Princess of the Midnight Ball - Jessica Day George [3]
“Indeed, indeed, for the nights are cold,” the old woman said, clambering to her feet as well. She shivered and wrapped her thin shawl about her shoulders. “The days are cold, too.”
Galen didn’t hesitate. He unwrapped one of the scarves around his neck and offered it to her. It was blue wool, and very warm. “Here, granny, take this.”
“I could not deprive you, poor soldier,” she said even as she reached for it.
“I’ve another,” he said kindly. “Plus wool and needles, should I wish to make more.”
Holding the scarf up to the weak sunlight, the crone admired the tight knitting. “Make this yourself, did you?”
“Aye. There’s time enough between battles to knit a dozen scarves and a hundred stockings, as well I know.” He gave a little bark of laughter.
“I thought soldiers spent their idle time dicing and wenching.” She gave a surprisingly girlish giggle.
“Dicing and wenching is all very well, but it doesn’t do you much good when there are holes in your socks and snow falling through the holes in your tent,” he said grimly. Then he shook off the memory. “Wear it in good health.”
Galen wished that he had a shawl to give her, for the one she wore had great snags in it. But the only shawl he had ever knit had been given to a general’s daughter with soft brown eyes.
“You have been very kind to an old woman,” she said, “very kind.” She wrapped the scarf around her neck with the ends hanging down to protect her thin chest. “It is only fitting that I repay your kindness.”
He shook his head, bemused. What could she possibly give him? “That’s not necessary, goodfrau,” he assured her as her gnarled fingers fumbled under her shawl.
“Oh, but it is,” she said. “In this cruel world kindness should always be repaid. So many people passed by me today and yesterday, without a gentle word or a morsel of food. And you have a look about you that I like.”
She tugged at something behind her back, and his mouth gaped open. He had taken her for a hunchback, but now she pulled a bundle of cloth out of the back of her dress and held it up.
It was a short cloak, not unlike something an Analousian officer might wear. But instead of the green of the Analousian uniform, this was a dull purple color. It had a high, stiff collar and a gold chain to fasten it. The crone shook it, and Galen saw that it was lined with a pale gray silk.
“You should wear this yourself to keep warm,” he said.
The crone cackled. “What, and be run over by a farm wagon? It’s madness to travel in such a thing!”
Galen pursed his lips. The poor old woman really was quite out of her head. He wondered if he should help her to the next village. Surely someone would recognize her; she couldn’t have wandered far, at her age.
She leaned forward and said in a loud whisper, “It’s an invisibility cloak, boy. Try it.”
He looked around helplessly, but there was neither cottage nor barn to be seen in any direction. “I really shouldn’t—Perhaps we should find your family.”
“Try it!” She shrieked like an angry crow and flapped the cloak at him. “Try it!”
He held up his hands in surrender. “All right.” He took the cloak from her gingerly and threw it about his shoulders. It caught on his pack and he pulled it free impatiently. “There! How do I look?” He held out his arms. As nearly as he could tell, he was not invisible.
Rolling her eyes, the crone shook her head. “You must fasten it.”
Not wanting to upset her again, Galen took the dangling end of the chain and fastened it to the gold clasp on the collar. He made to flourish the edges of the cape for dramatic effect but gave a yell instead. He couldn’t see his arms. Looking down, he couldn’t see any part of himself at all: only two footprints in the dust.
The old woman clapped her hands in delight. “Wonderful! It fits like a dream!”
“I’m invisible,” Galen said wonderingly. He walked in a circle, watching his footprints in the dust.
“So you are, but listen to me, boy. It’s dangerous being invisible.” For the first time she sounded truly lucid, following his footprints with her