Page 3

Siblings

“Come in!” called Mother.

“Boots off!” said Rose.

I wrinkled my nose as Jack pulled off his patched-up boots and dropped them on the doorstep.

“Sorry,” he murmured, catching my look. “Haven’t washed my feet in a while.”

“I know.”

He tugged his forelock at Mother. She gestured for him to sit in my chair.

He hesitated, glancing toward the door. “But… good mother, are you not afeared? There’s a horde of ruffians coming!”

“Come and eat,” Mother said, and at her words his look of fear faded and he drifted obediently towards the chair.

Rose came to the table and pushed the plate of oatcakes toward him with a smile. He blinked at the sight of her, then blushed like a radish.

I fetched another bowl. “Well?” I demanded, filling it with stew and offering it to him. “Are you eating or not? ”

He glanced again at the door as though trying to remember what he came for.

But the smell of hot stew reached his nose, and he sat and began spooning it up rapidly.

“Mmm…” he murmured to no one in particular.

“Most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. Haven’t eaten such a meal in a se’nnight. Nay, a month.”

“Have some more,” offered Rose, plucking the ladle from me.

We had only three chairs, so I perched on a stool, feeling a loss of dignity, like a small child eating away from the table.

“Those are the best oatcakes I’ve ever tasted,” Jack sighed when the plate was empty.

“You should know,” I said. “After eating seven of them.”

Mother began filling her customary after-dinner pipe. Jack watched with interest as she lit it with a twig from the fire and puffed away. “Now tell us what you saw,” she said.

He sat up straight. “A horde,” he began. “Coming along the road from town. Such a cloud of dust they made—like a troop! Like an army!”

“Exactly how many?” I asked, thinking an army sounded very unlikely.

“Couldn’t count.”

“Why?” asked Rose, frowning at a hole in her knitting. “Were there too many?”

“Can’t count,” he replied. “Don’t know numbers nor letters. No one ever taught me. My brother knows numbers and letters. He’s the clever one.”

“They cannot be riding very fast,” I said. “They haven’t passed by yet.”

“Why do you call them ruffians?” asked Mother.

“They looked like ruffians. ”

“And what does a ruffian look like?” I asked.

“Not like a gent,” he said. “Nor a respectable fellow. A ruffian. They’ll come by your cottage, won’t they, good mother?”

“They will,” murmured Mother, “if they are riding to the border.”

“Which they shall be,” Rose added. “As they do every year.”

Jack looked between us. “How is it you’re not afeared? You’re not afraid of rough men coming to steal your…” he glanced at Rose and me, “...your food?”

“There’s none left to steal,” I couldn’t resist saying. “You ate it.”

Jack turned his silly brown eyes on me as if to reply, but the sound of hooves and a shout caused him to leap up, crying, “They’re here!”

I went to the window. Rose joined me, tucking her ball of wool under her arm.

“They do look like ruffians,” I admitted, noting the grizzled and grimy beards and rough countenances.

They clattered by on pack-laden mules and stout horses, man and beast both weary, as if at the end of a long journey.

“That fellow’s dismounting,” Jack said anxiously. “He’s coming through the gate!” He rushed to the door. “You have no bolt! Barricade the door!” He grabbed the table, dragging it across the floor.

“ Stop .” Mother spoke firmly. “They will not trouble us.”

Jack gaped at her. “Not… trouble?”

“Step away from the window, Rose,” Mother instructed.

She obeyed just as the roses began to swell and surge.

I never failed to be impressed by the speed of their movement.

The cottage darkened, as though the late afternoon had turned to night in an instant.

Thick vines and brambles shot up, forming an impenetrable barrier of thorns.

Branches, broad as a man’s arm, wove together like living iron. A cry of alarm sounded from outside.

“Hack ‘em back!” someone yelled.

I heard blades drawn and curses shouted—and then a droning hum filled the air—our bees were roused from their hives, and every curse drew a corresponding sting.

We listened to the yells, the neighing and braying, and then the hurried clatter of hooves as the party of adventurers fled. The vines shrank, the window cleared, and the golden light of late afternoon returned.

Rose resumed her knitting. Mother puffed her pipe.

I went to the window and shook my head at the mess left behind—broken branches, the garden gate hanging from its hinge, and a few dropped items littering the path.

Jack stood white-faced and wide-eyed.

“They’re gone,” I told him unnecessarily. “There is nothing to fear.”

But it wasn’t them he was afraid of.

“Y-you were telling the truth,” he stammered. “Wh-when you said this was a sorceress’s house!”

Rose looked up with half a smile. Mother puffed on. I was impish enough to cast Jack a dark and knowing look, such as I imagined a sorceress might use.

Mother put him to rights. “We’re none of us sorceresses, Master Jack,” she said. “Only a lone woman and her two girls.”

“B-but that !” Jack pointed at the window where a rose branch was shrinking as it snaked slowly away, resuming its usual form .

“The roses are enchanted,” Mother said. “But we are not the enchanters.”

Jack swallowed. “Then h-how did you get them?”

“They were a gift.”

“A-a magical gift?”

“Is that so surprising, living so near to Faerie?”

Jack hesitated. “ ’Tis not safe to live so near to Faerie,” he said. He still looked wary. “But… you have no magic?”

“We are just as you see,” said Mother. “No more, no less.”

“If we were magical,” said Rose, lifting her head, “we would hardly be eking out a living in a little cottage, now would we?” There was more than a hint of yearning in her tone.

“If I were magical, I should live in a big house and have beautiful gowns and jewels, and feast on roast beef and sweetmeats.”

He considered this, and his face showed he thought it a very plausible argument.

“And if I were magical,” I said, unable to resist my own little gripe, “I would not be cooped up for days every year just because stupid men want to ride into Faerie on a fool’s quest.”

He gave me a reproachful look. “ ’Tis not a fool’s quest. ’Tis a noble thing to wish to save the kingdom from war.”

“So it is,” said Rose comfortingly, throwing me a look as sharp as her needle point. “Do not listen to Lily. She is in one of her petulant moods, for she hates to be confined. Now come and sit back down. You’ll stay for supper, won’t you? We have liquorice tea and a little porridge with honey.”

His face brightened. “I’ve not eaten honey in an age.”

“You will like our honey,” Rose promised. “Our bees cross between here and there, and the nectar from over the border makes the sweetest honey you ever tasted.”

Jack sat down again. “ You could not be a dangerous sorceress,” he murmured, gazing at Rose. “You are too kind. Too lovely. My lady Rose ,” he added, with a touch of reverence.

Rose smiled benignly, like a queen to a courtier. “Mother shall tell us stories until suppertime,” she said. “You will like that.”

Jack did like that. We all did.

Mother’s steady, rhythmic voice wove through the air, telling the old tales of treasures and faerie tricks, of knights and kings, of cunning rogues and clever maidens.

I stirred the pot of porridge while my thoughts drifted amid other worlds, until a loud, insistent knocking jolted me from the story reverie. “Beran!” I cried, rushing to the door, my spoon still in my hand.

I yanked it wide. It was deep dusk outside, and dark to eyes used to lamp and firelight, but I could see that the shape on the doorstep was neither tall nor wide enough for Beran.

“Who are you?” I said in surprise.

The dark shape bent, making a bow.

“I am Jory, son of Jago. I have come for my brother.”

Jack was at my side in a moment.

“ Jory ! How did you find me?”

The stranger held something aloft. Rose now came to the door, bearing a lamp. The flickering light revealed a pair of dirty, patched-up boots swinging by their broken laces in the stranger’s hand.

“I recognised these,” said the stranger. “When I saw them sitting on the doorstep. For they are my own. Were my own. How came you to wear them out, you sapskull, scapegrace of a brat?”

I had a feeling I might like this brother.

“You’re welcome to have them back,” said Jack, his pleasure dimming. “They gave me no end of blisters.”

“That will teach you not to steal other men’s boots, then, shan’t it?”

Jack hung his head.

“Are you coming in, Master Jory?” asked Rose, after looking to Mother for confirmation.

He glanced up at her, a ripple of surprise crossing his face. He bowed again.

“If I might have that honour, my lady. I am wholly at your service.”

Rose liked this show of admiration. She tossed her head a little and did not demand that he take off his dirty boots.

“I am Rose. This is Mother, and my sister, Lily.”

“Lily and Rose,” he said, in an amused tone. “How sweet.”

“Jack and Jory,” I flashed back. “How quaint.”

He looked at me for the first time. No admiration lit up his expression when his gaze fell on me. But what was my wild, silver-white hair and hoydenish air compared to Rose’s neat, glossy braids and willowy beauty?

“You must be hungry after your journey,” said Mother, who had not moved from her chair, but pointed with her pipe at a vacant seat.

“I thank you, good mother,” said Jory, letting down his pack and a small quiver and a bow. He unclasped and discarded a green cloak before taking the chair. A slingshot hung from his belt.

“There’s only porridge for supper,” I said. “We’ve had dinner already,” I looked pointedly at Jack, “and there is none left.”

Jory sniffed the air with a frown, and I darted to the pot with a groan. The neglected porridge was a brown mess.

“Is it burnt?” asked Rose needlessly.