Free The Sweetest Spell by Suzanne Selfors Page B

ordeal and you need to recover.” She paused, then folded her hands on her lap. “Besides, the road into the Flatlands was washed away. You must wait for the king’s troops to repair it.”
    “Oh.” I sank against the pillows. “How long will that take?”
    Missus Oak shrugged. “No way to know.”
    I dreaded the answer to my next question. “What about my village? The village of Root?”
    “I’m sure your family is fine. As soon as the road is clear, we’ll send a scroll telling them of your recovery.” She smiled weakly, obviously gentling the truth. I’d seen the destruction with my own eyes. I already knew the truth.
    Missus Oak fiddled with the ribbons that dangled from her sleeping bonnet. “I’m sorry, dear girl, I’ve neglected to ask your name. How rude of me. What is it?”
    “Emmeline. Emmeline Thistle.”
    “Emmeline Thistle,” she repeated. “You have such a strange manner of speech. Does everyone in the Flatlands sound like you?”
    “Aye,” I said. “Does everyone in the Wanderlands sound like you?”
    “No, not everyone. We get lots of travelers. They come through here on their way to the coast or on their way to Londwin City.”
    The older woman, Nan, marched into the room and set a new tray on the table. “Don’t have any dewberries,” she grumbled. “And I don’t have time to pick any.” Without so much as a glance at me, she left.
    Missus Oak lifted a plate from the tray, then sat on the edge of the bed. “You must eat,” she said. She set the plate on my lap, then fluffed my pillows.
    I’d never seen so much food on a single plate. I’d never eaten so much food in an entire day. Was all this for me? “There are two coins in my dress pocket,” I told her. “I can pay for this.”
    “There were no coins in your pocket. They must have fallen into the river.”
    “Then I can’t pay.” My stomach ached as I pushed the plate away. But she pushed it back. Then she handed me an eating knife, its handle made from some sort of horn.
    “This is not an inn, Emmeline. We do not charge for meals or for the bed. This is my home and you are my guest.” Missus Oak waved her hand. “Eat.”
    And so I ate—thick slices of soft buttered bread, wedges of white cheese, some strips of salty meat. “Thank you,” I said between bites.
    “You’re most welcome.” She watched as I stuffed food into my mouth. Then, gathering her robe close, she walked toward the door. “I must go and get dressed. I have a shop to run. But when I get to town, I’ll send the surgeon to check on you. Nan will be here if you need anything.”
    “Could I have my boots?” I asked.
    “I’m afraid your boots were ruined, as was your clothing.” Her eyes darted to the end of the bed where my feet hid beneath the blanket. She paused, as if carefully considering what to say. “I’ll bring you a pair of my husband’s socks until we can get you a new pair of boots. In the meantime, if that son of mine steps foot in here again while you’re recovering, you can tell him that I’ll be most displeased.”
    “Do you mean Owen?”
    “Yes. Owen is my son. My son who brings me constant grief.” Her voice softened. “He’s a good boy, though. He’s the one who found you at the river and brought you here. He’s the one who saved your life.”
    I dropped a piece of cheese. Owen Oak, the boy I’d been rude to, the boy I’d told “Go away,” had saved my life?

Chapter Twelve
     
    Three more days passed lazily. I slept curled up like a cat, waking only to eat and use the chamber pot. Missus Oak and Nan took turns tying clean rags around my wounded leg. I didn’t speak much. More than food or drink, my body craved rest. At first I tried to fight it, but then I sank into the soft mattress and drifted away. It was easier to sleep than to think about the terrible fate of my village. And of my father.
    On the fourth day, I awoke to voices in the hallway. Two men were speaking.
    “Surgeon, may I have a word