Ramsgate throws itself a party, though nowhere near as big as the fall festival: His Majesty has declared the village large enough to warrant a postal delivery once a week. Rumple dares to ask Belle if she's had anything to do with this decision, since, in all honesty, Ramsgate is no bigger now than it was last year or the year before, and Belle has been bemoaning the irregularity with which she's received his letters. "I may have," she admits, "but you must know, my father makes his own decisions and is ever mindful of money in this time of war. But he sees a value to the war effort in the letters we exchange, so hence the postal service."
Rumple is flattered—the thoughts he puts on paper are considered by the King to be helpful!—but also a bit apprehensive until Belle assures him she does not share his letters with anyone else; she merely summarizes for her father what lines of thought she and Rumple are pursuing regarding the ogres and what conclusions they've reached. He may continue to "speak freely, and of matters other than war, as we have been, friend to friend." And so he does, relating stories of the small goings-on in Ramsgate, because she loves his observations so, though he never can bring himself to talk about his personal past, and in her warm and lively style, she relates vivid descriptions of the personages who come to court. "I almost feel as though I can see the court through my window," Rumple compliments her; and she confesses a longing to meet the colorful characters of his reports.
Gradually, slowly, her letters take a more personal turn, as she expresses frustration in her role as a future ruler. "Though I will be Queen one day, and though my father includes me in meetings with his war council, the Royal advisers treat me like a child who must be sheltered from unpleasantness. Whether their condescension is due to my age or my sex—probably both—the result is the same: keep the princess in the dark about the 'crude aspects' of life. A frown, even if it's caused by profound thought, must not be seen upon her pretty young face."
She is even more incensed about the control that the social advisors think they have over her personal life. "A princess doesn't have one! Every aspect of every thing is under scrutiny, from the number of petticoats I wear to the number of hours I may spend with a friend or a book. Who I may befriend is much commented upon, of course, now that I am of marrying age. I wish sometimes that one of my older sisters had not declined their position, so that I would be free of the obligations of a future Queen, but that is undeniably selfish of me. To speak plainly, neither of my sisters has the mind, the heart or the stomach to rule and the kingdom would suffer for it if either had accepted the succession. I have always felt what my mother terms 'the call' and when the time comes, I will ascend to the throne without reservation, but, Rumple, I wish those gray men who surround my father and think it their duty to inform him whose hand deserves shaking and which handkerchief suits which occasion—I wish they would find a more useful occupation. My grandfather thought them necessary, because he was a military man who knew nothing of the ways of court, and my father tolerates them because other kings have such advisors, but when I am crowned, I shall find work for them in the barns so that they will at last serve the kingdom usefully."
Rumple assures her this is a good plan, exhibiting fiscal responsibility; he also informs her that "the gray men" exist in all walks of life. "Some people have too much time on their hands, I suppose, that they feel it behooves a community to tell other people how to spend their time."
"Please don't think me ungrateful, my dear friend. I am ever mindful of my good fortune that I have always had enough to eat and a warm place to sleep, and that someday I will be in a position to have some impact upon the world. So few women can even read, and here am I, soon to have the power to sign treaties and pass laws. I am grateful; it's just—I'm just blowing off steam, and I thank you for your patience with me. There is no one else I can speak to this way."
Rumple exchanges a stunned look with Midnight as he reads that sentence aloud. Something has changed over the course of their correspondence. He is no longer just a fellow researcher or a sharer of colorful observations. He is, to Belle, somewhat more than a friend, he realizes, but he doesn't know quite what role he fills for her.
And he's beginning to wonder, with as much anticipation as he awaits each letter, as much pounding of the heart he feels as he slides his thumbnail under each wax seal, what role she fills for him.
Next week Rumple will be going to Avonlea. As usual, he'll be selling thread at the castle and the marketplace, then he'll spend an afternoon with Bae. They will stroll around the city, though it's not the clean, shining place it used to be; the war has taken its toll. Though the battles are days' rides away, the effects are felt everywhere in the kingdom of Aramore, and especially the capital city. Increased taxes to fund the war mean a decrease in new construction and road repair; increased conscription means a decrease in workers for farms and shops, which decreases production; as the wounded are brought in from battlefields, healers must devote more time to the treatment of soldiers, leaving more routine illnesses and injuries untreated (or treated by neighbors with knowledge of folk medicine). And in the distance, the sky glows red and the wind carries the acrid odor of burnt flesh and the heavy stink of rotting bodies.
Rumple's trips to the city have this year been less profitable than in the past, except for the first year after his desertion. More and more of his income issues from bartering his services as a scribe and his cat's services as a mouser. Still, he continues to visit Avonlea because it affords him a few extra hours with Bae.
Every time he approaches the castle, he pauses at the well to wash, then to gaze up at the balconies in the hope of once again seeing a dark-haired young woman there. He hasn't seen her since that one wonderful glimpse years ago. He knows all about her life now, knows how busy she is, knows that when she rests, it's likely to be in the kitchen or the library, not on a balcony, watching clouds drift.
As he settles at his wheel to spin the last of the thread before his journey, he considers—as he always does when he's preparing to go to Avonlea—writing a letter to Belle to share his plans with her. Perhaps she would agree to meet with him, show him her library, or at least talk for a few minutes about their research. He yearns to hear her enchanting voice again and look into those mesmerizing eyes, and he is not so naïve as to be unaware that she would like to meet him too. But the truth of it is, he sees only heartbreak from a closer acquaintance. As long as she remains a distant correspondent, he can fantasize about her, but if she became real to him, he would need more than dreams, and that's not possible. She is a future leader, and young, and educated, and beautiful. He is. . . not.
So he spins into the night and never writes his letter. When he receives a surprised and somewhat indignant missive from Belle—"Bae tells me you were in Avonlea last week to visit him. Why did you not tell me you were coming? I should have liked to meet you"—he apologizes. He offers no excuse—she'd know it was a lie. She knows the reality of their situation as well as he does.
As for his feelings for her, they will dissipate, he's sure. When they do, perhaps then he could bear to kiss her hand without needing to kiss her lips, and then he could accept a meeting that would certainly end in parting.
"As I write, the wind is whipping the curtains covering my open balcony doors. It howls like a dog begging to be let in from the cold. If we lived in a land without war, I suppose I'd be fretting that the oncoming storm would spoil the attendance at the autumn ball, but as things are, I worry instead about our soldiers, sleeping on the ground, seeking trees that can provide some slight shelter from the rain. I also hope that there will be thunder so there can be a night or two of peace.
"No, it's not true about the ball. I pretend sometimes that I'm more outgoing than I really am, because it's what expected of me (especially now: keep up the people's spirits by putting on a happy face, the gray men advise us. Distract them with bread and circuses). I don't fit into the world of pretty gowns and curtseys. I have to be truthful with you, Rumple, and hope I don't disappoint you with my discomfort in society and my complete lack of ladylike charms. Really, I am far more comfortable discussing books with you than I am with dancing the latest steps with fashionable fellows. I'm not what a princess is supposed to be.
"Rumple, distract me: tell me how goes your research? What have you spun this week, and what legal agreements have you written? I need distraction. I'm not afraid of storms, but I'm afraid of the life I'm expected to lead.
"Your friend, Belle"
"Dear Belle,
"I beg you to consider the possibility that you are not the princess the gray men expect you to be because you are not meant to be. Your nation needs a leader who knows the law, not the latest dances; a leader who cares for the poor and the sick, not fashionable fellows; a leader who invests their taxes in schools and hospitals and roads, not balls. They need a leader who does not fit in. That is the leader who will build a future for them.
"As for my good opinion, you need never worry whether you have it; there is nothing you can do that will ever lose it. Besides, I am only a spinner, Belle; no one need call me 'sir.' My opinion is sought only so far as wool and cats go.
"Take heart, dear friend. Storms clear away deadwood and bring fresh air. You shall be the storm your people need.
"Your friend and admirer, Rumple"
Staff in his right hand, basket in his left, and a few coins jangling in the pouch strung onto his belt, Rumple strides out into the dawn. In his basket are some documents he's written for pay; this money, when he receives it, will go into Rumple's lamb fund. He is headed for Ramsgate's small market to search for something special for Bae's birthday. It's difficult to buy gifts for Bae, now that he's almost a man; trinkets and toys no longer amuse him and the castle supplies all the clothes and books he needs. Still, it pleases Rumple to no end that he can even buy a gift; and even better, though he still has plenty of enemies in the village, he has among the vendors some near-friends who will greet him and make him a fair sale. A few, like the baker Falk, will be downright generous, out of respect for Bae's service to the kingdom; in recognition of Bae's birthday, Falk will slip some of those soft white rolls into basket, free of charge, to go along with the cake Rumple is buying.
So much different his trips to the market are now, than in years past—but Rumple pushes the unpleasant memories aside. He buys the cake (and accepts the free rolls with thanks), and cheese and sausage and a small bag of sweets. Then he approaches the tinker's stand in hopes of finding something interesting there to make a birthday gift. And in fact, there is something curious going on as he approaches: a crowd has gathered to listen in amusement as the tinker shouts into the ear of the oldest man in the village. Everyone knows that Lethold is nearly deaf—a war injury, Lethold likes to boast, from the First Ogre War, when an ogre had him pinned to the ground and roared into his face. Lethold escaped only by the quick thinking of two of his comrades, who clapped their shields together, the clanking of the metal distracting the ogre from its prey.
Rumple approaches and eavesdrops on the exchange. "I got it made," the tinker is practically shouting at Lethold. "Look." He sets a brass funnel on the counter. At least, Rumple assumes it's a funnel, except its handle is narrower and longer than any funnel Rumple's ever seen, and it's elegantly curved. The tinker holds out his open palm. "Four coppers."
"What?" Lethold is shouting back.
The tinker sighs, picks up the funnel and presses the narrow end against Lethold's ear. "Four coppers," he repeats, and Lethold leaps backward, bumping into an onlooker. The old man's eyes are round as bowls as he begs, "Say that again."
"I said, 'Four coppers.' Are you going to pay me or do I take back the ear trumpet?"
Ear trumpet. Rumple turns the phrase over in his mind. He's never heard it before, nor has he seen such a device, but he's impressed, as is the entire crowd, because for the first time in fifty years, Lethold is holding a conversation in a normal tone of voice. "Don't rush me! Now where'd I put my money pouch?" the old man pats at his hips until an onlooker pushes the pouch, which has crept around to Lethold's backside, to the front.
Some of the onlookers laugh with delight; a few even clap their hands. In a single moment, a man's life has changed with the introduction of a simple tool. As a small girl runs up to tug on the old man's cloak, Lethold snuffles, and everyone in town knows why: for the first time ever, Lethold can now hear his great-granddaughter when she stands on tiptoe to whisper in his ear that she needs to be taken to the outhouse.
An age of miracles and wonders, Rumple thinks. And then, as Lethold and his great-granddaughter walk away hand in hand, Rumple's mind begins to—as Belle would say—itch.
It's Bae's sixteenth birthday. His father remains at home instead of meeting him at the crossroads; Rumple leaves this privilege for Morraine. In another four or five years, these children very well may consider marriage, a thought Lucas and Rumple find agreeable. So they allow the kids some privacy, within limits.
When Bae comes in, hand in hand with his best girl, Midnight has already been waiting for him at the door for more than an hour. He stands still to allow her to wind her way around his legs, then he pets her, then she resumes her spot at the hearth and goes to sleep, seeming to lose interest. Bae and Morraine laugh. Rumple serves them little cakes he bought from Falk and sits down to spin, leaving them to chat quietly. At suppertime Gretchen and Lucas bring over a plate of mutton and a loaf of bread to add to Rumple's basket of pears and bowl of broad beans. They listen to Bae's tales, then Morraine reads a story from the book from the royal library, and they chat until the moon rises. When the visitors have gone, Bae washes in preparation for bed.
He's digging around in the clothes cupboard in the vain hope of finding a pair of trousers that will fit him—he seems to have gained an inch in height and two in girth since his last visit—when something clatters to the floor. Midnight is instantly on top of it, sniffing, batting it with her paws, then stomping on it. When the object offers no resistance, not even a squeak of surrender, she tosses her head and tail in the air and walks away. She takes her hunting skills outside, where they will be better rewarded.
Bae picks up her discarded catch. He examines it in the lamplight. "Huh! Remember this?"
Rumple leaves the dishes he's washing to join his son. "That whistle. The one you traded a kitten for."
"The dog whistle. Morraine and I were going to make a fortune training dogs with it." He tosses it back into the cupboard. "I suppose all kids have get-rich-quick schemes." He borrows a pair of his father's trousers and climbs into his pallet. "Good night, Papa. Thanks for the birthday party."
"Good night," Rumple answers distractedly. Something in his brain is itching. He finishes the dishes, but the unborn idea won't lie silent. It drives him to dig around in the cupboard for that whistle. He sits at the table a while, turning the whistle over in his fingers, waiting for the idea to hatch. When it does, he doesn't quite recognize it, but he grabs his hammer and the tankard Bae gave him at Yuletide and he goes outside, into the woods so that what he's about to do doesn't awaken Bae. With his hammer he knocks the bottom out of the tankard, then he holds the whistle up to his mouth and slides the tankard over the whistle. He blows as hard as he can. Dogs throughout the neighborhood howl in protest; a cat or two yeowls.
Rumple smiles.
At dawn he's pounding on the tavern door. The bartender sneers at him as he throws the door open. He's never much liked Rumple, though he's come to tolerate him, seeing as how so many of his regular customers have befriended the spinner. Now he likes the spinner even less. The tavern closed less than four hours ago; the bartender climbed into bed just three hours ago. "WHAT!" he barks.
"Sorry to disturb." Rumple brushes past him and heads for the bar. "Go back to bed. I'll get what I need and be gone in a minute."
The bartender watches him through bleary eyes as Rumple pokes around behind the bar. "There's no money back there," he growls.
Rumple ignores the insult and keeps searching.
"You need a drink that bad?"
"Funnel," Rumple snaps. "I need a funnel. I promise to return it before you open for the day."
"You're cooking at this time of mornin'?"
"Testing an idea. Go back to bed." When the bartender doesn't budge, Rumple huffs, "All right! I'll leave a deposit for use of the funnel." He slams a copper on the bar and continues his search.
"Second shelf to your right, on the bottom." The bartender trudges back to bed.
"You want me to build what, now?" The tinker sniffs, but doesn't find the answer he's looking for. "You ain't been drinkin' so you must just be crazy."
Rumple points again at the sheet of paper upon which he's drawn a model, with specifications marked. "Make me this," he sets the whistle on top of the paper, "twice as big. And make me this," he sets the funnel on top of the paper, "twice as big. With its smaller end just big enough for the whistle to fit through tightly. Simple. How soon can you have them made?"
"What're you gonna do with a giant whistle and a giant funnel?"
Rumple shrugs. "Catch a degenerate giant, I hope."