Free Charming, Volume 2 by Jack Heckel

what does it even mean to say ‘if I’m redeemed I’ll put things right?’ That’s like saying, ‘if I’m redeemed, I’ll be redeemed. ’ The problem is that I never think before speaking, or acting for that matter. Ask anyone. It has been an issue for a while. Now, if I had thought for a moment, I would have told myself to swear on the Morning Star, or the Northern Mountain, or my name. . .
    Okay, never mind that one—­
    â€œEnough!” Charming said sharply to the night air (as he was sure now that it was night), and then more quietly to himself, “I am being silly.” He rocked back on his heels and sat in the crook of two massive roots, tired and ashamed. “Here I am, arguing with myself about oaths and meaning. This has been my problem for years; I would rather swear a meaningless oath and make an empty promise than actually do the right thing. The ­people in the tavern were right: I am a fool and have always been a fool.”
    It was growing colder, and he shivered beneath his thin shirt. Nothing seemed real anymore, not even the growing numbness in his fingers and toes. He knew he should keep moving but could not muster the energy or the will to stand again. “I’m tired of running. Let me stay here and be done.”
    Charming sat and waited. After a time, he wondered how long it would take. Having decided to give up, he was strangely impatient for the end, and this perch was not particularly comfortable. Something was poking into his side. He shifted slightly and adjusted a small leather pouch on his belt, only to realize with a sudden disorientation that that’s where he’d put Elizabeth’s glass slipper before leaving the castle.
    He drew it out and stared at its smooth sparkling surface and thought of her. He remembered the smell of her hair, the touch of her hand as they danced. He remembered her smile and the fire in her eyes.
    â€œWhy did you take this from the ballroom?” he asked aloud. And then, after only a moment’s reflection, answered softly, “Love of course, but it doesn’t seem possible.”
    He closed his eyes and clasped the slipper to his breast. Time passed and Charming slipped in and out of sleep, all the while trying to ponder this last mystery. At some point he heard a voice, distantly . . .
    â€œAs I thought, milord,” came an irritated voice, “it’s just another drunk. He must have wandered up from the Cooked Goose. I’m told by the groundskeeper that there was a large revel there a few nights ago. Perhaps it would be best to leave him here to sleep it off.”
    Another voice, a deep voice, responded from further off. “Giles, he is on my estate. It is the duty of a host to care for all in need; and, surely, if anyone is in need, this man is. But do remind me to speak to the groundskeeper about his choice of taverns.”
    â€œYes, milord.”
    Charming saw a lantern and felt hands lifting him from the ground, and then he slipped back out of consciousness.
    CHARMING WOKE FROM a dark sleep into the soft caress of silk and the subtle airs of fine oil and incense. He sat up slowly, the vague memories of his dreams flying at his remembrances like a flock of frightened birds. For a warm, peaceful moment, he imagined that he was home and that, for the past few weeks, the death of the dragon, the glories of William Pickett and his own dishonor had all been a terrible nightmare. But as he looked around, he realized that this was not his own bed, and that he was not in Castle White.
    He stretched and studied his surroundings. He was resting in a large four-­poster bed surrounded by drifts of snow-­white bedding. The room itself was handsomely appointed. A warming fire had been laid in the stone hearth set in the far wall, and he had been bathed. For the first time since he had left home, he felt clean. The question was, who had bathed him and put him