Stolen Magic(61)

Perhaps it would go well. She adored him.

After this exchange, Master Robbie asked Elodie to help him shovel snow outside. Below the stairs, they began to clear a path from the stable to the cottage.

“Master Tuomo offered to be my guardian. He said a man can’t have too many sons.”

Really!

“But I’m staying at the Oase.”

She was glad. He’d be safe, and he could give his affection freely to the bees he liked; he wouldn’t be obliged to love any particular one.

“Whenever a barber-surgeon comes, I’ll watch him or her. The high brunka says I’ll have tasks, too. It will be like working at an inn, the way I used to help Grandmother.” He plunged on. “We can start an inn together someday if detecting and barbering disappoint us.”

Lambs and calves! What to say? Elodie threw snow to the side to give herself time.

She didn’t know if she’d ever see him again after they left the Oase. She liked him, too, but not enough to become an innkeeper.

What to say? She shoveled harder, her back to him.

She couldn’t answer as herself or she’d stammer in confusion. Mansion a heroine who’d know what to do. Which one?

Penelope! A heroine who excelled at putting suitors off without discouraging them.

She stopped shoveling.

Now his back was to her.

“Master Robbie?”

He turned, his face red. “I didn’t mean— You may not—”

“Hush.” As Penelope, she had dignity and assurance. “Detecting and mansioning will always please me, but someday I may be in need of an original mind. Will you come?”

“Wherever you are, I’ll come, by fast horse or quick cog.”

“Thank you.” Then, imagining Master Robbie as Odysseus, the hero of Penelope’s tale, she leaned toward him and kissed his rosy cheek.


Master Tuomo chafed at the oxen’s slow pace and remained with Elodie’s party for only an hour before setting forth alone.

“Farewell.” He bowed to all of them from his horse, rode off, wheeled, and came back. “Before I go, Masteress, if you have charge of the girl, take my advice: Treat her as you would your steed. Rein her in, and do not let her have her head.” He left them.

IT enh enh enhed for several minutes. “As if I could do without your head, Lodie.”

Goodman Dror and Mistress Sirka stayed with the oxcarts for three days, riding their donkeys as close as the beasts would go to ITs warmth. When they rounded the southern slope of Svye Mountain, however, they said their good-byes. The farm cottage of Mistress Sirka’s parents, where the two would be wed, squatted in the valley below the road.

Two days later, the oxcarts reached the caves where the people of Zertrum had gone for safety, and where some still sheltered, planning to pass the winter before rebuilding their homes in the spring. Widow Fridda and her daughters were there, and each bestowed a hug on His Lordship. Other folks crowded around, patted his leg, tried to pump his hand. Elodie had never seen him look so happy—

—or Masteress Meenore so vexed. ITs smoke stayed a bright pink and ITs tail twitched the whole time, as people coughed, smiled, bowed, and waved. Luckily for them, ITs odor kept folks from coming close enough for conversation.

The remaining journey to Potluck Farm took a week, slower than it might have, because the road around Zertrum was still obscured by haze and was blocked here and there by boulders that His Lordship and the oxen had to work together to remove.

Elodie spent the last day worrying. Would her father be able to conquer his fear of her friends? Would her mother try to wrench her away from them?

Albin and His Lordship shared her fear. His Lordship even offered to shape-shift into his monkey, although Elodie asked him not to. In midafternoon they reached the track that wound up the mountain to Potluck Farm, and Albin went ahead to prepare the way.

After an anxious two hours, as the sun was setting, he returned with Goodwife Bettel and Goodman Han, Elodie’s mother and father, the faces of both bathed in joy. They’d heard reports of the good ogre and the good dragon, but even if they hadn’t, they’d have welcomed any creatures who brought their daughter home. Albin made the introductions. Elodie’s father bowed so deeply, his nose touched his knees.

His Lordship almost equaled the courtesy. In his opinion, Elodie’s parents ranked with royalty. Nesspa performed a dog version of a bow, chest on the ground, rump in the air.

Masteress Meenore performed ITs elaborate bow and curtsy. “You are to be congratulated for producing a mansioning and detecting prodigy.”

Lambs and calves!

Despite her happiness, Goodwife Bettel merely crossed her arms. “If you value my daughter so highly, why did you leave her in danger at the Oase?”

Hastily, Albin—who had already told the story of the theft and of Elodie’s connection with her masteress—suggested they continue talking at the Potluck cottage. The party began to ascend.

Elodie noticed ITs smoke rising in white spirals as they climbed.

Her father came to her side. “Is IT”—he lowered his voice to a whisper—“a he or a she?”

Enh enh enh. IT had heard.

“IT doesn’t say.”

The cottage could accommodate only an ogre’s arm or a dragon’s leg, so the humans brought a meal outside, and IT kept everyone warm. His Lordship sat on a tree stump with Nesspa at his feet while the humans perched on stools.