To her relief, Mistress Twilby asked her to set the table while she and Fern, her daughter, took care of the final preparations. Merrigan learned that Mistress Twilby had assembled their dinner that morning, putting everything into an enormous cast iron pot and then sliding it into the oven to cook all day. It was a simple matter of pouring mugs of cider for everyone, cutting bread, and dishing up an amazingly delicious, hearty stew.
Perhaps there were some benefits to taking gainful employment. Hot food and sitting with the family. Welcomed by them. Included in their chatter, even if it was of plebian things like the town gossip and sewing the mayor's daughter's wardrobe. All of it was rather ... surprisingly ... pleasant.
After dinner, the sewing continued. She didn't really mind. The kitchen was warm and well-lit and Mistress Twilby provided hot tea with plenty of honey. Master Twilby praised the straightness and tightness of her seams, and asked if she would be so kind as to teach Fern the trick of it, now that the girl was old enough to move on from piecing and pinning. Merrigan didn't mind teaching her at all. In fact, it was quite easy to be gracious.
The odd, tight feeling in her chest did give Merrigan pause. She couldn't quite understand the wet warmth in her eyes, either.
"I hope you don't mind, Mistress Mara," Master Twilby said, as he came back into the kitchen with a thick, ragged-edged book, the cover so worn she couldn't read the title. "We do enjoy some reading in the evening, especially after a good day's work and getting back onto schedule, thanks to your opportune arrival."
"Of course not. I assume this is some volume of edifying homilies?" Merrigan frowned when a giggle escaped Fern. What had she missed? The snotty little thing wasn't mocking her, was she? Such a deceptive child. Just a moment ago, Merrigan had been sure she was the sweetest, most attentive child she had ever met.
"Fern," Mistress Twilby scolded softly. To Merrigan's amazement and slight irritation, she chuckled, then reached over to pat her arm. "In some sense the stories my husband reads could be considered educational. There's always a chance of running into someone with magic, or who has been enchanted. Though the chances aren't as strong as they were in my grandfather's day. But yes, the tales could be considered educational."
"I don't care if they're educational," Fern announced with a sharp nod of her head. Then she astonished Merrigan by snuggling up against her on the long, padded bench by the stove where the three women sat. "They're fun. You like stories about magic spells and heroes and maidens trapped in durance vile? Don't you?"
"I—I—" Merrigan swallowed hard, confused by that odd, twisting, warm sensation in her chest. "I adore such stories, actually."
Granted, she had adored them more when Nanny Tulip and Leffisand hadn't been teaching her the truth behind the mask of glamour in tales of majjian folk.
To her delight, the first story Master Twilby read was one she hadn't heard before. Honestly, the lack of common sense of some Fae—blessing the goody-goody sister so every time she spoke, flowers and jewels fell from her lips? That was a blessing? And for what—for being polite and giving an old woman a drink of water? Didn't the silly child owe such kind actions to the elderly as a matter of course? Then, the stupidity of the mother, to send her more ambitious child to the well, with orders to be nice to the next old lady. So what happened when the Fae returned, this time dressed as a queen? The girl was put out because she wasn't the old lady who would bless her with an utterly inconvenient and messy gift.
Who in their right mind would consider that a gift? The girl would have to spend the rest of her life with a trough or a feedbag affixed under her mouth, to catch whatever fell out. Graces help her if she were a chatterbox! Imagine the mess during polite dinner conversation, and then the hazards to people around her on the street or during social events. Pity the people who stepped on the jewels she didn't catch. Then of course, the Fae didn't recognize that the other daughter was confused because the encounter didn't go as expected. She wasn't ready to face nobility, which Merrigan imagined could be a most unbalancing experience. The Fae proved just how temperamental her kind were, when she cursed the second girl to drop toads from her lips whenever she spoke.
Education, indeed! Merrigan wondered if such tales were more for the education of the parents than the children. If they could warn their daughters and sons to act with more common sense when they went into the woods, or stay out of the woods altogether, the world would be a calmer, more sensible place. When she was queen again, she would see if something could be done about that. If magic and majjians couldn't be controlled, perhaps all magic should simply be eradicated.
That thought gave her an odd shiver. It felt close to something she had overheard in an argument, long ago. Some insistence that magic was being wasted, and people shouldn't be allowed to fling it about as they wished. Magic needed regulation, or it would entirely run out. Had Nanny Tulip said something similar?
A distant rapping on the front door startled Master Twilby, two minutes into the second story. He stood, nearly dropping the book. Mistress Twilby went entirely still, except for her fingers, which curled and crushed the vest she had been hemming. Master Twilby hurried out of the kitchen. Only Fern seemed unconcerned.
"Who would come at this time of night?" She hopped off
