Chapter 43 - The Farm in Irttat
Chapter 43: Visitor from the Royal Capital 09
As evening fell, long tables were set up across the square, draped in coarse blue-green plaid cloths. Their carefully braided fringes swayed gently in the night breeze.
Sliced watermelon, plump purple plums with their smooth, lustrous skins, the rarely-seen green grapes, and the deep-crimson crisp-sweet peaches that Garcìa had cultivated specially using magical powder — which she had named Knight's Fruit — were arranged by variety across the tables, nestled among lush bouquets of lavender and lilies, their surfaces still beaded with translucent droplets from washing, refracting brilliant colors in the dancing firelight.
The banquet offered only fruit and chilled milk that had been heated and then cooled again. But no one paid much attention to the food.
After all, in the sweltering heat, even well into the night, cold drinks held far more appeal than any hot food.
Music and dancing were the true themes of this night.
The headline mermaid orchestra had long since begun playing gentle nocturnes from the high stage — harps and violins in harmony, joined by flutes and a shepherd's harmonica. In some respects, people here were remarkably casual, paying no mind to whether instruments were well-matched.
It didn't matter; even with so many different instruments, they could all play the same song.
The spirited girls wore the knight's boots of warriors from epic legend, others wore the magnificent gowns donned by prehistoric kings at their coronations.
They had swept up their hair and adorned themselves with top hats, each cutting such a dashing figure that one could already picture the fine gentlewomen they would one day become.
Some girls muttered nervously under their breath, clearly working up the courage to confess their feelings to a crush.
Countless romances—faded, blossoming, or yet to begin—were born on nights like this, flushed with youth and possibility.
And so it was for Stasia and Kelsey too, even if their own youth had long since passed.
One in a loose, flowing robe, the other in a respectable but well-worn formal suit, they danced together for the first time in years, moving slightly out of step with the uneven music.
Thirteen years ago, outside some forgotten banquet hall at someone's celebration, they had shared a summer night just like this.
But back then, the situation in Eaton was fraught with tension, and their identities were far too sensitive, their unspoken longing dared not see the light of day. Two had borrowed the faint strains of music drifting from the hall and slipped away to dance an intimate yet restrained duet by the water in someone's back garden, just like the crowd dancing to the same music inside.
On that still summer night, neither of them had dared to speak a word.
Now there was no professional orchestra, no magnificent courtyard, and their dance steps had grown rusty — yet they merged without a care into the crowd of dancing teenagers, like a bashful young couple, dancing openly the dance of lovers.
Their unspoken understanding remained unchanged.
As one song ended, a little girl selling flowers from a basket on her back squeezed her way in front of them: "Ladies, would you like to buy a flower for your sweetheart? The flowers I have are different from the ones on the tables. I picked these by the fairy lake. They're said to bless those in love with a happiness that lasts forever."
Durani, listening nearby, clicked her tongue and turned to Lucita: "Do flower sellers have to be this smooth-talking nowadays? Maybe tomorrow I'll go pick some flowers by that fairy lake of theirs and sell them too."
Lucita couldn't help but laugh. "Auntie, couples eat this kind of thing right up."
Sure enough, the shrewd former crown princess Kelsey smiled warmly and gently stopped Stasia from reaching into her pocket. She extended a hand with distinct, elegant knuckles and offered two silver coins: "I'll take one stem of fragrant lily."
The little girl was so thoroughly charmed by Kelsey's gentle smile that she let her pick the largest, freshest lily of the bunch, still trembling with the dewdrops of a summer night.
Kelsey thanked her, bent her head, and breathed in deeply, sighing softly: "It's been so long since I've seen a lily this fresh."
With that, she gave Stasia a deep, graceful bow, presenting the lily to Stasia's still-startled face, and recited in a lilting tone: "Dear one, this flower holds my heart."
Stasia burst out laughing.
She plucked the flower from Kelsey's hand, bent the stem and tucked it carefully into her chest pocket.
Kelsey couldn't help laughing too. She steadied Stasia and gently ran her hand through her hair, letting out a small, haughty hum.
Her hand slid from Stasia's hair and came to rest against her cheek.
Whether from the heat or from laughing, Stasia's cheeks were flushed pink, and warm to the touch.
Kelsey brushed her thumb gently beneath Stasia's eye, then bent her head to rest her forehead against hers.
Brilliant fireworks burst open across the night sky.
Durani and Lucita sat watching from a nearby bench.
"What in the world — I've never seen that city folk smiling like that. Luci, Luci, pinch me quick — ow, that hurt!"
It had to be said: this builder truly lived up to her reputation as the most well-connected gossip in town. Friendly with strangers from the start, and sharp-eyed besides.
Lucita had only sat down for a moment's rest while Linnea and Violet ran wild across the square, and already, guided by Durani's running commentary, she had spectated at several couples.
Lucita: Somehow I've picked up a lot of completely useless gossip.
No one gave a second thought to the foreign bard who had stayed on in Irttat, quietly moving into Dr. Stasia's home.
After the Summer Festival ended, the sun continued to rise as it always had.
The summer planting schedule was drawn up.
Lucita had not sown spring wheat or rice in spring, which meant she would have no opportunity to plant staple grains before autumn arrived. She chose tomatoes and trailing gourd as her vegetables, and spent two days taking turns with Violet to sow them, filling the household's fields once more.
With early summer arriving, planting was not the only thing on the agenda, storing fodder had also become a priority.
Come autumn and winter, when the pasture grasses withered and dried, the flock would lose its steady food supply. So herders needed to begin harvesting and storing grass feed starting in summer.
Lately, whenever they went to the meadow to graze the sheep, they brought along sickles, wicker backpacks, and a string of storage necklaces.
The meadow grasses were wonderfully varied: alfalfa, crimson clover, sudangrass, and white clover, all fast-growing, high-quality fodder. In truth, even if they hadn't known what sheep liked to eat, a few days of watching while grazing was enough to figure it out.
This way, by cutting a little grass to bring home each day while tending the flock, they had accumulated quite a store within just a few days.
The main reason herders preferred to start preparing winter fodder in summer was the fierce, scorching summer sun.
Freshly harvested grass could not be stored directly, it would simply rot rather than serve as a reserve.
On sunny days when the sun blazed at its strongest, they would spread the collected grass flat across the yard to dry in the sun.
This sunning typically continued from morning through to late afternoon, until the grass leaves were almost ready to fall. Then the grass was piled into stacks and left to dry further, so as not to parch it too brittle.
The drying process continued until enough moisture had evaporated. At that point, taking a handful of grass and giving it a gentle shake would produce a soft rustling sound, and the leaves would have become tough — pliable enough not to snap when rubbed between the fingers. Then, the fodder was ready to store.
Their storeroom had only just had its foundations laid, so the dried grass had nowhere to go and was piled temporarily in the yard.
The bundles of fodder were propped up on wooden planks, still only one low layer tall for now, but Lucita could already picture in her mind a full, towering haystack.
They draped an oilskin cloth over the new hay pile to keep the rain off.
Seven days had passed since the end of the Summer Festival.
Lucita rose early, as usual bought a loaf of bread from Teresa's bakery for the day's breakfast, and picked up Linnea's favorite fruit candies on the way, colorful pieces, each made from a different fruit juice.
She bought a full half-pound, gave the bag a satisfied little swing, and thought that should be more than enough to refill her candy jar.
Lucita peeled open the folded brown candy wrapper and popped a strawberry-flavored hard candy into her mouth.
Only after it was in did she remember that she hadn't been able to taste anything lately.
She had a habit of sneaking candies whenever she bought them, something she could never quite break. Lucita smiled ruefully at herself for it, but before the smile had even fully formed, it froze on her face.
She carefully bit through the candy, chewed twice, and couldn't stop herself from retching it back out.
What was that taste?
Rotting, sour and putrid, surging straight up into her nasal passages.
She dry-heaved, then spent a long moment steadying herself before she recovered, running her tongue warily around her teeth.
Yes. That was the taste.
Plague.
If the first time she had sensed a life was coincidence, and the second time seeing Violet was luck, then from the third time she had heard Acquanetta's song onward, Lucita could no longer deceive herself.
When one sense was lost, when the soul and body passed from rejection to re-integration, she would slip through certain barriers of the world and brush against some deeper truth of it.
A truth hidden beneath the surface of things, visible only from the all-knowing vantage point of a god.
This candy carried illness, a contagious illness.
Lucita seemed to hear the weeping of humanity, and to smell the reek of rotting flesh.
She swiftly unwrapped another candy and, this time, only carefully touched it with the tip of her tongue.
Then she scrunched up her face, rewrapped the candy, and tucked it back into her pocket.
She stared blankly at the bag of candies in her hand, turned the thought over for a moment, then opened the other bag, the one holding the bread.
Just as she had feared, the bread was the same.
Lucita turned and hurried back to Teresa's bakery.
Along the way, she caught fragments of a conversation between a few neighbors passing the time: "Apparently Mavis has been sick these past few days, I went to buy a rabbit and it was Sophia who attended to me."
"Palmer's sick too. These humans really are fragile, a little head cold and they're bedridden for days."
"Ah, and I was looking forward to all those little trinkets she brought back. My daughter has been pestering me for that ceramic music box for days now, and Palmer still hasn't come out to set up her stall."
The cicadas droned on. The old trees by the roadside drooped their leaves.
In the midst of all that tranquility, Lucita pressed her lips together and curled her fingers tight into her palm.
The spot in her palm where her pocket watch rested was burning faintly.
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