Chapter 1: Parsley

"Forward, march!"

Tramp, tramp, tamp, they march before me. Armor clanks and limbs remain properly stiff. When David passes by my post on the fence between the pasture and the training field, he winks at me with the insolence of a soldier. Oh, wait. He is a soldier.

I shift my feet to a higher rail and peer beyond the footmen down our rocky hill where our citadel sits and I can just make out the tallest tips of the village roofs. The heat of the day has just dipped beneath its peak, but I doubt the soldiers can tell. Their only world is the well trodden field where my father, General Beric Douglas, drills them over and over in the art of marching, formation, swordsmanship and first and foremost obedience.

"Halt!"

With the speed of a squirrel, they stand perfectly still at attention. My Papa surveys them critically. I can already guess who will receive his reprimands. Sir Henrick never picks his feet high up off the ground; he has always been a sluggard that way. Poor confused Sir Jacob has his sword on the wrong side, he always has trouble remembering. And silly Oliver is always just a few seconds behind the others in following the orders. A second too many. If Papa did not see the wink, David will come off clean, a first in a long time.

He does, and I slip off my post to congratulate him. The other knights are relaxing their aching limbs, conversing among themselves, or approaching my father for further instructions.

"You lucky dog," I say.

"You lazy cat," he responds. "What prompts you to sit up on your tree all day and watch us sweat in the sun under your father's command? Does it bring you some sadistic pleasure?"

"Endless," I reply.

"My lady!" Oliver sprints over to us in his full armor and prostrates himself on the ground. Without looking up he declares, nearly shouting into the turf, "Your beauty surpasses the stars and your tender youth inspires—"

I whack him upside the head and skip away before he can retaliate.

He sits up, a fake scowl on his face. "Oh, it's you. I thought you were Christine."

"Might as well as mistaken me for my uncle, the king."

Christine, my sister, and I are about as opposite as sisters can be. She has all the right curves, and is neither too short nor too tall. Her hair is like our mama's, dark, curly, unruly, wild, beautiful. She got her wide, dark eyes from mama, too. Although three years older, I am a couple inches shorter than she and still have the frame of a ten year old, straight and scrawny. My wavy hair is dusty blonde and my eyes are a stormy grey. Neither of my parents know where I inherited my odd looks. I don't look like the Evifian I should.

Even though Mama is only half Evifian, she looks like one. She tells us that during the war Evifians were looked down upon and she had to hide her guilty hair in a handkerchief. Papa said he never hid his nationality, hence his fist fighting skills. Papa is full blooded and has the same thick, dark hair with a tinge of auburn. His skin is a deep tan from sun and birth. Mama says that's what makes him so handsome.

Orlee, my older brother, who is a spitting image of Papa, has finally matched him in height, but not quite bulk. He says I am really a tabby cat spewed from a fireplace and disguising myself as a human. He is always talking magic. Still, ever after everyone referred to me as Tabby.

"All Hail his majesty!" declares Oliver and again prostrates himself before me. He sits up for a moment. "What does your mother, Lady May, call him again? Oh yes." He falls flat on his face, arms outstretched. "Hail Charlie! Hail most royal of ice cubes!"

He is such a tease. He never takes anything seriously and has made it a point to be my personal annoyance. I can't help but smile as I try to make him stop. Although he is a knight he is only a few months younger than I. When I first met him two years ago, he was horrified to find that I did not have any younger brothers. Before I hardly knew his name he had deemed himself the one to fill the void.

"He's not such an ice cube anymore," I retort, finally getting a good aim at his head. My uncle, King Charles, is well known for his rather…frosty personality.

"All hail the melting ice cube, Charlie, then," he replies and gets off the ground. "Come on, Tabby, give me a hug."

I back away.

"Ha," says David. "It'd be like embracing the steaming stove in Lady May's kitchen. You're sweaty, and your armor will hardly cushion her."

I'm startled when someone wraps their arms snugly around me, and I am enveloped in sweat, body odor and a burning presence. I struggle, but it's no use. David and Oliver are on the verge of laughing. Finally, I sink my teeth into the offender's arm; just hard enough to have them spring back. But they don't. Instead, I'm being scooped up like a baby and thrown over his shoulder.

"Hey!" I shriek. I recognize the dusty pants, worn boots, and the patch in the brown tunic. But mostly I know the sturdy, tall, comforting form of my papa. I know what to do. I slide my fingers down to his lowest ribs and begin to tickle him. He has to laugh and eventually puts me down because he can't stand it anymore.

"Hardly…fair," he growls. "You need to trim your claws, kitten."

Only he can call me that.

"Won't help," I reply.

He chuckles and tugs at his newly acquired beard. He dares grow one only once in a blue moon. Mama gets after him every time he does. I actually like it. It scratches and scruffs me when he hugs or kisses me on the cheek, but I like it.

He suddenly turns on David and Oliver. "Back to your posts, men. Conversing with beautiful maids is not part of military procedures. Focus."

David and Oliver have been around for so long they are like family, but on the field Papa treats them like soldiers. He believes in discipline. They obey, like good soldiers, but David winks at me one more time. It's what he does to show he's still watching out for me. He is another brother, but older, more mature. He is older than Orlee, even. I teased him mercilessly about being such an old bachelor, until he married a milk maid last summer.

"Tabby," says Papa, "Any idea what your mother is brewing in the kitchen?"

I shake my head. "Haven't been in there all day. She kicked me out when I spilt the oats bucket." He stared at me, waiting for an elaboration. "I tripped."

"Before I forget, your mother wants you to go to the market for some things. Here's the list," he hands me a wrinkled scrap of paper that had been sitting in his pocket all day. "You might want to get extra since she'll be thinking about the new recruits."

"New recruits?" I am instantly interested. "We are getting another batch of soldiers, Papa? When?"

"They are scheduled to be here tomorrow morning."

"What are they like?"

"More nobles," he sighs. "They're all a bunch of green sticks."

"That's what you call all new recruits, Papa."

He grins. "Aye, I do. And when I send them out again they are…"

"Soldiers," I sigh and say in my best Papa voice, "Just soldiers. It's the actual battlefield that makes a warrior."

He pats me on the back. "That's my girl." Then he struts off to boss around the green sticks some more.

We aren't a real army training place. Papa only instructs about a hundred fifty men at a time. Half of them are poor regular men who need to learn in case the Crown recruits them for a real war. Dillian insists on having their population ready for combat instead of frantically trying to turn their citizens into warriors in a month's time before the enemy arrives. Dillian isn't at war. Our last war was with Evif more than twenty years ago. However, there are always rumors and the possibility is always there; even more so now, with more than gossip filtering from the east. King Ashton of Therind has sent some very rude ambassadors and the tensions between the people on the border are snipping away to thread thin.

The other half of Papa's men are noblemen who are receiving special instruction to be leaders. They will go on to be the sergeants, majors, and captains in the real army. My uncle, King Charles, is sensible that way. Although the noblemen have a right to those titles and positions, he refuses to give it to them unless they've been properly trained. The kings of Dillian in the past have suffered from rich idiots who wear a plume in the helmet and not a whit of sense underneath it.

As I walk back across the pasture towards the estate, I pause to stroke away the flies from Smudge, my horse. His only reply is to push me away as he continues to press his nuzzle in grassy turf. He's the cheekiest horse in the history of horses, and yes, I am well versed in the history of cheeky horses.

I grab a basket from the kitchen and start off for the town since dinner fixing time is plodding around the corner and Mama would be unhappy if I was late. She dislikes tardiness. It's late May, but many farmers have imported from warmer countries when our own garden has not quite produced. I look at the short list. By the looks of it dinner tonight is basil soup topped with tomatoes and dipped with spiced bread. I smile. Mama has some famous recipes and this is one of my favorites.

Douglasdale is small, just shy a thousand persons, but well stocked with all walks of life to keep Papa busy with crime and us well salaried with modest taxes. Still, Papa, the most independent man in Dillian, only keeps the most necessary size of staff. No excess. Mama enjoys command over the kitchen and employs Christine and me for most tasks, including shopping. The market is full of local farmers most sponsored by Papa in some way. They gather around the town square crowding each other for room and prominence, even though it is rarely a bustling place like the cities.

"Well, hello there, you are certainly a pretty one." The farmer I approach leans forward, the previous boredom void in his face. He must be older than Orlee and his beard has his lunch in it, beans by the looks of it. Ew.

"Thanks," I say flatly. "Do you have any more tomatoes?"

"For you? Always."

"And everyone else?" I wonder as he begins to pull some of the red vegetables from his secret stash.

"Welll…..you can only accommodate so many."

"Humph. You mean you can only accommodate pretty young girls who give you the satisfaction of making yourself appear charming and attractive. How very expansive you must think your special consumer circle is."

He appears slightly confused and I take the moment to examine the product, handling each one.

"You assume so much."

"Are you denying it?" I select half of the ten he has laid before me. I snap the correct amount of coins onto his counter and say, "The others are squishy. Speaking for my fellow dainty damsels, they won't be impressed."

He was probably thankful I left before he had to answer my question. Parsley, basil, and oregano are next, so I wind my way through the market looking for a good herb station and ignoring those who try to catch my attention. I find an old lady intently knitting away, sitting behind baskets of dry and fresh greens and herbs. As I nose my way through her baskets I'm startled to see how superior they are to anything I've ever seen. No faults whatsoever. I glance at the old woman and find that I don't recognize her.

"What's your name, ma'am?"

"What's your reason?" she returns in such a quick manner I barely catch the words. She doesn't look up and her hands don't slow. Click, click.

"Curiosity."

"That killed the cat."

"Satisfaction brought it back."

Click, click. Her needles are just as fast as ever.

"As a tabby cat I suppose you would know cats have nine lives." Her reply is somehow condescending. I would have bristled if I had not been surprised at the fact that she knew I am referred to as Tabby.

"You know who I am?"

"I know of you."

Suddenly, I don't want a conversation. "I have a list of things I need. Basil, parsley—"

"Do you think you are as pretty as your sister?"

I roll my eyes. Obviously she knows more than just random gossip.

"I don't think about it."

She suddenly stops knitting and looks up at me. Her face is etched with deep wrinkles and her hands are slightly shaky, but somehow her eyes seem eternally young. "Ah, but I think you do. Every girl experiences a bout of jealousy and concern about beauty. It is in your nature."

"Not mine. My sister is beautiful in her own way, and I am attractive in mine. I am asking about your parsley."

"I am talking of beauty."

"Your parsley is beautiful, which is why I wish to buy it."

She stares at me for a moment, as though trying to decide whether she wants to sell or continue the absurd topic of beauty. Was she so obsessed with it because she had lost hers to the slow tick of time? She removes her eyes from mine and busies herself with scooping up herbs into small sacks. Breathing a sigh of relief I list off the needed herbs and she works with the speed of a bee in spring.

"You are the Baron's daughter, are you not?"

Apparently she could talk while working. Oh, dear.

"Yes."

"Everything at your disposal, no doubt."

"I try not to take advantage."

"Spend a lot of time with the soldiers, obviously," she appears to be speaking to herself still. I remain quiet, hoping she will finish soon so I can go about my business. "Never had a worry or regret. Probably thinks herself above the tittering crowds of most damsels who are desperately concerned—"

She stops abruptly and hands me the little baggies. I take them and begin to rummage in the purse as she names her price. Just as I place the coins in her gnarly hands she closes her long fingers around mine. Her grip is surprisingly strong and her gaze is freakishly unnerving.

"Beauty is thine, though belief decline. Breadth before birth and the start of the heart will unbind the blind."

She releases me, and the broken tension causes me step back a bit. I stare, still perturbed, at her as she scuttles back to her knitting. Strange old woman. No doubt she thinks herself very clever for acting so freakish. I half expect her to begin petting a black cat that would come from nowhere.

I shake myself, remembering Danny's motto that people are unique, and we should let them be unique. Still, I always had it in mind that the uniqueness did not involve ranting to innocent girls, grabbing their hands and mumbling nonsense when all they wanted to do was purchase some parsley.