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  A kernel of anger sparked in her heart. Why did Leon have to come around and take away her only friend? Why did Frieda have to be pretty enough to catch his eye? But the most telling of questions was what happened to be floating around her head:

  Why had God made her so ugly and stupid? Why couldn’t she just be like the other children?

  “Romy! Come on!” Frieda called to her from further up the path.

  Romy pasted a smile that was as phony as Papa’s wooden teeth. “I am right behind you.”

  It wasn’t lost on Romy that Leon hadn’t taken the time to stop, nor that Frieda hadn’t come back to walk beside her. Immediately she felt guilty for such thoughts. Frieda was a good friend—her only friend. It was selfish and childish to assume that she would only want to be friends with Romy.

  At the edge of town, Romy could hear the sounds of the city. The clip-clop of the horse’s hooves as they pounded the cobblestones. The peddlers trying to entice the city dwellers to part with their coins. None of these sounds bothered Romy. It was the children’s voices that had her feeling faint.

  But what was far worse was when she approached, and they all stopped. Wide-eyed stares met her gaze and for the briefest of moments she considered turning and running back home.

  Frieda, who had been laughing at something Leon had said, must have noticed the silence. She turned to see what was happening and saw that Romy had arrived.

  “Romy! Come and hear this joke that Leon just told me.”

  Romy wanted to walk over to Frieda, if only for the support she might give. But it was as if her feet had been glued by the other children’s stare.

  “Romy?” Frieda’s smile fell and she walked over to where Romy stood frozen to the earth. Under her breath she whispered, “Are you alright?”

  Romy nodded jerkily. After all, what else could she do?

  “Are you coming?” Leon asked with more than a hint of annoyance.

  He looked at Romy above Frieda’s head and his eyes narrowed as his lips thinned. The other children watched his response and the way that Romy’s already pale cheeks turned ashen.

  “I can’t do this,” Romy whispered to Frieda.

  Frieda snatched Romy’s hand into her own. “You can with me. I am telling you. Things aren’t as bad as you make them out to be in your head. Come along, I won’t let anything bad happen to you.”

  Romy wished to tell Frieda that things were already bad. She could feel the dislike coming from the others. It clung to her like hot sticky tar, coating her with every look, arched brow, and whispered word.

  “You can do this,” Frieda murmured again, slipping her hand into Romy’s own.

  Romy took a step and then another. Much to her surprise, there wasn’t any outward hostility from the children. Nobody threw rotten fruit, nor did they call her foul names. But they weren’t accepting her either. It was clear in their every movement that Romy wasn’t welcome. She knew it, they knew it, so why couldn’t Frieda see it—or could she?

  When they arrived at Leon’s home, Romy’s eyes nearly popped as she took in the large front porch. Her eyes traveled up and up again as she followed the scrolling trellises and gabled arches. It was something of a fairy tale home.

  Frieda pointed to a house across the street. While not as large as Leon’s, it was handsomely appointed and neatly kept.

  “That’s my house,” she said with pride.

  Romy gaped. She wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, but it wasn’t the mansions that were before her. The cottage that Romy lived in with Papa suddenly seemed very small. They had two bedrooms and a cozy loft. These grand homes had to have twenty-five or more.

  “Well,” Leon interrupted her thoughts, “my father said that he would purchase me some pastels. There are several different kinds, you know.”

  “Really?” Frieda’s face exploded with wonder. “Which one will he be bringing you?”

  Leon shrugged, puffing his thin chest out a little further. “Oh, I would imagine that he would buy them all.”

  Frieda eyed the colored pencils in Leon’s hands longingly. “It must be nice to have new art supplies any time you want them.”

  Leon feigned humility. “You know, Frieda, you are welcome to come and borrow them any time you like.”

  “I can?” she asked with delight.

  Those two words felt like daggers ripping into Romy’s soul. If Frieda came here instead of to the forest, Romy would be all alone again. Only it would be worse than before, because then she had only longed for a friend. But now that she knew what it was like not to be lonely, the cut would be twice as deep.

  It suddenly became too much for Romy. Hurriedly, she said, “I have to go, Frieda. I just remembered something I must do.”

  Frieda, caught up in the bright pencils that Leon had placed into her hands, nodded absently. “I’ll see you later.”

  Somehow, Romy doubted that very much.

  Chapter 6

  “YOU’RE NOT TRYING,” Frieda admonished Romy as she managed to mangle another curtsy.

  Frieda sank into what had to be the most beautiful curtsy in the world. Her nose nearly touched the ground before she rose back to full height, the motion as fluid as a dance.

  Romy groaned. “Why do I need to learn to curtsy? It’s not like I am going to any dances any time soon. Nor is it likely that a handsome prince is going to sweep the forest for a hobbit like me.”

  Frieda’s eyes narrowed dangerously. She didn’t like when Romy spoke badly about herself. Hands on her hips, Frieda replied, “I see a perfectly normal girl who walks around with a gigantic chip on her shoulder. I wonder sometimes if that is what causes your limp. It’s got to be maddening trying to keep it perched there all the time!”

  “Argh! What do you know, Miss Fancy Britches!” Romy grumbled. “This is pointless. I doubt you have ever had anyone accuse you of being ugly, or stupid. I know you mean well, but you don’t know what it’s like. Every movement you make is flawless. Listen, there is no point in trying to turn me into something I am not.”

  “You are far too hard on yourself, Romy,” Frieda countered.

  But Romy knew in her heart that what she was saying was true. “I will never have a suitor, nor will I ever attend a ball. No, don’t make that face. I know you think I am feeling sorry for myself. Frieda, I know what I am.”

  “You know what others have told you to be. I don’t think you have any idea who the real Romy is.”

  Romy sighed, moving to sit upon a fallen log. Frieda sat beside her. For a while nobody spoke; they listened to the forest sounds around them. Romy had always found comfort in the forest. It had meant safety to her. It had meant Papa was near. This was where she belonged.

  “I had better get back to helping Papa with the gardens.”

  Frieda shook her head. “Your Papa said that he had it covered. Romy, I can’t pretend that I know what it is like to live in your shoes.”

  Romy nodded, thankful that Frieda finally understood.

  However, Frieda was far from finished. “As for you never having a suitor, well, we have plenty of years to worry about such things. But any young man would be blessed to have someone as loyal and kind as you are. Maybe they can’t see it, but I do. I don’t like you saying mean things about someone I love.”

  Romy lifted her head. “You love me?”

  Frieda laughed. “Yes, Dummy! Why else have I come out to the woods day after day to play with you?”

  Romy’s thick brows drew together. “I thought you were hiding from your father.”

  “I can’t tell you how much you have changed my life. My father wasn’t always like that. It was as if he became a different person once he started drinking. I hardly ever have to give him the medicine now. I do love that you helped me, Romy. But that isn’t why I love you as my friend.”

  “I guess I didn’t think of that,” Romy replied. “Did you have a mother?”

  Frieda’s lips twisted with amusement. “I had thought that everyone had a mo
ther?”

  “Not me,” Romy said. “I was born of the crows.”

  “Babies do not come from crows,” Frieda said with a laugh. “I may not know much about the birds and the bees, but I do know that.”

  Romy rolled her eyes. “I am aware of the natural order of things. I do live on a farm.”

  “Then tell me, born of the crows, what did you mean?”

  Romy thought back to the stories that Papa had told her about when she came to live with him. “One night Papa heard a great commotion overhead. It was just dusk, and the stars were starting to appear. He came out onto the porch and saw a murder of crows flying overhead.”

  “A murder?” Frieda exclaimed.

  “That’s what they call a flock of crows,” Romy instructed. “Now hush, the story isn’t over. He saw a great black cloud blocking out what was left of the fading sunlight.”

  “Very ominous,” Frieda interrupted.

  Romy scowled at her and Frieda zipped her lips.

  “Papa saw a murder of crows flying over. There had to be a hundred or more. The crows were cawing and squawking something fierce, but that wasn’t the most shocking thing.”

  “It wasn’t?” Frieda asked.

  Romy shook her head. “No. What caught his eye was the cloth bundle they were carrying. It wriggled and moved as if something were alive inside. Papa was worried it might be a poisonous snake. He got his gun and followed the crows.”

  “How did he manage to keep up?” Frieda asked.

  Romy growled at Frieda, “I don’t know!”

  Chastised, Frieda motioned for Romy to carry on.

  “Anyhow,” Romy said deliberately, “when Papa saw where the crows had landed, he was surprised to see the crows flying away one by one. There was a cry from the cloth that sounded nothing like a snake. Papa approached the bundle and unwrapped it.”

  “And there you were!” Frieda said with delight.

  Romy nodded. “And there I was. A baby who was born of the crows. Papa has always told me that crows have a reputation of being bold and dangerous. They are adaptable and strong. Many fear the bird, but that is often because they don’t understand it.”

  Frieda nodded. “I don’t have anything so wonderful to compare to that.”

  Romy smiled. “It’s not a contest.”

  Frieda smiled sadly. “I had a mother. There was a time when my family was happy. Papa worked at the bank and Mama would take me to the park and teach me little things. But one day she got sick. I knew the moment they told me that something was very wrong. Papa never left her side. He spent every waking hour bathing her forehead and coaxing soup down her throat.”

  “Frieda, I am so sorry,” Romy said, not knowing how to comfort her friend.

  Frieda shrugged. “It’s not your fault. It’s mine.”

  Romy looked stunned. “You can’t honestly believe that.”

  “Why not? You were brought into the world by a bunch of birds.”

  “Crows,” Romy corrected.

  “Whatever,” Frieda countered. “Why can’t I be responsible for my mother’s death?”

  “It’s not the same thing,” Romy insisted.

  “You don’t know what I did,” Frieda demanded.

  “Tell me then.”

  “One day I went into her room and took the brooch that she loved to wear on special occasions. I clasped it to my dress and wore it all day. I felt beautiful in that brooch. When night came, Mama got upset, saying that her brooch was missing.”

  “Why didn’t you just give it back?” Romy asked.

  “Because when she noticed it was gone, I looked down and it was no longer clasped to my dress. I searched everywhere—my room, under my bed, in the garden, near the privy. It was as if the item had vanished from the earth.”

  Romy shook her head. “I am sorry, Frieda. Was she terribly angry?”

  Frieda cast her eyes away, digging the toe of her shoe into the ground. “I never told her.”

  Romy’s brows shot up. “Never?”

  “No, never. She got sick the following week and within a month she was gone. I should have just told her the truth. After she died, my father came and looked for the brooch as well. He wanted to have it buried with her. Apparently, my mother loved it because it had been passed down in her family, a bit of a good luck charm. Don’t you see? I lost my mother’s luck. I caused her sickness and later her death.”

  “No,” Romy insisted. “It was a terrible accident that I wish had never happened to you. But it wasn’t your fault.”

  “That’s not what my father said,” Frieda said in a low voice.

  Romy stilled. “What did your father say?”

  “He found the brooch in the bottom of my chest when we were moving. He lashed out at me asking why it was there. I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I had to tell him—tell someone—the truth. It was eating me alive. My father told me that day that I was responsible for what happened to Mama. If I had kept my hands to myself, she would still be here.”

  Frieda’s voice cracked and a tear slipped down her alabaster cheek.

  “He’s wrong,” Romy stated. “Your father is wrong.”

  Frieda shook her head. “It was a magical brooch. I didn’t know. My grandmother had taken it to the magic wielders when my mother was a sickly baby. They told her that my mother had to touch it every day to have the magic flow throughout her body. Don’t you see? I lost the broach. I took away the very item that allowed her to live.”

  “It was a horrible mistake, that is all,” Romy insisted. “Magic cannot take away what is meant to be lost.”

  “Was it?” Frieda asked in a sad voice. “Sometimes I’d like to think so. But I know the truth. It sits in my belly every hour of every day. My Papa started to drink after that. The more he drank, the angrier he became. I think sometimes he wished that I had died and not her.”

  “You listen to me, Frieda. What happened wasn’t your fault. You said it yourself that you mother was supposed to wear it always. Why was it on the dresser? We don’t know every side to every story.”

  As the girls hugged, they heard Papa calling out for Romy.

  “Romy!” Papa yelled.

  Frieda hurried to dry her tears while Romy frowned and tried to think of ways to comfort her friend.

  ‘There you are,” Papa said as he came into view. “Let’s get some supper on. Frieda, would like to join us?”

  Frieda shook her head. “Thank you, but I’d best be getting home to my father.”

  As she ran down the path toward the village, Papa glanced at Romy. He didn’t like the way she was frowning.

  “What is it, child?”

  Romy looked up at him. “I thought that magic was a blessing.”

  Papa’s brows rose as he considered her. “It can be. All things have the ability to be good or bad, child. It’s what we choose to do with them that makes the difference. Are you worried about your magic?”

  Romy shook her head. “No, just confused. When will I know everything like you do?”

  Papa threw back his head and laughed. “Well, the older I get, the more questions I have. So, if I ever get to the point where I know it all, you will be the first to know.”

  Chapter 7

  TWO YEARS LATER.

  “Well, aren’t you the most beautiful thing I ever did see?” Papa exclaimed as Romy twirled about to show him her new dress.

  “Frieda gave it to me for my birthday,” Romy exclaimed with excitement.

  “Your Papa has something special for you as well.”

  Romy took the package wrapped in sackcloth and tied with a simple string. It was small in size, no bigger than her palm.

  “It’s heavy,” Romy said. “What’s in it?”

  “Open it, child!” Papa’s eyes were bright with excitement, making his lined face look much younger than it truly was.

  Romy carefully pulled the string and watched as the fabric fell away. There in the palm of her hand was a necklace. The necklace was made of a sturdy met
al. The medallion was a dark opal surrounded by leaves and vines. On the very top was a raven with its wing extended. It almost appeared as if the raven were protecting the opal.

  Romy tipped the necklace back and forth, watching the rippling effect as the light hit the stone. “Papa, this is far too expensive. We can’t afford it.”

  Papa scoffed at Romy, tossing his hands up and shaking his head. “You let me worry about what we can afford. Why don’t you try it on?”

  With shaking fingers, Romy tried to undo the clasp. Unfortunately, her fingers on the misshapen arm weren’t as strong as the other hand. The necklace slipped from her grasp and landed on the floor.

  Romy bent down to scoop the necklace up. “Papa, I am so very sorry.”

  “About what? Do you think that everyone doesn’t drop things once and a while? Here, give that to me.”

  Lifting her hair, Romy turned and allowed Papa to place the raven necklace around her neck. A flash of heat as the medallion touched her skin had Romy gasping.

  “What?” Papa asked.

  Romy picked up the medallion, expecting to be burned, but there was nothing there.

  “It’s nothing,” Romy replied warily as she gently placed the necklace back.

  This time, the metal was cool against her chest, just as she would have expected it to be.

  “Do you like it?”

  Romy looked up into her father’s worried eyes.

  “Like it?” she repeated. “Papa, I love it. This is the most beautiful thing I have ever owned. With this nice dress and necklace, I feel like a princess.”

  Papa smiled so bright that the corners of his eyes crinkled, and he began to laugh. “My dearest girl, you have always been my princess. Now, let’s get you off to dinner, shall we?”

  Romy could hardly believe that Frieda had invited her to dinner on her birthday. Romy was excited to see the inside of Frieda’s home. In all of the years they had been friends, Frieda had always shied away from having Romy come near her house.

  Papa walked with Romy down the garden path and out to where the forest ended, and the city began. Forest folk didn’t often go into the city. They felt more at ease with the smell of pine wafting around them and the damp earth at their feet.