Page 26 of Disenchanted
To my relief, the sounds of the tavern grew fainter. I believed I could even hear the distant lap of water. I inched along, proceeding more cautiously. I did not want to find myself ankle deep in muck and reeds, or worse still actually fall into the chilly waters of the Conger River.
A wooden sign loomed in front of me, and my heart lifted at the sight of a landmark I recognized.
These signs were posted at all the borders of our realm, proclaiming in cheery red letters, WELCOME TO ARCADY, THE KINGDOM OF HAPPILY EVER AFTER. Only on this welcome post, some wag had carved an n before the e, so it read HAPPILY NEVER AFTER.
Only someone from Misty Bottoms would dare to deface one of the royal signposts. I wondered if it might have been Mal. The n slanted in that peculiar way he had of forming his letters and he was certainly reckless enough to mock the king in this fashion.
Thanks to the signpost, I had a clearer idea where I was. If I pressed forward, I would come to the bridge near the tall stone tower that housed the riverside border patrol. By veering off to the left, I should eventually reach the area where the eel sellers plied their trade.
My nose informed me that I was groping my way in the right direction. The heavy fog might hide everything else, but nothing could disguise the reek from barrels of eels pickled in brine. Right next to the Snigglery, I located Fugitate’s establishment.
The curio shop was little more than a shack with small dingy windows. A creaking sign on rusted chains hung over the door. FUGITATE’S FANCIES. WITHYPOLE FUGITATE, PROPRIETOR. I hesitated on the threshold, seized by an attack of nerves. I had never visited Fugitate’s shop on my own before. Mal had always accompanied me whenever I wanted to sell something, and he had been the one to handle all the negotiations. It was a tricky and difficult business, striking a good bargain with Withypole Fugitate.
Even if I could have found Mal in his shop this afternoon and explained what I wanted to do, he would have flatly refused to help me. He would have been furious at the idea of me selling my mother’s earrings to get Imelda and my stepsisters tickets to the ball. I was entirely on my own.
I wiped my moist palms on the inside of my cloak and entered the shop. The little bell suspended above the doorway announced my arrival with a discordant jangle. Fugitate’s shop was a murky place on the sunniest days owing to the small grimy windows. With the fog pressing on the glass, the interior wasswathed in shadow. I had to give my eyes time to adjust before I could pick my way forward.
The tables and shelves of the shop were laden with merchandise stacked up in haphazard fashion. Silver plates, blue patterned china and copper pots crowded next to ivory-hilted daggers, jewel boxes and sewing chests. Embroidered footstools, settee cushions and fireplace screens battled for space alongside stacks of oil paintings and piles of dust covered books.
A rack of old-fashioned clothing, full skirted satin gowns, velvet doublets and moth-eaten wool cloaks took up far too much room. I had to ease past it, taking care not to dislodge any of the porcelain vases and delicate figurines crammed on the opposite shelf. A feeling of melancholy washed over me as it always did when I entered Fugitate’s shop. I could not help wondering about the people who had owned all this, the desperation that had driven them to sell off their belongings.
Had they crept in here as I had often done, placing their small treasures on the counter and anxiously waiting for Fugitate’s valuation and the coins he would count into their trembling hands? Then like me, did they rush from the murky shop, clutching their purses, glad to be back out in the sunlight, a relief tempered by regret and a sense of shame?
I could not decide what depressed me more, the porcelain dolls leaning forlornly against one another, their curls disheveled from the last time they had been hugged by a little girl or the box of toy soldiers, their general still sticky from marmalade-covered boyish fingers. Or perhaps it was the piles of musical instruments, tin whistles, pipes, tambours, and the lutes that reminded me of Harper.
His lute had a letter etched near the frets. Harper had said that it was from a jealous rival who had seized his lute, cut the strings, and tried to scratch the word “plunker,” a slur uponHarper’s musical abilities. This rival had only got as far as the letter p before Harper had stopped him.
Although I told myself I did not care, I could not help wondering. What if Harper had fallen upon hard times and been obliged to sell his lute? I started to examine the stringed instruments more closely, only to stop, disgusted with myself. I did not care, and Harper had not been seen in Arcady for years. It was idiotic to imagine I might find Harper’s lute abandoned here. Discarding me had been easy, but Harper would have perished of starvation before parting with his beloved lute.
As I squeezed my way toward the counter, the shop was choked with more wares than the last time I had visited. Yet Master Fugitate rarely seemed to have customers or sell much of his merchandise. What could he possibly want with all this stuff?
Most fairies had no use for human possessions, although they did have a penchant for sparkling gemstones. At least they did according to one of the volumes in my father’s library,The Quaint Customs and Ways of the Fey Folk. The book filled me with wonder when I was a child and I had longed to make the acquaintance of a fairy.
At one time, the Red Grove Forest had been full of them, but the king’s edicts restricting the use of magic and his exorbitant wing tax had driven most of the fey from our kingdom before I was ever born. Withypole Fugitate was the only one I knew of, and this was based on Mal’s belief that Fugitate was a fairy in disguise, a suspicion neither of us had ever confirmed. The dour shopkeeper was nothing like the fiercely proud, beautiful creatures my father’s book had depicted.
Usually, the jangle of the bell would bring Master Fugitate scurrying from the back room to glower at anyone who had entered, as though he suspected you had come to steal from him. I waited at the counter for what seemed a considerable length of time and there was no sign of Fugitate’s scowling features.
At last, I called out, “Hallo! Mr. Fugitate?”
When I received no response, I began to feel uneasy. The shop appeared to be deserted but I could not imagine Withypole going away and leaving the premises unlocked, his merchandise unprotected.
I called again and louder. When there was still no answer, I skirted around the counter. The shop was separated from the back by a doorway hung with a musty purple velvet curtain trimmed with golden tassels. Above the door, a sign proclaimed in huge black letters: ABSOLUTELY NO CUSTOMERS BEYOND THIS POINT! OR ELSE!!!
Or else what? I had often wondered, but never had I risked finding out. Nervously, I plucked back a corner of the heavy drapery and peered through the crack.
I was astonished to discover Fugitate’s shop was larger than it appeared from the front. A narrow corridor opened before me with four closed doors, two on either side. The hallway ended at a fifth room with the door ajar, a glimmer of light coming from inside.
“Mr. Fugitate?” I called. Only silence greeted me, and my unease deepened. Mindful of the sign menacing me with its vague threat, I started to draw back. What lay beyond that curtain had to be Withypole’s private quarters. I had no right to intrude and Fugitate was not known for his kindly disposition.
But what if he had been attacked or had fallen so ill, he could not cry out for help? I could not just leave the shop without making some effort to see if Withypole was all right.
Mustering my courage, I ducked past the curtain and headed down the corridor toward the room where the light beckoned. I eased the door open and peeked inside to find a modest bedchamber with a small bed that was little more than a cot. A battered night table stood next to it, bearing a chipped vase of wilting daisies.
The only ostentatious piece of furniture in the room was a full-length cheval glass set in an intricately carved oak frame with sconces for candles. Fugitate posed before this mirror. He was bared to the waist, his wings exposed.
My breath caught. Fully unfurled, his gossamer wings spanned outward, nearly touching the walls on both sides, a distance of at least eight feet. The light that had drawn me did not come from the candles on either side of the mirror. They were not even lit. It was the wings. They shimmered with an intensity that reflected the alabaster whiteness of the fairy’s skin, the frosty sheen of his thick waves of hair. Fugitate looked tall and proud as he studied his image in the mirror. His face was beautiful with finely chiseled cheekbones and delicate brows arched over his eyes. It was little wonder that he had not heard the bell or me calling him. He appeared lost in another world, a realm of poignant memory and untold sorrow. A single crystal tear escaped and cascaded down his cheek.
I averted my gaze, realizing I had witnessed a private moment no human had a right to see. I tried to tiptoe away, but I had the misfortune to stumble over a loose floorboard. As I flung my hand out to keep from falling, I inadvertently pushed the door all the way open. The knob hit the wall with a loud crack.
