“It’s not a trick.” She started toward them. “It is a skill, and you will never learn it if you do not practice.”
Rapunzel pulled her knife out of her kirtle pocket as she reached them. The boys stood back as she took her stance, lifted the knife, and threw it at the wooden building. The knife point struck the wood and held fast, the handle sticking out perfectly horizontal.
One boy gasped while another whistled.
“Practice, boys.”
Rapunzel yanked her knife out of the wall and continued down the dusty path. She had learned the skill of knife throwing in one of the villages where she and Mother had lived.
Boys and old people were quick to accept her, an outsider, better than girls her own age, and she tried to learn whatever she could from them. An old woman once taught her to mix brightly colored paints using things easily found in the forest, which Rapunzel then used to paint flowers and vines and butterflies on the houses where she and Mother lived. An older man taught her how to tie several types of knots for different tasks. But the one skill she wanted to learn the most had been the hardest to find a teacher for.
She walked past the stone manor house, with the lord’s larger house just behind it and the courtyard in front of it. On the other side of the road were the mill, the bakery, and the butcher’s shop. And surrounding everything was the thick forest that grew everywhere man had not purposely cleared.
Endlein, one of the village girls, was drawing water from the well several feet away. She glanced up and waved Rapunzel over.
Rapunzel and her mother were still considered strangers in Ottelfelt as they had only been there since Michaelmas, about half a year. She hesitated before walking over.
Endlein fixed her eyes on Rapunzel as she drew near. “So, Rapunzel. Do you have something to tell me? Some news of great import?” She waggled her brows with a smug grin, pushing a strand of brown hair out of her eyes.
“No. I have no news.”
“Surely you have something you want to say about Wendel Gotekens.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Endlein lifted one corner of her mouth. “Perhaps you do not know.”
“Know what?”
“That your mother has told Wendel he cannot ever marry you because the two of you are going away from Ottelfelt.”
Rapunzel’s stomach turned a somersault like the contortionists she had seen at the Keiterhafen fair.
She should have guessed Mother would decide to leave now that a young man had not only shown interest in her but had declared his wish to marry her. The same thing happened in the last two villages where they had lived.
Rapunzel turned toward home.
“Leaving without saying farewell?” Endlein called after her.
“I am not entirely sure we are leaving,” Rapunzel called back. “Perhaps Mother will change her mind and we shall stay.”
She hurried down the road, not even turning her head to greet anyone, even though the baker’s wife stopped to stare and so did the alewife. She continued to the little wattle-and-daub cottage that was half hidden from the road by thick trees and bushes. The front door was closed, even though it was a warm day for late winter.
Rapunzel caught sight of the colorful vines and flowers she had only just finished painting on the white plaster walls and sighed. Oh well. She could simply paint more on their next house.
Pushing the door open, Rapunzel stopped. Her mother was placing their folded coverlet into the trunk.
“So it is true? We are leaving again?”
“Why do you say ‘again’? We’ve never left here before.” She had that airy tone she used when she couldn’t look Rapunzel in the eye.
“But why? Only because Wendel said he wanted to marry me? I told you I would not marry him even if you approved of him.”
“You don’t know what you would do if he should say the right thing to you.” Her tone had turned peevish as she began to place their two cups, two bowls, pot, and pan into the trunk.
“Mother.”
“I know you, Rapunzel. You are quick to feel sorry for anyone and everyone.” She straightened and waved her hand about, staring at the wall as though she were talking to it. “What if Wendel cried and begged? You might tell him you would marry him. He might beg you to show him your love. You might . . . you might do something you would later regret.”
“I would not.” Rapunzel’s breath was coming fast now, her face hot. It wasn’t the first time Mother had accused her of such a thing.
“You don’t want to marry a poor, wretched farmer like that Wendel, do you? Who will always be dirty and have to scratch out his existence from the ground? Someone as beautiful as you? Men notice you, as well they might. But none of them are worthy of you . . . none of them.” It was as if she had forgotten she was speaking to Rapunzel and was carrying on to herself.