Chapter 6: Goosegrass

When he came home, Bianca pressed a bowl of beans and rice into his hands.  A sunny-side-up egg sat on top, its yellow yolk a dome of perfection.

“I would like to go with you to the market,” Bianca hovered, barely allowing him enough space to enter the room.

“Let me sit down before we talk about this.”

“I know I said I’d mind your hearth, but I want to see what the market is like,” Bianca pulled something out of his fur.

He gaped at her, to stunned to move.  She had touched him.

“A pinecone.  Really, Tate?  You walk around with a pinecone on your head?” she giggled and tossed the pinecone into the fire.

He took a deep breath and crossed the room to his chair.  Sitting, he stabbed the egg with his fork and watched the yellow bleed into the rice.  “I have a girlfriend,” he dragged the tines of his fork through it, coating them with yolk.

“Uh, okay,” Bianca gave him a strange look.  “Not really sure what that has to do with - oh!  Does she know I’m living here?”

“She knows I have a guest.”

“Of indeterminate gender,” Bianca shook her head.

“That doesn't really describe you,” he dipped his fork in the rice and watched it stick to the yolk.

“You're going to have to tell her, otherwise it seems suspicious.”

Tate placed the fork in his mouth.  It was suspicious.  Unhappy with himself, he focused on chopping up the egg white.  “How exactly did you fry an egg?”

“I used this,” Bianca picked up the pail and gestured at it.  “I’ll go put it by the creek,” she swept out the cabin door, closing it behind her with a thunk.

He ate in silence, trying to imagine how he would go about frying an egg on a pail.  It could be placed inside the pail, or maybe fried on the outside.  He imagined it sliding down the convex side of the pail, the white running in a spidery trail.  His egg musings preoccupied him until his food was finished.  He picked up his fiddle, glancing up at the ceiling.  The cracks in the roof no longer showed the blue of the sky, and he wondered if he should worry about Bianca's absence.  

He puffed out his cheeks and sat back down to play.  It was none of his business what she did or what kind of trouble she got into.  If she couldn't manage herself, it was not his problem.  He bowed the fiddle’s top string, then the next.  It was out of tune not just with the standard scale, but with itself.  Exasperated, he set it down and went to the door.

There was a full moon in the sky with a complementary smattering of stars.  Tate sniffed the air.  Bianca’s scent seemed to rise out of the earth at him, rich and tantalizing.  Operating on pure instinct, he tracked the scent to his cart.  Bianca lay inside, wedged between two large pieces of wood.

“What are you doing out here, Bee?”

“Trying to sleep,” she sat up and glared at him, “Trying.”

“You must be freezing, come inside,” he said gruffly.

“Ever since I’ve been cursed, I don't feel cold.  I mean, I am cold, but I don't feel that way,” she climbed over a log and scooted to the end of the wagon.

“I’ll take you to the market tomorrow, just come inside,” the back of his neck itched.  He reached back to scratch it, pulling out a burr.  

Bianca swung her legs over the side of the wagon and stood.  “You have another right there,” she pointed at her own neck.

He put his hand to his neck.

“Other side,” Bianca watched him feel for the burr, then reached up and pulled it out herself.

“I must have got into some goosegrass,” dismayed, he stuck his hand up the back of his shirt.  Sure enough, burrs were stuck to him there as well, and he cursed himself for removing his shirt while he worked.  

“Let me see,” Bianca pulled his shirt up and examined him.  “I hate to say it, but you look like the time our dog rolled in a patch of yellow avens,” she let his shirt fall back into place, “Come on.”  She walked back into his cabin, settling on his mattress.

He followed her in, closing and latching the door behind him.  

Bianca patted the spot next to her, “Come here, and take off your shirt.  I’ll try to remove as many as I can.”

Uncertain if he wanted those cold hands touching him, he hesitated.  “Well,” he thought, “it's either that or spend all night feeling itchy.”  He turned away from her and pulled the shirt over his head.  Diffidently, he sat with his back turned to her.  

There were, really, a countless number of burrs.  The time it took to remove them seemed to blur, and his self-consciousness melted into a weary acquiescence.  He lay on his stomach while Bianca's icy hands untangled the burrs and pulled out tufts of his winter coat.  

He would doze off, only to wake and realize she too had fallen asleep, her head and hands resting against his back.  If he moved at all, she would jerk awake, her fingers running through his fur.  It was sensual and intimate in an unintentional way, and he was too tired to moralize or reframe his thinking.  

It would come to him the next morning, that Bianca hadn't been cursed as an ice woman without cause.  She had done for him what she would do for anyone, and though it made little sense, he was angry at her for that.

“Hurry up,” he grumbled over his shoulder.  Bianca, unencumbered by anything, trailed a good ten feet behind his cart.  “Why are you so slow?”

“Why,” Bianca panted, “are you,” she huffed, “so crabby?”

He stopped his cart, “Jump in the back, Bee, I’d like to get to market before the sun sets.”

“I’ll not,” she shook her head in defiance, “Go on ahead."

Seeing the flash of orange in her eyes, he shrugged and continued up the path.  If he arrived ahead of her, he could talk to Amber alone for a few minutes.  She might be a little less angry at him that way, he hoped, even though he deserved every last bit of her wrath.  Just about anything she could accuse him of had some grounds of truth to it.  Even the things he hadn't done, he had thought of, and it was wrong of him.  By the time he reached the market, he was fully penitent, his tail hanging between his legs.  

Amber watched him approach, a look of frank curiosity on her face, “What did you do?”

“The guest staying at my house?”  He stopped his cart in front of his usual stall, “The unwelcome guest?”  He slunk closer to Amber, “She’s a she.  I should have told you, and I didn't, and I'm sorry.”

“Is that all Tate?” Amber looked amused, “You know I’m a jealous witch, but as long as she doesn't look like-” Amber glanced around the market then pointed.  Tate felt his stomach drop.  She was pointing at Bianca, who was entering the market in her own personal cloud of mist.  “-oh, like that or something.”

Spotting him, Bianca headed towards him, oblivious to his panic.  “Hi,” she said to Amber, “You have some lovely basil.”

“Honey, I got the sweetest basil you can find,” Amber winked at her, “Only eight blessings for you.”

“Sorry, I don't have any money,” Bianca bit her lip.  “How am I going to pay for printing, Tate?” she turned her attention to him, suddenly registering his discomfort.  “Oh, sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt.  I’ll just take a look around, okay?”

Tate watched Bianca wander off, her eyes on a booth of pottery.  “I grew up next door to her,” he said apologetically, “She's the one who cursed me.”

“What’s her curse?”

“Ice woman,” Tate couldn't bring himself to look Amber in the eyes.  Instead he stared at the ground.

“A snow maiden who called you a wolf,” Amber’s tone was harsh, accusing.  “You must have come on to her hard.”

He cringed.  “I’m sorry, Amber.  I’ll tell her to leave.”

“And go where?  She has no money.  Anyone that takes her in will do it for her body, and when she refuses them she’ll end up dead if she's lucky,” Amber was so angry she was spitting.  “Then you’ll blame me for the death of your failed crush.  I’m not playing this game with you, Tate Harper,” Amber's eyes flashed like cut sapphires, “You put me in a double-bind.  So guess what?  I unbind you.  Go have your little fling.  Just don't come crying to me when things don't work out.”

“Amber,” he begged, “It's not like that, I swear.”

“I don't want to talk to you,” she turned her back towards him.

The anger rose in him unbidden, and he stalked off into a stand of trees to vent it.  Fury swelling inside him like a bubble, he lunged at a tree, attacking it as if it were a foe.  The bark tasted bitter to his tongue, and his rage melted into a feeling of foolishness.  Here he was, a grown wolf man, attacking a tree.  He spit the bark out, wiping his tongue with his hand.  With his luck, he would get splinters in his mouth.  

“She’ll get over it,” he told himself.  They had broken up before, and they always got back together.  There was no reason this time would be different, no reason except the fact that Bianca seemed to shepherd misfortune to his door.  He rubbed his face.  His lip was bleeding, and like all head wounds, it was a gusher.  He blotted it with his shirt, then headed back towards the market.  If he did not want to haul a full cart back home, he would need to get to work.  

His cart was where he left it, Bianca sitting on the edge of it, writing in her notebook.  She looked up as he approached, a hopeful expression on her face.  “Don't tell me you're hungry,” he grumbled, “Stop freeloading and do something useful.”

“You don't need to be a jerk,” Bianca stood up and walked away from him.  He could hear her stomach growl as she left.  Ignoring Amber on his left and Bianca flouncing off to the right, he unloaded the wood and began chopping it.  Chopping the wood on site wasn't just a time-saving measure.  The action drew attention to his stall, and pulled in people who might have otherwise continued walking.

He hadn't been working even five minutes when Bianca returned to the stall, a block of ice in her hands.  She set it on one of the logs, then walked away.

“What is that?” Lamar had approached without Tate noticing.  He touched the ice, then pulled his hand back in surprise, “It's ice!  Where did you find ice in spring?”

“In the road,” Tate wiped his face, smearing blood across his arm.

“Is it for sale?”

“Yeah, eight blessings,” he parodied Amber’s earlier price gouging.  Much to his surprise, Lamar handed him the money and took the block of ice.  He continued splitting logs, and was in the middle of another transaction when Bianca returned.  She frowned, then placed the block of ice on the damp spot where the other piece had been.

“Here,” he said gruffly once he was done.  He placed the eight blessings next to the ice.

“What's that for?” Bianca ran her hands over her block of ice.

“I sold your block of ice.”

Bianca snatched the coins and disappeared.  He shook his head and stripped off his shirt.  That block of ice looked tempting.  Before he could think of taking it for himself, another customer came along, a man with reddish skin and horns, one of the Devils.  

The Devils tended to hang out with their own kind.  They were a business minded breed that ran a distillery and bar.  It was unusual to see a Devil at his booth.  They preferred to be self-sufficient, cutting their own wood, cooking their own food, and sewing their own clothes.  

“Heard a rumor you had ice,” the man licked his lips with a forked tongue.

Tate couldn’t repress a grin.  Ice was probably the one thing a Devil couldn’t make.  “A deal at only eight blessings,” he responded.

The man nodded and passed him the coins, “How did you get ice?”

“I angered a woman with a cold heart,” he joked.

“I’ll freeze you in places you never dreamed could be cold, if you keep acting like that,” Bianca’s voice came from behind him just as the Devil walked away.  He turned, startled.  She offered him a ceramic bowl with her left hand, a hand pie grasped in her right.  Nestled in the bowl was another hand pie.  He tore into it, surprised by his own sudden hunger.  After devouring the pie, he shelled out her additional earnings, then leaned on his axe beside her.

“We broke up,” he confided.

“I’m so sorry,” Bianca glanced over at Amber's booth.

“Don't look over there, she’ll know we're talking about her.”

“Sorry,” Bianca stared at the ground, “Um, it's not because of me, is it?”

Tate picked up a piece of wood and set it on the chopping block.  Ignoring her question, he swung his axe, splitting the log with a single blow.

Bianca dusted the crumbs off her pants, “I think maybe I’ve imposed on you too much.  Do, uh, people rent apart-” Bianca looked around at the surrounding shacks, “uh, houses?  Cabins?  Cabin is a good word.”

“It’d be better to build your own place,” he removed half of the wood, repositioning the remaining piece.  “There’s no land ownership per se in Egregia,” he swung his axe again.

“Uh, okay.”

“And I don't mean you need to build it out of ice, either.  That would just melt and then you’d be back on my threshold again,” he nodded at an approaching dog woman.

“I heard you had ice,” the dog woman stated.

“Eight blessings and five minutes,” he said curtly.  The dog woman nodded and Bianca walked to the right, towards the well, Tate realized.

Once the transaction was complete, he turned back towards Bianca, “I’ll help, of course, with the house.  We can clear an area upstream of my cabin.  Just as long as you mind where you do your business.”

“That's kind of you,” Bianca pulled out her notebook.  “On the subject of business, I found a couple that does papermaking.  No one does printing, so I will have to write every leaflet by hand.”

Tate looked at Lamar’s booth thoughtfully, “What if you had your words carved-”

“-on a big wood stamp!” she interjected.

“Well, not exactly what I was going to say,” Tate scratched his head.  

Bianca smiled and the openness of her expression reminded him of how she had looked as a child.