Page 24

There was a fire in the hearth, and a now-cold bowl of broth on the table beside the bed. Wind rattled the windows. Maurits

watched the steady rise and fall of Clara’s chest as she slept, taking inventory of every golden hair on her head. He nuzzled

under her hand, smelling her lovely warm, sweet scent. Some of it was perfume, but most of it was just her. Just Clara. He

pressed himself a little closer. She allowed him liberties that no unmarried young lady would have ever allowed a man. Would

she have still allowed him in her bed if she knew who he was?

He was not proud of the deception, but then, he’d had little say in the matter. His mother had thought giving him the form

of a dog to be an exceedingly clever punishment. If he were stronger perhaps he would not have come to Wierenslot and ingratiated

himself into Clara’s life. But the pull to be with her was too strong, and if he were to ever break the bonds of his mother’s

spell, Clara was his only hope.

And it was a good thing he had come; she needed protection. The encounter with the moss maiden had unnerved him, and not just

because of his new canine sensibilities. The land and air creatures had an agreement with the water folk that they would not

interfere with the humans, unless it was in upholding the treaty. What had the moss maiden been thinking, showing herself

to a human like that?

The bed was soft, and Clara was so warm. He was loathe to let her out of his sight, but there were pressing matters to attend to. Gently nosing her hand, he gave her a small lick. She stirred, but rolled over, her sleep unbroken.

His coat was thick at least, and the rain beaded off his fur. But it was cold and unpleasant all the same, and he dreaded

the audience he was about to hold.

At the edge of the canal, he stopped. The water flowed fast and smooth, and for a moment he longed to dip his paw in, to let

the current sweep him away. Let his mother win. He need not suffer the indignity of this form anymore, need not live with

the crushing failure that he was to his own people. But then Clara would never know his true feelings, and he didn’t think

that he could live without telling her what was in his heart.

“Fur does not suit you,” his mother gurgled, rising to the surface.

He ignored the smug glint in her raindrop-clear eyes. You must change me back.

He had known that she would not agree, but the swiftness of her denial pierced him just the same. “I will, in time. I want

to see you contrite and obedient first. Then you shall have seven years in your true form without land privileges,” she said.

“Less, if your young lady declares her love for you in your true form.”

An icy cold arrow shot through Maurits at his mother’s words. Seven years without his legs. In that time Clara would be married,

have children of her own, and have all but forgotten about the strange man who once held her in the poplar grove by the canal.

He could not imagine that he would be able to sway Clara’s feelings toward him, not in his true form.

She was watching him, rain sluicing down through her long hair.

“She is a spoiled child, your Clara,” Queen Maren said.

“She lives in a fine house, dressed in fine clothes, eating good food, all at the expense of her father, who in turn made his fortune at the expense of the land and water. She has never tasted struggle, nor even a day’s labor.

Like all of her kind, she is unconcerned with the world beyond her own needs and wants.

Tell me, when you were in the form of a man, did she desire you?

If she didn’t willingly go with you when you were putting your enchantment on her, why would she now? ”

A growl built in his throat and his mother laughed— laughed , damn her! “You might be dining on minnows and enjoying the attention of any number of princesses right now, but for your

own stubbornness. You brought this on yourself.” She ran a spindly finger along the fur on his head. His growl deepened. “It’s

good for you though, my impetuous son. You need to learn patience and humility if you are to inherit the throne.”

One would never know they were prerequisite for the throne judging by the way you rule .

Her eyes only flashed murder for a moment. “I thought perhaps you were ready to end this nonsense, but I see that I wasted

my time in meeting you.”

Rain fell harder, then in a shimmer of pearls and fish scales, she was gone. He sat on the wet grass, looking back at the

stone house where Clara slept. An unaccountable surge of anger ran through him. His mother was right: Clara was spoiled and

naive. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to believe that she harbored no true feelings for him. The day they had walked along

the canal picking flowers, she had said something that had stayed with him: There is a sort of hopeful rising in my chest, as if my heart were a bird and were ready to take wing into a fine spring day.

But then a weight closes in around me, and just as quickly, the bird plummets back to the ground.

Perhaps she had simply never been given the opportunity to fly on her own.

With despair in his heart, he jogged back through the gardens and slipped into house and up to the bed where the woman who did not know what he was, and did not love him, slept.

Clara awoke groggy the next morning, her pillow scented with rain and wet earth. As her eyes adjusted to the green floral

pattern of the canopy, smudges of memories from the previous day came back to her. Kicking off the covers, she examined her

legs. Angry thorn scratches from when she had run back through the bracken, mindless of her skirts and garters. So it had

not been a dream, then. The silver lady with the bark skin had been as real as the little dog that was curled at her side.

Dressing in a simple skirt of blue wool with a matching jacket, and braiding her own hair, Clara chanced a look at herself

in the glass. The reflection that peered back at her was startling, with wan cheeks and dark rings under her eyes. The fact

that Hendrik might find her too sickly to marry was a poor consolation for a girl who always prided herself on her appearance.

Downstairs, she wandered through the house and to the kitchen, where Inka immediately shooed her out. “Today is not the day,

child,” she admonished Clara. “I’ve chickens to pluck and sauces to boil.”

Clara briefly entertained the idea of returning to the woods outside the gatehouse and trying to find the silver lady again,

but thought better of it. If Pim had not been there to come between them, who knew what spell she might have fallen under?

“I wish Helma were here,” she whispered to the crackling fire in the hearth. Pim nosed her hand until she noticed him, and

she absently stroked his head. He was gazing at her with unspeakably sad eyes, and she sighed. “I love you, Pim, of course

I do. But sadly, even a loyal dog is not a substitute for what I need.”

Maurits watched as his mistress fell into a fitful sleep.

What nightmares tormented her? An unpleasant knot of guilt worked in his stomach at the realization that he might have been part of the cause of them.

When he was certain that she was as comfortable as she could be, he slipped out of her bedchamber and down the stairs on silent paws.

The journey to Franeker, which should have taken only a matter of minutes in the water, instead took hours on his damnably

short legs. He found the old woman sitting on the floor of the New Church, rubbing her hands against the chill. His canine

nose had followed her trail, still sharp after all these days. When she saw him, she’d regarded him with something between

suspicion and dismay. He barked, ran a few paces and waited for her. She knew what he wanted, he could see it on her lined

face. But she just pressed her lips tight, signed a cross on her chest and turned away. It was no use; she would not follow.

Damn his mother. A dog. A dog, of all things! He ran through the narrow, cobbled streets, a child slinging rocks at him, then

dodged a spray of mud as a carriage clattered by.

Clara awoke from her nap to an agitated Pim. He paced and nipped at her hand; then running to the door, circled back over

and over to see if she was following.

The little dog had appeared in her life only three days before, but already it felt as if he had been with her forever. It

was surprising to find herself anticipating his needs, caught her off guard how easy it was for her to communicate with another

creature. She followed him downstairs to the hall where her mother was stabbing an embroidery needle into her hoop over and

over.

“You are out of bed.” Katrina ran a narrowed eye over her without looking up from her work. “I’ve never seen a girl sleep

so much. It speaks of sloth and laziness.”

“I am feeling much recovered,” Clara said, head bowed. “I would like to go to church to pray, atone for my behavior toward Hendrik.”

Katrina put aside her needle. “You must truly take me for a fool. Do you think that I would let you take the carriage into

town yourself, after the mischief you got up to last time?”

Clara should have expected as much, but it was worth trying. “Of course, I will take a chaperone. Or,” she paused, gambling

with her next words, “you could come with me.”

The two women regarded each other from across the room, neither willing to call the bluff. Finally, Katrina took her needle

up again with a sigh. “Very well. Nela will accompany you. I cannot believe that you would be so stupid as to try anything

similar again, but I have learned that your capacity for disappointing me is endless.”

Packed into the carriage with a disapproving Nela, Clara held Pim in her lap and they lurched off toward the city. As the

spires of the New Church appeared, Pim stood up at the carriage window, barking and growing agitated.