walnuts

Clem Vogel
Some years ago
Felsnor village
text by quiteaplatypus

Rosenrot stomps into Clem’s still-dark room before their wallowing can stretch from a dreary morning to a drearier afternoon. She is always fascinating even on the worst sick days, but today she doesn’t pause for a greeting, continuing past the bed to the closed window and flinging it open with perhaps too much force. Clem struggles to sit up, now worried about their friend.

“What are you sitting around in the gloom for?” Rosenrot spins around, hands on her hips and skirts swirling. “You were the one who said birdsong helps recovery. Do you not want the birds’ help?”

Getting upright takes a little less effort than yesterday. Clem fluffs the pillows around themselves and wheezes out, “It helps better when you can harmonize, and I’ve been a little– out of tune.”

Out on the street, there’s a burst of commotion: someone’s shouting I said, I am calm! And Rosenrot flinches in response -- just a little, but obvious to Clem, who’s always watching for it. “Albert-the-fletcher keeps saying that, but I do not think it’s calming him down any,” she explains heatedly, as she perches on the chair by Clem’s bed.

“Miss Philomena says that Master Albert has been using common pigeon feathers for his hawk arrows and hawk feathers for his pigeon arrows and that his teacher should maybe have not retired yet if he cannot tell the difference.” Her curly hair is struggling out of her braids in the new draft and sticking to her face. Clem tries not to stare too obviously as she continues, “Remember, Hans-the-fletcher had to retire because Master Albert wanted to marry Miss Elspeth and insisted he couldn’t keep her on the apprentice-fletcher wages so Master Hans retired.”

Her eyes flick towards the window again, worried, so Clem prompts: “I had thought Hans left weeks ago?”

Rosenrot’s mouth quirks into a half-smile. “Miss Philomena says he has been making the mistake this whole time and should refund all of his customers.” There’s a sound very much like an entire stall falling over and Rosenrot bounces up, taking a half-step towards the door as if she is going to dash back out there and get involved in the brawl.

Clem stifles a cough into their handkerchief, making their decision. Rosenrot says she hates their riddles, but she has solved them all; riddles are just fights that don’t leave bruises. Clem smiles, wide and sincere. They reach for the too-elaborate hat they recently sewed the last ribbon onto and slip it on, turn half away from Rosenrot and lift their voice into an elegant, fluting drawl: “You know, Sir Rosenrot, my ladies-in-waiting have been telling me the most interesting rumors!”

There’s a beat of silence where Clem is sure they’ve gotten Rosenrot’s mood wrong entirely. Maybe the scuffle is finally over at least.

Then, they hear it: “Is that so, Lady Marigold?” Rosenrot sounds half-reluctant, half-indulgent. She wanders slowly back towards the chair, drawn in by this change. She obviously remembers Lady Marigold’s name, so hopefully the indulgence will win… but she still hasn’t sat back down.

Turning back dramatically, well-practiced smile even wider than before, Lady Marigold answers, “Well, my ladies tell me – and of course, I wasn’t there, buuuut –” Lady Marigold draws out the syllable and then the silence with a fluttering of lashes – “If I was, they tell me that I would have seen – “ Pause to remember the colors of the baker’s house – “a little heart inside a little white house, which was inside a little yellow house, which was inside a little brown house, which was inside a little green house.” The Lady’s smile is mysterious and a bit wicked. Finn the baker received a fresh delivery of walnuts just yesterday, and, of course, the colors of his house are just a convenient bonus. He can never decide what to paint it.

Rosenrot furrows her brows and pushes her hair behind her ears, deep in thought. “Your heart is in a house?” she asks dubiously, chewing her lip.

Clem – no, Lady Marigold coughs, unsure whether it’s from the question or the usual phlegm. Maybe they draw out the cough a little bit, but even with the extra time all they can manage in response is, “Well – a little heart, at the very least.”

Rosenrot scrunches her face at this answer, as if Clem should be storing their heart in a little heart. Before that thought can go further, Rosenrot offers, “Springtime?” as an answer but quickly cuts herself off. “No, what would even be the heart of springtime…” trailing off into her own thoughts.

Clem smiles warmly and teases, “After you got it so quickly the last time, I wanted to offer a bigger challenge.” The smile spreads as they add, “It also isn’t aging, a candle, or time.”

Rosenrot is scuffing her feet against the floor absently, mumbling the colors to herself when Father opens Clem’s door. He takes in the scene, noticing Clem’s hat, wiping his hands off on his now-dusty, always paint-splattered apron. “I am deeply sorry to intrude on you, Lady Marigold, but it seems that the market has closed a little early today. As a result, I was hoping our appointment could perhaps be moved up? After all, I am sure Rosenrot’s parents are missing her at this time of day.”

Rosenrot startles a little, Lady Marigold having successfully distracted her from the commotion’s end. The noise outside the window has all but ceased, but there’s a loud clamor from the rest of Clem’s house; the twins whirlwind into the room, in a pair of tiny aprons to match Father’s. Mother appears in the doorway behind them, clearly disheveled with pursuit.

“Rosen! Clem! Did you see Albert knocked his own stall over?” Gin hurries over herself to ask.

“He threw Dad’s paint at Philomena!” Cin adds breathlessly, circling the room.

“Dad and Mom needed help holding him back!” Gin continues, chasing after Cin and dodging Father’s grab.

“He tried to spit on Philomena when she said his fletching was less interesting in both process and result anyway!” Cin finishes, just before Mother steps in and catches her. Father scoops up Gin while both girls are distracted and shoots an exhausted smile at Rosenrot.

“Rosen, can we help you to get home?”

Without missing a beat, Rosenrot smiles the way she does for others and rounds the chair to help wrangle the twins out of the room. “Of course, Master Russell! Tell me about it on the way, girls?” She pauses at the door to wave back at Clem. Her smile is her proper one again for a brief second, the one Clem likes to think she keeps just for them. Then she’s gone, the twins’ voices echoing down the hall over her encouraging noises.

“She can come back tomorrow, Clementine,” says Father kindly, after Rosenrot leaves, as if he could keep her out when her mind was made up. He produces a shiny eelskin potion from his apron pocket and begins an explanation of its effects, but Clem isn’t really listening.

They swallow the vile and slippery liquid as requested, but they’re already feeling lighter anyway. It’s easy, now, to hum with the birds as they pull out the book they had rushed under their pillow earlier: The Song of the Five, heavy and gilt-edged.

After all, Rosen seems to know something of birdsong. It would not do to remain ignorant of knights in return.