“My love!” said Alain. “You’re safe!” He rose to his feet and opened his arms.
Bridgette hesitated. “Alain,” she said, feeling a pain in her heart, “Bickle. You’re going on without me?”
Her two friends looked at each other. “You disappeared,” said Bickle, in a sad and quiet voice. “You bolted out the door, and we never saw you again.”
“I searched, and searched,” said Alain. “I thought you ran away with Rosie.”
Bridgette shook her head. “No.”
“I’m sure y’all want to catch up,” said the Captain. “But I got to get this ship moving, and I lost enough time. Bickle. Will you pay the passage?”
“Of course,” said Bickle. Reaching into a pouch, he tossed a jingling coin pouch into the Captain’s hand.
“Thank ye,” he said, and closed the door as he returned to the main deck. The cargo hold was dark, except for the two flickering candles before Bridgette’s two friends.
“So Rosie did not wish to come,” said Bickle.
“She screamed. She lied. She had me thrown in prison!” Bridgette was so worked up she wasn’t aware when she started shouting. “And I starved there for days and nights! Where were you?”
Her finger pointed accusingly at Alain. The exiled prince flushed pink. “I searched for hours, days,” he said. “I had no idea you were in the prison! This is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“How can that be? You’re the hero!”
“I am! I’m trying to be. Bridgette, if I had any inkling of where you are, I would have mowed them all down, killed dragons, fought witches, to win your freedom.”
“Don’t be too hard on him, Lady Bridgette,” said Bickle Wa. “I searched too. We found nothing, no trail, no one knowing the beautiful Lady Bridgette.”
“Bickle,” she said. “You say you know everyone. Everyone’s friend. You play cards with Captain Silpus of the town guard. And you couldn’t find where I was?”
“I’m from Llewes,” said Bickle. “I don’t know anyone from Harling Bay. No one admitted to seeing you. Not even the town guard.”
“If Rosie went on a madcap adventure and took you along,” said Alain, “we knew that pursuing you would be meaningless, and we had to continue to Siram Port to overthrow the Scarlet Tempest. I’m thrilled that you managed to rejoin us.” He stood up and approached her, arms out-stretched.
“Don’t touch me!” Bridgette warned him. “I don’t feel safe with either of you right now.”
“That’s all right,” said Bickle gently. “You had a traumatic experience. It’s the hardest part of an adventure. It’s that moment when all seems lost. But you got out. Lady Bridgette, you are a woman of great ability. Please. Sit. Eat. We have some potato soup left over that the Captain of the Wren gave us.”
Bridgette sat down, across the candles from her two friends. They gave her a bowl of soup that was modestly better than her prison fare, if only by being less stale. Her friends’ faces were shadowy, illuminated as they were by the humble candles.
“You didn’t escape alone,” Bickle observed. “You had help.”
Michael, who had said nothing during this entire exchange, had practically plastered himself against a crate, motionless and barely daring to breathe. Bridgette had almost forgotten he was there.
Alain turned his head a little in the light. “You? Farmboy? What are you doing here?”
Michael’s lips twitched, as he fought to respond. But his fear was too great to speak.
“I remember you,” said Bickle, slowly climbing up to his feet. Michael shrank away, fighting to flee ever further from the harmless little man. “You work in the strawberry fields,” he observed. “A hired hand, so generously offered a job. I wonder. I can’t quite remember your name.”
Michael’s lips met each other, as he tried to make a sound.
“What was that?” asked Bickle, moving a bit closer, his eyes flickering in the dull candlelight.
Michael fell to the ground, still scrunching away from Bickle, the terror clear on his face.
“Bickle,” said Bridgette. “Stop. Please.”
“I’m just asking his name,” said Bickle. “You do not travel with people who have no names. That’s one of the rules of etiquette.”
Michael finally found his voice. “P-p. Peter,” he said.
“Ahhh, Peter.” said Bickle. “I remember Peter, the strawberry picker. Fancy seeing you here on the Wren.”
Bridgette crouched by his side. “Don’t say that,” she said softly. “Say who you are.”
“I can’t,” he whispered. “I’m not him anymore. They’ll hurt me.”
“I won’t let them,” said Bridgette.
“You can’t stop them.”
“Let me try. What do you have to lose?”
The fear in his eyes showed a terrible distance, and Bridgette realized he both believed she would try to help him, but also that she would find it beyond her power to do so. “I’m tired,” he murmured. “I have to let go. I would have liked to see London again. Has it changed?”
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“Probably,” said Bridgette. A tear formed in her eye. Why?
The farmboy turned his head towards Bickle. “My name is Michael,” he said.
“Michael?” said the little man, dispassionately.
Biting his lip, Michael nodded his head. “I am Michael,” he repeated.
“Can’t be,” said Bickle. “There is no Michael in this story. There is no Michael in Shard. I don’t think we have room for a Michael. He belonged somewhere else. We have space for a Peter though. I don’t wish to be unkind. It would violate etiquette.”
“Don’t hurt him, Bickle.” said Bridgette in a warning voice.
“There are rules, my dear,” said Bickle. “There were rules he agreed to when he came to Shard. If he breaks his end of the bargain, he loses the benefits granted to him. Does it not make sense?”
“No,” said Bridgette. “He doesn’t deserve to be hurt.”
“I’m not going to hurt him,” said Bickle. “If you have a job, you offer work in exchange for payment. If you stop going to work, your employer stops paying you. Peter… or Michael, as he says he is now- was earning pay for his work. But he was paid to be Peter. Michael was not part of the deal, and Michael cannot earn Peter’s salary. Does this make sense to you, my dear?”
Bridgette did not understand. She looked down at Michael again, and gasped in fright. Instead of the shy farmboy with muscular arms and a robust health, she saw a withered old man, covered with wrinkles, thin tufts of white hair, and age spots all over his decrepit hands.
“Michael!” she cried out.
The old man struggled to open his eyes. Thick with cataracts, his cloudy eyes struggled to focus on her face. His hands, claw-like little things, moved helplessly in the air to find her own palms. “Thank you,” he wheezed out, smiling. His teeth were yellow and crooked. “I get to be me again.”
“What happened?”
Alain straightened himself up. “I’ll tell you what happened,” he said in a clear voice, with an edge of pain and anger. “Bickle Wa has revoked Michael’s payment. Youth. Time is altered for Earthlings. A year can be a day, or a day can be a year.”
“If Michael doesn’t want to do as he agreed,” said Bickle, “Then he doesn’t get to keep the youth we were paying him with. I’m surprised his story was so recent that he’s still alive. But I doubt for much longer.”
“Michael,” said Bridgette with tears in her eyes. “Please don’t go! I’ll take you to London. Somewhere, somehow, I’ll take you there.”
The old man smiled. “Promise that my bones will rest in my home again.”
Bridgette bit her lip and nodded. “I do. I promise. Please stay with me. Please!”
As Michael’s aged eyes closed, his body flew, rising scant feet off of the ground. But as he breathed his last, his body fell, hitting the ground with a thud.
He did not move again.
Bridgette wept. For all his awkwardness, Michael had helped her when Alain did not. Never had she felt so utterly alone.
“I’m sorry Bridgette. But it was his choice.”
Bridgette turned to face the little wrinkled man, who smiled a fake smile, with fake cheer. “You did this to him,” she hissed. “False friend!”
“I didn’t do it,” Bickle pointed out. “It was his choice.”
“Bickle,” said Alain in a harsh voice. “I must agree with Lady Bridgette. That was no way to handle this.”
“Oh,” said Bickle turning to face Alain. “The Prince of Exile has an objection?”
Alain twitched a little, nervous. But a look at Bridgette hardened his courage. “I understand your status and your position,” he said. “And you can do as you wish. But you spoiled your own purpose. You cannot continue with us. Not after this.”
Bickle Wa shook his head. “Bridgette is a bright and understanding girl. She will be okay.”
“Then ask her,” said Alain. “Don’t presume to speak for our guest. Wouldn’t that violate etiquette?”
For the first time, Bridgette thought she saw Bickle get angry. “You? Who are you to lecture me about etiquette? Don’t you know who I am? I was around two thousand years before your sorry story made it to the stage! And what sort of variety have you entertained? A bitter, deposed prince becomes a romantic, deposed prince? Ever think of trying a different role? We might as well still be in Scotland, with the way you get stuck in the same story rut!”
Alain pulled out his sword. “Status or no, that is as clear a violation of etiquette as you can do. None shall even hint at a truename! Those are your own rules! Do you want me to call a meeting of the denizens of Shard and place you on trial?”
“I am Shard!” roared Bickle. “Who do you think sits on the seat of judgment? Me!”
“Even the author must bend to the rules of etiquette,” said Alain. “And etiquette says the heroine will decide with whom she travels.”
They turned to her expectantly. Bridgette scarcely had any idea who they were any more. What were they talking about? What was this about Scotland? Names have power, she realized. That’s what Michael told me. And when he revealed his real name, he died. Did Alain have a name too that he kept hidden? Did Bickle?
It didn’t matter. At least Alain seemed to understand it was unfair what happened to poor Michael Darling. “Go away Bickle,” she said.
The little man looked hurt. “Well, I suppose I can’t blame you for being upset,” he said. “To show no hard feelings, I’ll keep my bargain with the Captain of the Wren, and not interfere with your passage or adventure in any way. It’s been such a pleasure traveling with you Bridgette, and if you change your mind-”
“GET OUT!” she shouted.
He sighed. “Even after all these years, I still cannot fully understand Earthlings,” he said. He walked to the door of the cargo hold, opened it with a creak, and slipped out of their lives.
Bridgette sat on the ground, still looking at the body of the old man, stunned and sad. Alain wisely sat nearby without touching her. He was silent for many long moments.
“I’ll build him a casket, if you like,” he said.
She looked up at him. “All right,” she said, ambiguously.
He nodded. “There’s a fellow I know in town who may be sympathetic to our cause. He can help me find supplies to build the casket...
“Scotland?” she asked.
Alain froze. “Ah…. I guess you heard about that.”
“You were right in front of me,” she said. “Are you from Scotland?”
He pressed his hands together. “Not like Michael was from London,” he said.
“If you told me your real name, would you turn into an old man too?”
“Most likely, I’d turn into a dry skeleton. Please Bridgette, my history is not why we’re here.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m Alain Trueheart. Sole survivor of the Trueheart line. The true heir to the throne of the land of Shard.”
Who were you?”
Alain folded his hands tight, and said nothing.
“He said Scotland?”
“Please,” said Alain.
“Is it a famous story, or some obscure one I never heard of before?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Somehow I don’t think someone from an obscure Scottish story would make it to the Dream Chest,” she thought aloud. “And I can only think of one famous Scottish story. Or Scottish play, more likely. Bickle mentioned a stage, didn’t he? I had a wonderful English teacher last year. She did a great job when she taught Shakespeare.”
Alain froze, with terror in his eyes. “Please stop Bridgette,” he begged.
But Bridgette continued. “Bickle called you a bitter, deposed prince. A prince who lost his throne to a usurper. Duncan’s heir, to whom MacDuff pledged his loyalty. That would make you-”
“NO!” shouted Alain in sheer terror. “No, don’t say it, don’t breathe it, don’t even THINK it! I cannot let my name out. I cannot! I have a role to play! And this one is easier, so much easier, than conquering MacBeth! You cannot-” he froze, covering his mouth in terror.
“Who said MacBeth?” countered Bridgette.
Alain dropped to his knees. “Bridgette,” he begged. “You have me at your mercy. I pledge my sword to you. I won’t betray you, I promise. But please, don’t let it out that you know-”
“Malcolm,” whispered Bridgette.
Alain stared at her, like a block of ice. She had him. He knew she had him. And it was now in her power to reduce him the way poor Michael was lost.
“Tell me what is going on,” she hissed. “Or you will be a dry skeleton.”