The hovel was one room, with filthy stone walls lined with filmy white cobwebs and piles of dust. There was a hearth with a fire lit. Her nose twitched like Foley’s at the spicy scent of what she suspected was a vegetable and herb stew simmering away in an old rusty pot. Walter stuck his nose in a corner, trying to eat a bug with a shiny shell. Furnishings were limited to a table, two chairs, an old cabinet with cracked clay dishes, and a narrow wooden bed with a thin straw mattress and faded quilt. Dirty, tattered curtains hung limply at the open windows, barely moved by the stagnant air. The only fine thing in the entire hovel was a hand mirror that lay mirror-side down on the table. It was pure white ivory, decorated with expensive gold leaf and etched with roses trailing down the sides like clinging vines.
An old woman sat at the table, a cracked clay bowl of fragrant stew in front of her. She was bent over, ancient and withered, her pale face a mass of wrinkles and craters. Ragged brown wool hung off her bony frame in shreds, barely covering her frail body. Thin, grimy gray hair streaked with the barest hint of auburn lay in greasy strands on her misshapen shoulders.
Those bony fingers clutched a leash made of plum-colored chain links like a lifeline. Maple’s eyes followed it down, past a fraying pastel pink ribbon choker to the prettiest little doe she’d ever seen. Frail too, thin even for a deer, with long legs that stuck out in all directions and a slender snout. For all that, she did have thick, sleek brown fur that showed signs of recent brushing and wide, glittering brown eyes that showed far more intelligence than usual for a deer. In fact, those dark eyes looked entirely too human for a deer’s long face.
“What are you doing here?” The old woman’s keen brown eyes turned to Scott with as much fury as she could muster at her advanced age. “Come to rob my businesses and try to steal my ward away again, Scott Sherwood?” She made a face at Walter sniffing at the deer. “And would you restrain that overgrown bearskin rug?” She stroked the deer’s head. “This is my ward, my Betty, not that creature’s dinner.”
“Ward?” Scott gasped, his voice strangled as he knelt next to the deer. “This is…no, it can’t be.” He reverently touched the pink collar, running a finger over the grosgrain ribs and the fraying strands. “Betty? The last time I saw this was the day I…she…” He looked up at the old woman, his round cheeks turning beet-red with fury. “Who did this to her? Who? Tell me!”
Maple leaned over and stroked the deer as Walter sniffed around a hole in a wall. The old woman narrowed her eyes and yanked the deer closer to her. The little doe settled on a straw pallet by the woman’s chair, leaning into her sharp fingers. “Don’t touch her, Sherwood. Or your friend there with the simply dreadful haircut. Who did that to your head, girl? It looks frightful.”
“Pavla did it.” Scott glared at her. “Her name is Maple, Hildy, and give her a break! She’s had a rough time. Pavla chopped off her hair, stole her voice, and scarred her face.”
She ignored the duo and the crack about her hair. That stew was going to burn if someone didn’t tend to it. And it was obvious neither the poor old woman nor the deer were capable of cleaning properly. Fortunately, the spoon was in the pot. She stirred it, blowing on the stew occasionally, even as she listened to every word.
“Hildy” narrowed those sharp brown eyes that were too young for the sunken face. “Call me Hildy again, and you’ll see what an old woman can do in her own home! My name has always been Queen Hilary of Hope Springs, and don’t you forget it!”
Maple looked up in surprise at the mention of that name. “Hilary?” Scott’s own amber eyes filled with tears. “If you’re Hild…Hilary, then she really is Betty.” The deer looked up at the mention of her name and nodded, her ears drooping sadly. “Hilary…this is Hope Springs, isn’t it? No wonder everything seems familiar.”
The old woman’s brittle laugh was tinged with more than a little bitterness, even as she absently stroked the deer’s smooth head. “Oh, it was Hope Springs. Look at it now! My people aren’t even people anymore.” She barely looked up at Maple, nodding. “Please be careful with that stew, girl! It’s all we have left for food. Don’t spill it or let it burn.” Maple only nodded and returned to stirring.
“Hildy…Hilary.” Scott sighed. “Look, I don’t want to rob you. Maple, Walter, and I need a place to stay until we can travel to Wennaria, and it’s obvious you need help.”
“I don’t need help from a thief and a liar.” Hilary nodded at Maple blowing on the soup spoon and stoking the meager fire. “I could, however, help her. You, girl!” She waved her arthritic, bent fingers at Maple, who trotted over with Walter by her side. “I could give you a place, if you keep your hands out of what little I have in the till. Don’t be like some people. You can stay here. We’ll find you extra straw. Sherwood and that walking rug of yours will have to stay outside.”
Maple shook her head vehemently, going to Scott’s side. Walter trotted next to his mama. He wasn’t leaving her, and he wasn’t going to eat that ol’ doe anyway. She wouldn’t taste very good. She was all skin and bones and fur. Give him a nice fresh fish or some juicy berries any day!
“Oh no, Hild…Hilary.” Scott made a face. “Either we all stay and sleep inside, or we all sleep outside.” He reached to pet Betty, but she managed to give him a glare that nearly matched her guardian and pulled closer to Hilary, turning up her long snout at him.
Hilary’s own aristocratic air nearly matched Betty’s as she stuck her long, wart-strewn nose in the air. “Very well. You may all stay. I have nothing for you to steal anyway. Sherwood, we’re going to need more wood for the fire. Girl…Maple…set out stew for you, Sherwood, and Betty.” She tried to snap her fingers, but it came out weak and soft. “Now go to it! Sherwood, feed the walking rug, gather hay for your bedding and to change Betty’s, and do something about firewood. We have no ax, so you’ll have to find twigs or peat moss to burn.”
Scott just rolled his eyes. “Yes, Your Majesty,” he muttered as he headed out the door, Walter following after his papa.
Hilary waved her hand dismissively, even as the other absently stroked Betty’s smooth chestnut head. “And don’t you forget it, Sherwood!”
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