Clarysa then gazed in wonder at the sight of a covered, brightly painted wagon in the opposite corner. It sat there like a plump, bulbous flower at the height of its bloom. Large wheels ran outside the body of the van, which sloped outward considerably toward the eaves. Deep blue curtains embellished the opening. Clothes hung drying on various ropes that stretched from wagon to walls. Clarysa thought it magnificent. Even with her avid reading of the history books, she had never seen anything like it.
“Well, come in, come in! Don’t be a stranger, my dear.”
Clarysa focused on the voice’s owner. It was indeed Gretchen. Her appearance resembled a brightly colored butterfly, accented by coin necklaces and bracelets that jingled as she expertly navigated the room’s obstacles. She wiped her hand on a towel and then used the same to reach for Clarysa’s elbow and assist her down the steps.
“How are you feeling?” The older woman took a moment to study Clarysa’s face, rubbing and pinching her cheeks with strong, calloused hands. “Aye, I think you’ve recovered for the most part. Come and sit. I was just getting us some lunch.” Gretchen nodded toward a young man seated at the main table. “This is Ghyslain, my son.”
Clarysa barely remembered him from the night of her rescue, but was glad of the chance to meet him properly. Brown hair tied in a ponytail and one large hoop earring accented Ghyslain’s appearance. He had the gangly bearing of a teenager but none of the awkwardness. He grinned and waved hello, then stood to offer her a seat.
Clarysa curtsied. But her weak legs rebelled, and she toppled over into a stack of carefully arranged baskets. Gretchen and her son rushed to her aid. They guided her into a sturdy chair by the wooden table.
“I’m so sorry! Please forgive me.”
Gretchen chuckled. “That’s what you get for using such fancy manners around this place. Ghyslain, the cups, please.” Gretchen busied herself at the hearth, ladling soup into three large bowls.
Metal silverware landed in the steaming bowls. It was dull and scratched, yet betraying skilled craftsmanship. Gretchen placed the bowls deftly on the table as the boy filled three earthenware mugs with water. She retreated to the pantry, returning with thick slices of dark, crusty bread. “Old family recipe,” she said, lifting her mug in cheer.
Clarysa smiled and turned to her meal. It was a thin potato soup with garlic and onion, speckled with carrot. She ate steadily for a few moments. “This is wonderful, thank you, Gretchen. How long have I been asleep?”
“Three days,” came Gretchen’s nonchalant answer. She slurped hard, some of the soup running down her chin.
Clarysa straightened up. “Thr…three days?”
“That’s right.” Gretchen regarded her, slowly wiping her mouth with the back of a hand. “Why? Was there somewhere you needed to be?”
“No, I…” Clarysa nervously fingered her spoon. “It seems like I nearly died!”
“I’ll not lie. You had a serious brush with death.” Gretchen took their bowls for a refill.
Clarysa chewed thoughtfully on a piece of the tough bread. It was mostly tasteless and she didn’t care for it, old family recipe or not. “Any word from Stellan?” she asked.
Gretchen shook her head. “Don’t expect him back for a week, at least. He hasn’t got the men to spare for messengers.”
Clarysa nodded her understanding and resumed eating. But her stomach already felt full, so she pushed the bowl away after only a few more bites. She sipped her water. The food had given her energy, and she was bursting with questions. The first flew from her mouth before she could stop it. “I thought Stellan lived alone. Does he… I mean, is he, uh, is he with anyone?”
Gretchen looked up sharply.
Clarysa winced. Idiot! You were rubbing shoulders with death and that’s all you can think about?
Mirth made Gretchen's eyes sparkle. “You mean like a…a companion? A lady friend, perhaps? Is that what you’d like to know?”
“Yes,” she said softly.
Gretchen stroked her chin. “Well, no, unless you count…” A thoughtful look passed briefly across her face. “No, he doesn’t.” Her lips broke into a wide smile. “Why? Do you have someone in mind for him?”
Clarysa looked down, blushing furiously. “Just wondering,” she muttered.
Gretchen snorted. “Well then, are you finished eating?”
Clarysa nodded. Gretchen and Ghyslain gathered the dishes.
As they worked, Clarysa noticed how carefully Gretchen conserved the remaining food. Even her own uneaten soup went back into the pot. Clarysa recalled the vegetable pastry she had so carelessly wasted during the hunt and felt ashamed. Was Stellan that poor? She recalled other clues, such as his patched clothing, lean appearance and voracious appetite. At the time, she had thought nothing of it. Surely a prince could not be so destitute that every scrap of food had to be saved!
But perhaps so. Here she was, in a castle so drab and dreary and bare. She had to help somehow. Looking down, she tugged off two rings from her fingers and placed them on the table. When Gretchen returned with a rag to wipe the table’s surface, Clarysa gestured for her to take them. “They should be several weeks’ worth of food, I would think.”
Gretchen looked horrified. “Oh, no, milady, oh no oh no! If the master finds out, he’ll have my head! He’s got a horrible temper, you know!” She pushed them back across the table.
“Oh, but you must accept them! Especially after all you’ve done. Think of it as my gift to you.”
Gretchen eyed them wistfully. “I do miss my spices! I know how to cook, and cook well, but it’s been so hard these past years. More and more he sits in his tower playing that infernal…here, Ghyslain!” She scooped up the rings and handed them to her son. “Go with Froll to the village. You know what to get!”
Ghyslain, his calm composure now flushed with excitement, bowed deeply toward Clarysa before bounding from the room.
Clarysa stared after him, beaming. Her donation wouldn’t solve all of Stellan’s problems, but at least it was
