If ever there was a fair damsel in distress, it’s not Tansy of Oakwood Manor. Distressed, maybe. She has cares aplenty, but she’s far too indelicate for “fair.” Too tall, too rebellious. Too strange. No man wants a graceless girl of dubious origins. Which is just as well, probably, since Tansy has never yet met a man that she wants, either. Until the day she meets Rowan...
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EXCERPT:
“Ugly, worthless wench!”
Caught.
Damn.
Tansy of Oakwood Manor flinched as a shadow fell across the kitchen garden gate. Hard fingers bit into her upper arm. A sour odor stung her nose.
Cousin Filbert.
He moved quietly for his pudgy bulk and was always sneaking up on her, spying on her wicked deeds. Tansy was a thief, and she and Filbert both knew it. She never stole for herself, though, nor raided anything greater than the pantry. Crone Caraway didn’t care where her apple tart had come from--or how.
“Quite tasty,” she declared it, and gave Tansy a crooked grin in exchange for the pilfered gift. “Ye grow more like yer mother each day, lassie. Poor Lady Rose, such a kind heart she had.”
And such rotten luck. Disowned by her father, Rose had finished her short life as a ward of her sister’s husband, the current earl of the shire. A misfortune inherited by her child. Lord Burdock was Tansy’s guardian by virtue of having wooed and won her Aunt Violet (as difficult as that was to imagine), an uncle by marriage, not blood. Which made the odious Filbert a cousin only because he, too, called the earl “uncle,” and with more reason. Filbert was Burdock’s bloodline and no birth-kin to Tansy, thank Goddess. She took comfort from that--even if her actual bloodline might be worse.
“Off with you, old witch,” Filbert ordered the crone.
She winked at Tansy. “I’d turn him into a toad for ye, dearie, but I’m afraid someone has already beaten me to it.” Chuckling, she hobbled off down the lane outside the gate.
Filbert glowered as though he’d like to beat her. But he wasn’t that stupid. The last fellow who’d raised hand against Crone Caraway, had ended up with a bad case of boils in a most inconvenient place. The herb woman could hex as shrewdly as she could cure.
Filbert slapped Tansy instead.
Ow.
“She’s been feeding the beggars again,” he called across the yard to Lord Burdock who stood watching from a doorway.
Never mind that those “beggars” were the lord’s own overtaxed subjects.
“Indeed.” The earl’s arched brows pulled together in a scowl. “Then your own plate shall go empty today, niece, to replace the loss to our larder. Out of my sight, you ungrateful chit. And you, nephew, attend me in my study. We shall tally the month’s takings together.”
Oh, goody for Filbert. He loved the clinking of coins as much as their uncle did, and loved to encourage the man’s miserliness. After all, the less Burdock spent now, the more there would be for his apparent heir.
In all fairness, Lord Burdock might have been kinder once--Dame Tulip said so, anyway. But the loss of his older brother years ago, followed by the death of his wife had hardened him, so the story went.
Tansy wondered what Filbert’s excuse was.
He beamed her an evil smirk, then swaggered into the huge house. She stuck out her tongue at his retreating back. As the door shut behind him with a hollow thud, a second story shutter snapped open with a sharp crack.
“I saw that, missy!” a shrill voice hollered.
Of course. Dame Tulip missed nothing, did she?
The housekeeper shoved her ample bosom over the windowsill and leaned out, glaring. “A great, gangly maid like yourself making faces like a common little scalawag. For shame. You’ll never win a man with those manners.”
Aye. A great, gangly old maid of almost five and twenty. Too indelicate to attract a husband. Too tall, too brown from too many hours outside, too poor...
And too strange.
Tansy was noble born, but on the wrong side of the blanket. No one knew her sire, least of all herself, but it was whispered she was the result of an encounter with the fae folk who lived hidden in the earth and preyed on unwary travelers.
Elvin spawned?
A halfling?
Only Tansy’s mother knew the truth of the matter. But Lady Rose had died giving her ill-gotten daughter life, and the truth had died with her.
All Tansy knew was that the marriageable swains of the shire looked at her askance, if they bothered to look at all. No man wanted a graceless orphan of dubious origins, a dowerless bastard with freckles and corkscrew curly red hair.
Which was just as well, probably, since Tansy had never yet met a man that she wanted, either. If she had, perhaps she would’ve tried harder to learn the gentle womanly arts and social graces she lacked--if she could have learned such skills in this humorless household. She existed here as something ’twixt family and servant, having neither the respect of the former nor the paltry perks of the latter.
As though reading Tansy’s thoughts, or maybe just her expression, Dame Tulip hurled a parting shot. “What home would you have if not for the earl? You should show more gratitude, m’girl.”
Slam!
Tansy winced at the noise of the shutter banging closed.
Gratitude for what? Her faded frock? The tiny garret room that was as stuffy in summer as it was cold in winter? The lean meals served with sour looks and bitter words?
Sigh.
Aye, she should be grateful. She was. However difficult her lot, she still lived better than most in this land where the privileged few held the wealth and grew fat off the labor of the ragged many.
And there seemed so little she could do to ease the poor people’s plight. Poor herself, Tansy had nothing of her own to offer them. Naught but kind words, which were free for the saying, a bit of looted food...and a few simple wishing spells gleaned from Crone Caraway.
The spells never worked. (Rather irksome, that. If she was a halfling, wouldn’t you think she might have some magic in her?) But Tansy tried one now, anyway, just for the sheer hell of it. She always preferred forward action to backward brooding, even if the action proved futile. This spell required a rowan tree and a piece of red thread. The first grew by the garden gate. The second...
Hmm, perhaps a red hair would serve?
She plucked one from her head, then peered about to make sure no one spied upon her. When certain that none did, she faced the tree and softly chanted:
“Rowan, rowan, strong and true, if I give you three kisses, will you grant me three wishes?”
A breeze stirred the rowan’s leaves.
Tansy took that for a yes. Quickly, she leaned in and pressed her lips against the cool bark--once, twice, thrice--and wished for...
What?
Food for the hungry?
Rest for the weary?
Aye, those were good things.
And maybe a little love for herself, too, because Goddess knew she needed some.
To seal the spell, she wrapped the strand of hair around one of the tree’s branches and knotted it three times. The final step was to forget all about it, so the charm wouldn’t be hindered by the limits of mortal thought--or something like that--so Crone Caraway had said.
So Tansy did.
Turning her back on the gloom of the manor house, she slipped out the gate and followed the lane east, toward the bright morning sun. A shorts ways down, she came upon Crone Caraway seated on the low stone wall that bordered the path.
The old woman greeted her with a grin. “I’ve been waitin’ for ye.”
Tansy blinked. “You knew I’d be passing this way?”
Crone Caraway chuckled. “I know a great deal, lassie. And ’tis time ye did, too. However, ’tis not my place to tell ye.” She glanced about, a curious twinkle in her eyes. “Ye’ll find out soon enough, I’ll warrant. There be magic in the air this morn. Do ye not feel it?”
“I...I’m not sure.” Tansy rubbed her arms. She did feel a slight prickle of goosebumps. Was that magic?
“Ah well, ye will.” Crone Caraway slid to her feet and shooed Tansy off with a wave of her hand. “Run alang, me dear, and see what ye shall see.”
On that note, the herb woman hobbled off west, toward the village of Greenbriar.
Cryptic Crone Caraway, she did say the oddest things. Tansy watched a moment, then shrugged and continued eastward until the lane opened into green meadow, where wildflowers sparkled like jewels in the grass, and gossamer winged flutter-bys danced on the breeze.
The sunlight and fresh air were free at least, a feast for the senses, and likely the only nourishment she’d get today. Tansy drank deep, filling her lungs and spirit if not her belly, turning her face skyward to soak in the heavenly blue.
The sudden thunder of hooves yanked her gaze back to earth.
What...
There!
Across the field, raced a demon dark steed with a masked rider on its back. A long blade flashed like a shaft of fire in the rider’s hand.
Great Goddess, a highwayman--and a desperate one to attack in broad day.
Or a cowardly one.
His quarry was a lone figure on foot. A soldier by the look of him, and armed with a sword, too, but that was small defense against a mounted charge. The robber’s sword strike had the force of a gallop behind it. With a metallic clang, steel met steel--
Clash!
The soldier parried the blow, but its impact broke his blade and sent him flying. He hit the ground hard, struggled a second to rise, then dropped back and lay motionless, either swooning or...
No!
Tansy’s heart slammed her ribs. Without thinking, she ran forward, waving her arms, shrieking like an avenging fury...
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A holiday "fruitcake" of facts, fun, and food. Recipes and tales for the Yuletide season. Includes sweet treats and saucy trivia, heartwarming memories and magical lore. Delightful reading and delicious eating for the merriest time of the year.
