Enchanted by Alethea Kontis Page B

did cartwheels while Friday went on about hems and ruffles. Sunday imagined shapes in the clouds during Friday’s lament over the lack of time for proper embroidery. Sunday watched Trix, making sure he didn’t wander off. Friday wondered if they would have enough money left over for lace. “A luxury, to be sure, but just a bit of trim, you understand...”
    Sunday halted when the pillarstone and the crooked tree came into view. They were her markers for the path to the Fairy Well, to Grumble. The temptation to leave her siblings was overwhelming, but Friday was far too sweet to take the upper hand with Trix. Who knew what mess they would make alone? It would be hard enough handing the precious bauble to a moneylender.
    “Sunday?”
    Friday was calling her name. Sunday realized that she had frozen there, staring off into the Wood. Trix slipped his hand into hers and squeezed it. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m fine. Let’s carry on.” Carefully, they continued together along the broken path.
    The Woodcutter family had dealt with Johan Schmidt many times over the years; he loved hearing good stories as much as Sunday’s father loved telling them. His hair had grown thin as his glasses had grown thicker, and he’d developed a stoop from poring over parchments and stacks of coins. He was scowling over a parchment even as they approached.
    “Ridiculous,” he muttered. “Simply preposterous. Why, it’s just ... Miss Woodcutter! So good to see you today.”
    “Good morning, Mister Schmidt,” said Sunday. “How are you faring?”
    “Fine, fine. How are your good parents?”
    “They are both in excellent health, thank you.” Sunday held the ball tightly in her pocket, hers for a few last precious moments. “I hope you can help us with something ... of a slightly peculiar nature.”
    He raised an eyebrow. “‘Peculiar’ for a Woodcutter is peculiar indeed. I’ll certainly do my best to be of assistance.”
    “I wonder how much you might exchange for this.” The ball met the tabletop with a graceless thud. Her hand felt too light and empty, sorrow where there had once been substance.
    Schmidt stared at the bauble. He looked at the parchment in his hand, at Sunday, and then back at the bauble again. He lifted the ball in his fingers. “Well, I never.” The moneylender cleared his throat. “Panser!”
    A thin young man in a too-large suit stepped forward. Friday bowed her head without hiding her grin at the fellow’s shaggy dark hair and ruddy cheeks. Panser grinned back shyly at Friday and nodded politely to Sunday. “Yes, Master Schmidt?”
    Schmidt’s eyes were still glued to the golden ball. “Fetch that purse on my desk. The purple velvet one. And be quick about it.” Schmidt adjusted his thick glasses and peered over them at Sunday. She braced herself. He would now offer many times less than the little ball was worth, and she would argue about whatever he brought to the table. She had watched her father enough to know how the game was played. She could do this.
    Schmidt cleared his throat again. “Miss Woodcutter, I need to confer with some colleagues as to the right amount to offer for such a rare and peculiar item.”
    “We can wait,” said Sunday.
    “I’ll be quite some time—we old men enjoy quibbling over peculiarities.” Panser returned with the velvet bag, and Schmidt offered it to Sunday without opening it. “I would not wish to keep you from your shopping. Use this bag of chits to make your purchases. They have my seal on them, and I will vouch for you at any stall.”
    After Trix’s misfortune, Sunday was wary about trading her worldly goods for a handful of anything. She untied the bag the old moneylender had tossed to her. Inside was a quantity of metal tokens with a dragon stamped upon them, a derivation of the royal seal. If each chit was worth even a half-silver, it was more than she ever wanted to spend in one day. “But, sir—”
    Schmidt held up a hand. “Trust me, young