchen cat there had been no sign since breakfast, so she bid it farewell in absentia and then, the boxes being collected by sturdy footmen, she shouldered her satchel and silently followed these porters downstairs.
At the great doors the Queen and the King’s son were waiting for her. The latter shook her hand earnestly and thanked her once again, and then blushed and apologised once again, and then looked hopeful and begged her pardon but—
“Tasks!” interrupted the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, snapping her finger at him.
“I’m sorry?” said the King’s son.
“That’s what I should have told your father that first night! I should have said ‘Yes, of course I will marry your son, but (as is tradition) I first require him to complete three tasks’. And then we would have had more time to work out how to put an end to all this, you see? Oh!” and she stamped her foot, “I could have avoided all those dress fittings! Isn’t it always so infuriating to think of just the right thing when you don’t need it anymore?”
The King’s son frowned. “Well I… Yes, I suppose it is. What sort of tasks? And traditionally shouldn’t you have had to do the tasks?”
“Well, you could have demanded tasks of me if you’d thought of it, and you didn’t either, did you? And as for the tasks themselves, I don’t know, whichever one of us it was could have been asked to… creep into Hell and return with the salt grinder that is kept in the back of the larder there. Or present the King with a particular magic sword (or harp or purse or something) currently in the possession of a terrible ogre.”
The King’s son stared at her. “And you would have had me attempt all this? Face an ogre? To avoid marrying you?”
The Bookseller’s eldest daughter waved this away. “Not really! Obviously! You could have just wandered around the Kingdom and visited friends for a few months and had a little holiday, like you rich people can. You would have been quite safe. Unless,” she added thoughtfully, “unless the fairies caught you again.”
The King’s son had, over the previous two days, been rethinking his previous hostile attitudes toward the Bookseller’s beautiful, long-limbed daughter, but at this moment he suddenly decided that perhaps he was better off being unattached for the time being. He bowed and said that he believed that his father had called for him and he must leave her there, and then did so.
The Queen, however, took her arm and walked her out.
“It was all quite horrible, of course,” she said when she had stopped laughing for no reason that the Bookseller’s earnest eldest daughter could see, “but, do you know, now that it’s over I think I’m feeling a little disappointed that I won’t have you as a daughter. I like you very much, and you also seem like a useful sort of person to have around. Are you sure you want to marry this young man of yours?”
She said the last part merely in sport, but the Bookseller’s eldest daughter shrank a little, thinking of it. “He’s a friend of my father and at least sixty years old,” she said despairingly.
“Oh my dear,” said the Queen and squeeze her arm sympathetically. They walked apace in silence. “You know, we do have a royal library here, and I’m sure we could use someone to keep it, if that would suit you. Oh, but the fairies...”
“Yes, it’s essential that I leave this place today. And I think,” added the Bookseller’s eldest daughter diplomatically, looking over her shoulder at the looming towers of the palace, “that for the moment I would feel more comfortable being back in the city. It’s what I’m used to. Please don’t worry — I shall think of something.”
They had reached the royal carriage at this point. It was a very grand vehicle, with red wood pannelling and golden inlay, a team of four proud grey horses in front, a handsome young coachman at the whip, and two tall liveried footman already waiting by the open door. The Queen was just about to say something else when she glanced up at the coachman. “Why, where’s Jasper today?” she asked absently.
“Granted leave to return home, madam” said the coachman, “A family matter, I understand.”
“I see,” said the Queen and she turned back to continue speaking to the Bookseller’s eldest daughter.
“An unfortunate affair,” went on the coachman, thoughtfully, “Enormous serpents came up from the ground after unusually heavy spring rains and began eating everyone in the district, including his brother-in-law. And now here’s his poor sister left with fourteen children to feed (it was a very affectionate marriage, proverbially so from what I hear), and little to feed them with, for all the livestock have been eaten too. She would abandon the place, only they have secured such a reasonable tenancy, and it’s very convenient for the shops.”
The Queen was looking doubtfully at the dark-eyed coachman. “Is that so?” she asked and the coachman nodded gravely. Despite herself she asked “And no neighbours to help the widow? It must needs be Jasper?”
“Ah, perhaps I haven’t made clear the magnitude of the disaster. Most of the neighbours have already been eaten by serpents. The parson and the bailiff too, so that there is no authority and lawlessness prevails. If only someone had thought to plant wormsbane (the wort Vermis Abjuria, that is, a particularly nocuous cousin of the family Solanaceae) — if only that had been planted about the place! An outrageous oversight in a district apparently prone to such prodigies. But there: people will not be told.” The coachman shook his head and stared solemnly into the distance, as if lamenting the wilful obtuseness of humanity and all the troubles this had brought to the world.
The Queen glanced to see how the Bookseller’s eldest daughter was taking this odd conversation. The girl was staring, wide-eyed, at the coachman, an incredulous smile slowly spreading over her countenance.
“What is your name, coachman?” asked the Queen, drawing some swift conclusions.
The coachman considered. “George,” he decided.
“George,” said the Queen. “I am entrusting you with someone I am particularly fond of. I hope that you will safely deliver her to where she needs to be?”
George looked at the Bookseller’s eldest daughter. “Madam,” he said. “You have my word.”
Turning to the girl the Queen murmured “Well, my child; perhaps things aren’t quite as bad as we feared?”
“Perhaps not,” breathed the Bookseller’s eldest daughter still gazing up at the dark-eyed coachman.
The Queen clasped the girl’s hands so that she looked down and then stood on tiptoes and kissed her young guest’s forehead. “Come and see me again soon,” she said, and then she stepped back while a footman helped the girl up into the carriage. “Goodbye.”
The Bookseller’s eldest daughter looked out through the carriage window. “Goodbye, madam. And thank you for… well, for believing me.”
“Even if it was almost too late,” said the Queen, pulling a very un-queenly face at herself.
“Almost too late is just in time,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter.
And then the footmen leapt onto the running boards and the coachman flicked the reins over the team of greys and off the carriage went!
Through the streets of the city ran the King’s royal carriage — from the Garden District into the Cathedral District, and from the Cathedral District into the Opal-sellers’ Quarter, down front streets and back streets, and on and on. People stopped to cheer and to catch a glimpse of whichever member of the royal family was travelling abroad today. And how surprised they were when they saw the Bookseller’s eldest daughter sitting inside the red and gold carriage!
But as they were going down Coin Street, the coachman suddenly turned the carriage into Touchstone Lane instead of carrying straight on to the Antique Quarter; and then they turned again, this time into a deserted box-maker’s yard. There George brought the horses to a halt and leapt down to the ground, casually throwing her tricorne off so that her black hair fell like a silky curtain around her face. She opened the carriage door with a flourish, bowing to the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, who rose and looked down at her driver.
“Next time I get to dress up as the coachman,” she said, gesturing with a circling finger at the riding boots and tight pants and coachman’s coat.
“I do look rather dashing, don’t I?” agreed the Witch’s girl, holding her hand out. The Bookseller’s eldest daughter accepted it and stepped down into the yard. “Now, I have a few of your things ready here and you will need—” The Witch’s girl had begun to step away but the hand that still grasped hers pulled her back and a moment later she had her arms around the neck of the Bookseller’s eldest daughter as she was properly and sweetly kissed.
“I’m sorry,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter after some time. “You were right. About everything.”
“I know,” said the Witch’s girl, reaching up for another kiss.
The Bookseller’s eldest daughter frowned and leaned back. “Well, perhaps not everything. I certainly didn’t intend to ‘set my cap’ at anyone!”
“You’ve just narrowly avoided marrying into the royal family,” pointed out the Witch’s girl. “And are supposedly now on your way to marry a notorious misanthrope.”
“Well, yes, but I hardly planned any of— OH!”
This exclamation was as a result of the girl suddenly becoming aware that the two liveried footmen who had ridden with the carriage were now standing in the yard with them and looking about rather witlessly, one scratching at his head in a very odd manner.
“Ignore them,” suggested the Witch’s girl, who was still trying to recapture the Bookseller’s eldest daughter’s mouth with her own.
“I shall not! Who are they? And why are they looking so peculiar like that!?”
The Witch’s girl sighed theatrically and stepped away from the Bookseller’s eldest daughter. “Very well. At attention, please gentlemen!” and in a moment the men were lined up before her.
“What have you done to them?” asked the Bookseller’s eldest daughter following her and peering at the two servants curiously, “Did you capture their souls? And store them in a snuffbox so that you might command them and make them your slaves, like Madam du Mondragon did in The Circe of the Salon-set?”
“How uncouth, certainly not,” said the Witch’s girl, who thought taking snuff a disgusting habit. “Open wide!” she addressed the footmen in a firm tone. And then from out of the mouth of each she pulled a slip of paper; and where a moment ago two proud footmen had stood, now sat a pair of slightly disreputable looking dogs, one of them still scratching its head with a hind leg.
“Oh!” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, clapping her hands together in delight. “You really are wonderful! May I see the papers?”
Preening slightly, the Witch’s girl handed the rather damp slips to her and then addressed the dogs. “A job well done, my lads. And as agreed, here are your wages.” And from out of her coat pocket she pulled a brown paper parcel which, unwrapped, was shown to contain sausages. She solemnly presented a sausage to each of the dogs, who rushed off happily with their prizes, stirring the horses so that she had to step over and calm them.
When the Witch’s girl turned back to regard the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, she was examining the slips of paper and frowning. “Are these pictures here supposed to be the footmen?”
“Well, yes,” said the Witch’s girl.
The Bookseller’s eldest daughter titled her head, as if to try and get a better view. “Did you get a very small child to draw them?”
The Witch’s girl snatched the slips back. “They worked, didn’t they?” she said, pulling a collection of papers out of her inside pocket and adding the images of the footmen to it, “I suppose you could do better?”
“Yes,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, who was a rather competent draftswoman. “What’s that slip at the top of the pile? A ferret? Did you turn someone into a ferret? Why?”
“It’s a cat,” hissed the Witch’s girl, “As any fool could see. Honestly, I had forgotten what an almost immediately annoying person you are. I’m almost sorry I rescued you.”
The Bookseller’s eldest daughter raised her eyebrows. “I mostly rescued myself, though. Well, the Queen did, by my council. You just turned up for the last little bit.”
“Well then, I’m sorry I did even that much,” sniffed the Witch’s girl.
The girl laughed and then put her arms around the false-coachman and kissed her again. “I’m not sorry,” she whispered into the Witch’s girl's midnight-black hair, and perhaps the Witch’s girl didn’t actually look too sorry either.
“And you would have come and rescued me from the palace if it had all gone wrong, wouldn’t you?” the Bookseller’s eldest daughter murmured, realizing as she spoke that she already knew the answer. “If I hadn’t managed it myself, I mean.”
“Oh, I might have,” said the Witch’s girl, resting her head on the taller girl’s shoulder, “It would have depended on what else I had to do that day. I am often quite busy.”
“Oh yes. Working for the Witch.”
“Working for the Witch. But, to the matter at hand. We can’t stay here, and you can’t wear that.” The Witch’s girl reluctantly began disentangling herself from the embrace of the Bookseller’s eldest daughter.
“No, where are you going?" the Bookseller’s eldest daughter said, trying to pull the Witch’s girl back into her arms. "For I am certain that I still have a great many repayments to make in compensation for your services!”
“Don’t be vulgar,” said the Witch’s girl, “We’re beyond all that now. And anyway, there was no bargain made.” But she caught one of the offered hands and kissed her sweetheart’s fingers before relinquishing them and moving away.
“And what are the carriage and the horses really?” asked the Bookseller’s eldest daughter looking expectantly at that conveyance.
The Witch’s girl glanced back. “Nothing. That is, they are as they appear: a carriage and horses. The carriage and horses.”
The Bookseller’s eldest daughter spun around to stare at her. “You stole the royal carriage?!”
“I did. So, as you may apprehend, I am not a little eager for us to take our leave of this city.” She retrieved a canvas bag from behind an old broken box and dropped it in front of the Bookseller’s eldest daughter. But when she looked back up, the Witch’s girl stopped.
The Bookseller’s eldest daughter was staring at her with a look of blank astonishment. “We… we have to leave the city?” she whispered. “but why?”
“Well, I thought that was self-evident,” said the Witch’s girl.
“No!” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, paling. “I… Everything I have… my sister, my... the bookshop, they’re all here.”
The Witch’s girl gazed at her and then said “Ah. I see.” She took the Bookseller’s eldest daughter’s hand again and walked her over to a box that they could both sit on. “Bookshop girl,” she began, “please remember that you have thwarted the fairies — thrice now! — which was very well done, and don’t become insufferable about it. But this would rather suggest that an elopement from the scene of your victories might now be the strategic decision. Because they are a cruel and unforgiving people, and hideously powerful. Do you see?”
The Bookseller’s eldest daughter looked out through the yard’s gateway onto the lane and watched an old cob pull a wagon of flour sacks past, a small girl sitting on top with the reins loose in her hands. Beyond, over a stone wall, was a dovecot with pigeons flying in and out. And somewhere nearby a clock struck the three-quarter hour. “But... I wanted to set up a bookshop," she whispered, "Here, in my city. A place all of my own. I had it all planned out.”
“And so you shall — when we return, if you still want to. But it cannot be today, I’m afraid.”
“But can’t we make spells of protection and… I don’t know, concealment charms and… and…”
“We could,” said the Witch’s girl, “but far better to simply be elsewhere, believe me.”
“The city is all I know!” whispered the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, leaving go of the other girl’s hand to wrap her arms about herself. “I belong here. I am... I am the Bookseller’s daughter.”
“You are Ophelia,” said the Witch’s Girl.
“Yes, but—"
Scowling, the Witch’s girl leapt to her feet to confront the other girl. “No, you listen to me," she said fiercely. "You do not belong to the Bookseller. You are not his servant to be ordered about, to cook and clean and wait upon his whims. You are not his property to be given away to the Inkmaker, or the King’s Son, or some other dull suitor, then to belong to him instead. You... you are so much more than that.”
And then the Witch’s girl crouched down before the Bookseller’s eldest daughter and took up both her hands, holding them up to kiss them. “Ophelia, if you must belong to someone then come away and belong to me,” she said looking up at the Bookseller’s beautiful tangled-haired daughter. “Or don't. Belong to yourself. But come away with me anyway."
And the Bookseller’s eldest daughter stared down into the dark, wicked eyes of the Witch’s girl and she let out a low breath. And then she whispered “Yes. I will.”
The Witch’s girl smiled. “Well, then. That is satisfactory.” And she leaned up, and the Bookseller’s eldest daughter leaned down, and they kissed each other solemnly in the middle of the Box-maker’s yard.
A cart clattered past on the cobbled lane outside and the Witch’s girl gently pulled away, leaving the Bookseller’s eldest daughter sighing and trying to reclaim the other girl’s lips. “Later, my darling,” murmured the Witch’s girl, “I promise. But for now we must make ready our departure.”
She bounded to her feet, pulling her love up with her; and, judging the moment of crisis to be over, she nudged the canvas bag lying before them. “You can’t travel about the countryside in that fancy dress, so here are some other clothes. They’re for you. Put them on, please, and with celerity: the box-maker and his apprentices will be returning from their guild meeting at ten,” and, thus reminded, she reached into her waistcoat to consult an old pocket watch.
The Bookseller’s eldest daughter gave a great sigh, but she knelt down and opened the bag. “I have spent the last fortnight being dressed by others,” she grumbled, “I had hoped that you of all people wouldn’t— Wait, but these are… Oh!” she said in surprise, pulling out a pair of breeches and a shirt.
“Circumspection is to be our watchword, my girl,” said the Witch’s girl, putting her hands in her trouser pockets and rocking back on her heels in an expansive attitude. “You have the fairies after you and the townsfolk suspicious of you, not to mention the terrible ire of the lamplighters. A complete change of appearance seems warranted.”
“And my father waiting for me to marry that awful man too,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, her arms full of clothes as she stepped up into the coach to change. “And the King wanting his carriage. Which you stole.”
“Quite,” said the Witch’s girl, looking away chivalrously.
The team of greys began to shift impatiently in their harnesses, rocking the carriage and unsteadying the Bookseller’s eldest daughter. “And what about these horses?” she called out once she had caught herself. “We can’t just leave them here all hitched up!”
“Oh, they won’t unattended for long,” said the Witch’s girl vaguely as she moved to sooth the leader. “But we can easily give a florin to some urchin and have them mind the beasts until then, if it will put your mind at ease.”
“And then what? The elopement?”
“Ah, yes. I propose, after your rapid change of appearance, a rapid change of scenery. We shall remove to the country, and enjoy the many benefits of a more pastoral setting [3].”
“Like Niccolo Machiavelli, when the Medici had him exiled from Florence and he sat around in the country and started working on The Prince.”
“Just like Niccolo Machiavelli,” agreed the Witch’s girl amenably. “I have two horses hired and waiting at the ostler’s around the corner. I hope your riding has improved, but I bet it hasn’t. Alternately,” she added, an idea striking her, “I could transform you into a horse and ride you out of the city. No-one would be expecting that, would they? And it would save me sixpence.”
“I think not,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter’s voice, dryly. “And what about the Witch?” she went on, “What does she think of you absconding from her service?”
The Witch’s girl looked up at the sky, which was bright with the promise of fair weather. “The Witch has decided to absent herself from the city for a time. She has some important matters to see to elsewhere. And thus I find myself entirely at… your…”
She trailed off as the Bookseller’s green-eyed, long-limbed, tangle-headed eldest daughter stepped down from the carriage. She was tall and handsome in riding boots and breeches, with a clean white shirt and a trim green waistcoat, and she was in the middle of tying her hair back. “Entirely at my…?” she said.
“Your service,” said the Witch’s girl, staring. “Entirely at your service.”
“I must admit I do like the sound of that,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter as she reached into the canvas bag for the green coat that matched the waistcoat. “And I admire your taste in— Oh!” From under the coat she pulled first one book, then another. “Multifarious Accounts of Fairy, its Nature and Customs! The Roads to Babylon… the Herboria Antiqua… And, oh! The Winding Sheet: Thanatological Studies Of Many Cultures! But these are all my copies!”
“Yes,” said the Witch’s girl, watching, “Your sister packed them for you this morning [4] (I like her very much, by the way; she’s not at all as silly-headed as you tried to make out). We knew you wouldn’t be able to keep a bookshop — or, at least, not for the time being. But we thought you might still keep a few of your smaller books with you. Octavo-sized or less only. I didn’t want to hire a gig.”
The Bookseller’s eldest daughter beamed at her as she pulled on her new coat. And then she threw her arms out and twirled around, making her coat tails fly about her. She spun herself over to the carriage, where she retrieved her old boots and satchel. “So where to next, my own dear Witch’s— Well, I can’t call you Witch’s girl any more, for you’re not. Who shall you be? George?”
“Helena,” said Helena. She hefted up the bag of books and hung it over her shoulder. “But you raise a pertinent matter,” she went on thoughtfully. “I think we shall have to come up with a by-name for you. I can’t very well call you ‘Ophelia’ for the time being; or even ‘Bookseller’s daughter’, for I just made a very pretty speech about why you’re so much more wonderful than that, and I refuse to appear hypocritical upon the matter so soon.” She studied the other girl’s length in frank appraisal. “How about ‘Harry’, in keeping with your new appearance?”
The Bookseller’s eldest daughter wrinkled up her nose.
“‘Teresa’ then? Or ‘Hero’ to keep with the Shakespeare theme?”
“Perhaps I could be George? We could both be George.”
“You may be George all by yourself. I don’t need to change my name.” Helena paused. “I probably will though. Just for fun.”
The Bookseller’s eldest daughter shook her head. “Not George.”
The Witch’s dark-eyed girl lead the way out of the Box-maker’s yard. “‘Diggory’? No? ‘Michael’?”
“‘Michael’,” said the Bookseller’s eldest daughter, considering, “N—o, not that. No, one’s own name ought to… sit right.” She slipped her satchel over her shoulder and reached for the Witch’s girl’s hand. “I’ll think of something.”
The End
[1] Unfortunately the list was kicked under the bed, where it was found next day by an upper-housemaid. It quickly became an object of fear as it was secretly passed around the palace, and many servants and even a few courtiers resolved to mend their behaviours at once, least the King recollect his objections to them. Both the Queen and the Steward noticed a great improvement in the running the place in the following months, but neither of them ever guessed at its cause.
[2] As you will recall, at this time all marriage ceremonies were, by law, required to take place before the peel of the midday bells. The Wedding breakfast, of course could go on much longer and frequently would if the guests were of high enough station not to mind the loss of a day’s wages. The wedding breakfast of the King’s son and the Bookseller’s eldest daughter was intended to go on for three days.
[3] In fact the story about the enormous serpents was less of a story and more of a rumour that the Witch’s girl fully intended to investigate as soon as possible. She was quite interested in natural history.
[4] There had also been a small duodecimo entitled Evangeline’s Secret: by A Lady, which the Clerk’s Apprentice’s wife had discovered under her sister’s pillow, and which the Witch’s girl had decided to appropriate for future study.
