Read Online The Castle Behind Thorns by Merrie Haskell - Free Book Online Page B

nearest hammer. “It would take some imagination to think of this place as beautiful. Is that why smiths don’t clean better? They can imagine away the dirt?”
    He shook his head. Dust and soot were part of the job. “I meant—can you imagine how things are going to shift in the fire and under the hammer? Can you look at four pieces of broken metal and think of a way to put them together into something useful? Turning swords into plowshares? That sort of thing.”
    Perrotte frowned. “I’d like to turn a plowshare into a sword ,” she said. “I’d cut our way out of those thorns, and then use it to run my enemies through—” She bit off her next words and swallowed them.
    Sand stared at her, aghast. She met his eyes, defiant.
    â€œWhat? You don’t like bloodthirstiness?” she asked.
    â€œPardon? No. I’m horrified that you would dull a sword on that thorn brake. I could make you some pretty good hedge shears.”
    He laughed inwardly as the defiance on her face changed to surprise. But he did wonder who her enemies were—and how he would make sure never to give her a sword and then get on her bad side.
    Â 
    S AND FINISHED BRAIDING HIS rope. It went fast, because when his hands tired, Perrotte took a turn. Then he spent the better part of an hour leaned over the edge of the well, casting his hook into the water again and again, dredging for the bucket. Perrotte leaned over the edge with him, and gave him completely useless advice. Sometimes he caught the bucket and managed to haul it up a couple of feet before it plummeted into the water again.
    â€œLet me have a turn,” Perrotte said, and on her second try, she hooked the handle and triumphantly hauled the brimming bucket upward.
    â€œBeginner’s luck,” he muttered, then helped her bring the bucket over the well’s lip. That she had completed the rescue in no way diminished his enthusiasm for having a real bucket to haul water in. He grinned, carrying his watertight bucket, full, all the way to the kitchen.
    It occurred to him: The bucket was far better at holding water than it had any right to be. He’d had tremendous luck in mending so many things over the last week, working far beyond his skills.
    And then there was the matter of the hawk.
    And the matter of Perrotte.
    When it came down to it, Sand had to admit that some sort of magic was at work in the castle.
    â€œThis is what we have to eat, then,” Perrotte said, interrupting his thoughts. She eyed the kitchen table’s collection of broken and dirty foods.
    â€œThere’s lots of turnips in the root cellar,” Sand said, pouring some of the water from his hard-earned bucket into a copper pot. This was so much easier than wringing water out of bedsheets over several trips!
    â€œYou should plant a garden,” Perrotte said.
    â€œThank you for the suggestion,” he said formally, putting fragments of venison, turnip, and onion into the pot. “I already have. It isn’t working out.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œIt means, nothing grows here. Nothing lives. Nothing rots, either. Everything just . . . dries out.”
    Perrotte shook her head. A yawn overtook her, and she looked taken aback by it. She lifted her hand to her mouth belatedly. “I’m sorry. I’m so tired.”
    Sand glanced at the unplumped chunks of turnip, onion, and venison sitting in the cold water. “Food won’t be ready for a while yet.”
    â€œI’m more tired than hungry. I can eat in the morning. Good night.”
    â€œBut—”
    She stopped in the doorway. “But what?”
    â€œI don’t know—that is—” Sand had mended only one bed. “You can sleep in my bed,” he blurted.
    Perrotte drew herself up taller, an affronted expression on her face. “Your bed? Your bed, in my father’s room?”
    â€œMy bed,” Sand