Rumpelstiltskin (Timeless Fairy Tales Book 4) Page 11

  “Of course. I enjoy our conversations. You are quite amusing, and no one else will play the guessing game with me,” Stil said.

  Gemma arched an eyebrow at him.

  Stil grinned unrepentantly.

  Gemma shook her head.

  “So, Miss Kielland, tell me: if you could have anything in the world, what would you want?” Stil asked.

  Gemma leaned back against the dingy wall as she thought.

  “Having trouble prioritizing?” Stil teased.

  “No. There’s not much I want.”

  “Jewels to wear, a home of your own, gold—none of that appeals to you?” Stil asked.

  Gemma shrugged. “What good are jewels when the person I visit most often is Grandmother Guri? Her goat—Jo-Jo—would try to eat them. Gold is pretty but useless to a person of my station. You can’t eat it, nor can you sew with it.”

  “A home, then?”

  “They reek of work. I would rather spend my time sewing,” Gemma said.

  “A sum of money?”

  “Money brings out the worst in people,” Gemma said, thinking of the irresponsibility of her father.

  “You might be the least greedy person on earth due to sheer practicality,” Stil said.

  Gemma shrugged. “I know what I like. The rest is unnecessary.”

  “So what would you like?” Stil asked.

  Gemma scooted lower in her blanket pile. “To make clothes and travel. I want to see the fashions of Loire, Sole, Erlauf, and Ringsted. I would like to see the differences in clothing between the counties.”

  “Ahh, you have been bitten with the bug of wanderlust.”

  “A little,” Gemma said, muffling a yawn. “But I would want to return to Verglas. I would miss its cold, white winters, and the way the frost dyes everything white and ice cuts intricate patterns like lace. Many believe Verglas is frozen tundra for most of the year, but I think it’s the most beautiful place in the world.”

  “I see,” Stil said.

  Gemma looked up at the mage. “You think I’m crazed.”

  “No,” Stil said, his voice warm with understanding. “Verglas calls to all of us magic folk. There’s powerful magic here that can’t be found anywhere else. You are right. Verglas is the most beautiful place in the world.”

  Gemma nodded. “I’m glad you think so, too,” she admitted, the ice in her eyes melting.

  Gemma and Stil talked less as Gemma yawned more. Eventually, the young seamstress nodded off in a short stretch of silence.

  Stil smiled down at her through the window grate. She was sleeping upright, slumped against the wall with the blankets mounded only waist high. “You are going to get a crick in your neck, if you don’t catch a cold first,” he said.

  Gemma exhaled, her breath deep with sleep.

  Stil glanced over his shoulder before he flipped a small, wooden container off his belt. He opened it up and smeared his thumb in the greasy balm contained inside. He smeared the balm over the perimeter bars of the grille before screwing the container shut and sliding it back into place.

  He whispered over the bars, making the spots smeared with the balm glow. Careful to not make too much noise, Stil pulled up on the window grille. The charmed bars separated like soft butter. He set the grill aside and dropped through the opening, landing inside the cell with a quiet tap. He crept to Gemma’s side and maneuvered her so she was lying down with blankets piled on her. He drew a worn quilt up to her chin and couldn’t help the affectionate smile that twitched on his lips. When sleeping, Gemma seemed less guarded and more relaxed. Without the sharpness of her eyes to counteract her plump, heart-shaped face, she looked younger and sweeter. Remembering the incident at the Sno Hauk tavern, Stil wondered if Gemma’s eyes would lack some of the sharpness if she had a better father.

  “It’s fine. I like your eyes. They are like gems—exquisite,” Stil said, smoothing the blankets before he stood.

  “Wait,” Gemma said, mostly asleep even though she struggled to lift her hand out of the blankets.

  “Shh, go back to sleep,” Stil soothed.

  “No, your heat charm,” Gemma murmured.

  “Keep it,” Stil said.

  Gemma briefly opened her eyes, flashing Stil with eyes that said she was unimpressed. “Too expensive.”

  “Shhh,” Stil repeated, stepping back up to her to place a finger on her forehead.

  Gemma had already fallen asleep again, several locks of her wavy hair plastered over her face.

  Stil carefully tucked her hair behind her ear. He watched Gemma for a few moments as she slept before he shook himself. “If she wakes up, she’s going to accuse me of being a lecher,” he said, standing and striding across the room. He jumped off her stool and grabbed at the ceiling, pulling himself through the gaping hole of her ceiling-window. He set the grille back in place and whispered the magic words of release, canceling his spell and returning the bars to their normal consistency.

  Stil turned to go, but something made him pause and to look down at her one more time. “Goodnight, Gemma Kielland,” he said.

  Gemma grunted.

  Stil smiled before gliding away.

  Chapter 9

  “Lunch time, Miss Kielland,” a guard cheerfully called through the door two days later as he unlocked it.

  Gemma carefully put away her sewing supplies. “Hello, Børres,” she said, greeting the guard she had previously hit with the stool with a twinge of guilt.

  “Hello, Miss Kielland. Today I’ve got soup, fresh bread, and goat cheese for you,” the guard said, giving Gemma a bright smile in spite of their previous violence spattered exchange.

  “Thank you, I will enjoy it,” Gemma said, making an effort to speak.

  Børres bobbed a bow. “Shout when you’re done—it can be hard to hear through the walls,” he said, seeing himself out the door.

  “I will,” Gemma said, watching him go. When he shut the door behind himself, Gemma rubbed her forehead. “Poor man.”

  “You were doing what you had to.”

  Gemma jumped and whirled around to find Stil inside her cell. “Sir Mage,” Gemma said after blinking twice.

  “Good afternoon, Gemma,” the mage said with an unreadable smile.

  Gemma looked from her food to the mage. “Would you like something to eat?”

  “No, I’m fine, thank you,” Stil said. “I’ve come here to let you know I will be gone for a day or two.”

  “I see,” Gemma said. She didn’t understand why the mage felt the need to alert her to her schedule, until she realized that if King Torgen happened to get the prepared flax early, she would be sunk if Stil wasn’t around. “Oh,” Gemma said with new understanding.

  “I’ve skulked about the castle a bit, and it is for certain that the flax won’t arrive in at least four more days; however, I would rather not take the chance. So, I have brought you this,” Stil said, holding his finger out.

  “…It’s a thimble,” Gemma said.

  “Yes, but it’s magic.”

  Gemma raised both her eyebrows at him. “A magic thimble?”

  Stil grinned. “It may be unorthodox, but the metal takes to summoning spells quite readily.”

  “Hm,” Gemma said, taking the thimble before she sat on the ground next to her little table of food. She sliced open a roll and spread soft goat cheese across it. “How is it magic?”

  “Ah, that’s the important bit. If something happens and you need me, you can use the thimble to call me.”

  “Oh?” Gemma said, eyeing the thimble on her finger before she stood up and marched across the room.

  “Yes. It doesn’t work like a true summoning spell because it won’t transport me to your side—that’s high level that only a few genius Enchanters every century can manage—but I will hear your voice and know that you need me, and my matching thimble will guide me to yours.”

  “I see,” Gemma said, offering the mage the roll. “You really had to use thimbles for this magic?”

  “
I’m a craftmage, not a weather mage. They care more about how things look, and they’re much showier. Thank you,” Stil said, taking the roll.

  “I appreciate the trouble you are putting yourself through.”

  “It’s no trouble at all,” Stil said, leaning against the wall as he ate. “Although there is one last bit to the spell.”

  “Yes?”

  “When you call my name, you have to use my mage name.”

  Gemma tilted her head. “Your mage name?”

  Stil nodded. “Because I’m a craftmage, my power lies close with creation and naming, so I took up a mage name to give my spells an extra boost of power.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’re going to laugh.”

  “So?”

  Stil chuckled. “At least you’re honest. It’s Rumpelstiltskin.”

  “It’s what?”

  “Rumpelstiltskin.”

  “Oh,” Gemma said, keeping her expression bland.

  Stil’s lips quirked. “I can tell you are laughing on the inside, Gemma.”

  “That’s not better than laughing openly?”

  “Perhaps it is,” Stil said. “Your eyes glitter extra, which is enchanting.”

  Surprised, Gemma opened and closed her mouth before furrowing her forehead as she tried to decipher what that meant. Stil finished his roll and watched her. The set of his lips said he was highly amused as Gemma tried to puzzle through it.

  “I will need something to trade for the thimble,” he said after some moments when Gemma still hadn’t worked out an acceptable reply.

  “Truly?” Gemma blinked.

  “It’s a less valuable charm, so I don’t need much. You could give me a bit of whatever you’re making,” Stil said, nodding to the cape—which was coming along quite nicely—Gemma had folded and placed on the blankets.

  Gemma pressed her lips together and wondered how she could refuse.

  “Or a lock of your hair will do just as well,” Stil said.

  Gemma frowned. “A lock of hair? That’s incredibly useless—although I suppose it isn’t as terrible as trading gold for more gold.”

  Stil said nothing but wore a small smile.

  “Very well. I will have to trade with a lock of hair—for I haven’t anything else. Unless you want another roll?”

  “Your hair will be fine. It won’t take much,” Stil said, beckoning her closer with a finger.

  Gemma approached the mage and stood very still when he flicked a hunting knife out of his cloak. He spun Gemma around and gently pulled a lock of her wild hair. “There,” he said when Gemma felt him release her hair.

  The craftmage held up the lock—it was little more than the crazy, upward curl her hair ended with—for Gemma’s inspection. “Also, I will lend you this while I’m gone,” he said, passing over the ruby heat charm.

  “I can’t. You just took that back yesterday,” Gemma argued.

  “And you will need it even more while I am gone. It’s only going to get colder, and you sleep with an open grate in your ceiling,” Stil said.

  “I don’t have anything I could trade for it.”

  “You don’t have to. I will lend it to you,” Stil said, taking Gemma’s hand and placing the charm on her palm.

  Instantly warmth started to flood Gemma, who looked doubtfully down at the charm. “I don’t think—,”

  “Gemma, it’s fine,” Stil said, once again leaning back against the wall.

  Gemma shrugged and changed the subject. “Where will you be going?” she asked, moving to place the charm on top of the cape.

  “I have a bit of investigating to do.”

  Gemma tilted her head. “Is the Veneno Conclave planning something?”

  “No. That’s the problem,” Stil sighed.

  “What?”

  Stil brushed his hands off before moving to stand in front of her. “It’s nothing for you to worry about. You will be safe while I’m gone,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders.

  Gemma frowned. She did not like the brush off, but Stil was a mage. A mage who had saved her life twice, now. She allowed him to change the subject.

  “And you will not hesitate to call for me,” Stil said, tapping a finger on her shoulder to get her attention.

  “No,” Gemma agreed.

  Still smiled. “Good,” he said, brushing a finger beneath her chin. “I will head out immediately, then. Enjoy your lunch,” the mage said.

  Gemma turned to glance at the tray of food. “Yes, did you want—,” she cut herself off when she realized the mage was no longer in the cell with her.

  Gemma shrugged. “Mages. They’re worse than cats.”

  The following day, early in the morning, Gemma walked outside on the shores of Lake Sno with Foss and Rudd. There was no wind, but the temperatures were cold, and the previous night brought a hard frost, so everything from fence posts to tree leaves were white with the lacework of frost.

  They had wandered close enough to Ostfold to hear the morning bustle as villagers went about their lives.

  “Winter is nearly here,” Foss announced. “Have you got enough hay for your animals, Rudd?”

  “We hope to sell one of the goats. If we don’t, it will be tight,” Rudd said.

  Gemma turned her gaze from Ostfold to her guards. “You have animals?” She asked.

  “Four goats, a flock of chickens, and a pig,” Rudd said.

  “That’s quite a few,” Gemma said.

  “My wife and children keep ‘em.”

  “How enterprising of them,” Gemma said, only half listening. She could hear a bell ringing. But it wasn’t just any bell, it was a chime that she knew. It belonged to—

  “Jo-Jo, stop this deer-prancing nonsense and walk like a respectable creature.”

  “Grandmother Guri!” Gemma shouted, her jaw dropping with shock.

  “Hello, my girl,” Grandmother Guri called as she picked her way among the rocks with a knobby cane. She dragged her white goat along behind her with a rope tied to the animal’s pretty, sky-blue collar and brass bell.

  Gemma ran to greet her, throwing her arms around the short, old woman. Gemma was attacked by the desire to cry—and a tear or two might have gotten away from her—as she was enveloped by Grandmother Guri’s warm arms and scent of hay and cinnamon.

  “Now, now. Everything is just fine,” Grandmother Guri said, patting Gemma on the back as she held her. “You’ve done well.”

  Foss and Rudd stood a few feet away, looking like they wished they were a million miles away. They swapped expressions before each guard strolled in the opposite direction, giving Gemma and Grandmother Guri enough space to speak softly.

  “What are you doing out here?” Gemma asked, impatiently flicking a tear from her eye when they finished hugging.

  “I’m collecting herbs. I need some chives, and the only bunch in the area still alive is here by the lake. Jo-Jo is along to carry my things for me,” Grandmother Guri said, affectionately smacking the goat—who had saddle bags slung over her sides—on the rump.

  Jo-Jo baaed and nibbled on Grandmother Guri’s bright red mittens before the old lady pulled her hands out of the goat’s range.

  “So you’re still alive, eh?” Grandmother Guri asked as she squinted up at Gemma.

  “How much have you heard?” Gemma asked.

  “Bits and pieces. Gossip does run from the palace like gravy. People bring me the news they hear since they know you’re my girl. They said the King’s got it in his silly, cracked knob that you can spin straw into gold.”

  “Flax fibers,” Gemma said.

  Grandmother Guri swiped a hand through the air, brushing off the correction, and continued. “They also say you’ve been doing it.”

  “They’ve been…misled,” Gemma said, glancing at Foss and Rudd, who were doing their best imitations of lakeside boulders.

  “Oh?”

  “Why don’t we sit down?” Gemma asked. “The story is…long.”

  “Might as well,
then. Won’t do my old bones a bit of good to stand that long. Get the packs from Jo-Jo; I’ve got a cushion in there,” Grandmother Guri said as she adjusted the red headscarf wrapped around her white hair.

  After some maneuvering, Gemma and Grandmother Guri sat side by side on the saddlebags, a small blanket thrown over their laps. Jo-Jo grazed a few feet away but occasionally drew closer to nibble on Grandmother Guri’s thick, black skirt.

  “Now. Start from the top—when King Torgen called you to the palace,” Grandmother Guri said.

  Gemma’s tale spilled from her lips like snow in a snowstorm. It was a relief to tell someone about the threats, Gemma’s fright, and the long, dark hours. Grandmother Guri didn’t react when Gemma talked about Stil and everything he did for her. She snorted when Gemma described her escape and less than triumphant return, but for the most part the old woman was silent and thoughtful.

  “That’s quite a story,” she said when Gemma finished.

  “You believe me?”

  “Course I do. You’re not a fanciful girl. If you said there was a mage, there was a mage. There must have been, or King Torgen woulda killed you at the first sunrise,” Grandmother Guri said.

  “I tried to tell Lady Linnea. She thinks I’m covering for a lover,” Gemma said.

  “She may be half right,” Grandmother Guri said.

  “What do you mean?” Gemma frowned.

  Grandmother Guri patted Gemma’s cheek. “It’s best to not worry about it yet, my girl. Though it is a shame you don’t know what this mage looks like. You should ask him to remove his hood.”

  “Why?”

  “So you can inspect the goods!”

  Gemma almost choked on shock. “He’s a magic user. The man must be fifty if he’s a day!” she declared.

  “Ah, but he is a mage, not an enchanter. Mages are done with their schooling sooner and don’t live as long. There’s a chance he’s young and handsome!” Grandmother Guri cackled.

  “Grandmother.”

  “It’s best to keep your options open.”

  “Mages fancy mages. They leave us normal folk out of it—thank the heavens. Such courtships must be utterly bizarre.”

  “And you make this judgment based on…?” Grandmother Guri asked, removing a mitten to unhook a small sack of nuts tied to her belt.