Gemma looked to her father. His head was hanging, and he didn’t look up. Judging by his pasty complexion, he was still half drunk. Gemma snapped her eyes to her mother, the parent whom she had given her extra wages.
Gemma’s mother stared at her feet with puffy eyes and shaking shoulders—declaring her guilt as plainly as Gemma’s father. Gemma’s mother—whom everyone near and far declared a sweet, kind woman—apparently didn’t have the strength to hold onto the bit of help Gemma could offer her.
“There’s been a misunderstanding, My Lord,” Gemma said.
“A misunderstanding? You mean to say you cannot do it?” King Torgen asked.
If I could, do you think my parents would be living in squalor? Gemma thought. She took a moment to prepare herself, but before she could respond King Torgen continued.
“If that is the case, and your father has lied, I will be forced to order both of you be put to death,” King Torgen said.
Gemma paused, her breath leaving her.
Gemma’s mother made a mewling noise and started crying. The few villagers that were present exchanged looks and whispers.
“He has wasted my time—which I find to be priceless—and, therefore, must be forced to face the consequences of his lies…should that be the case. You are merely collateral damage, I suppose. One must set an example for the kingdom,” King Torgen said.
Gemma turned around, searching the villagers for a friendly face. Everyone avoided looking at her, and Gemma saw a dark green cloak she knew belonged to Lord Lovland retreat to the back of the room.
He wasn’t going to help her.
As the situation didn’t directly involve Lady Linnea, the Lovlands weren’t going to stick their necks out and bring possible destruction on themselves by drawing King Torgen’s attention.
Gemma would be sacrificed, killed by her father’s stupidity and the inaction of others.
“Gemma, Gemma no!” Gemma’s mother said as she staggered through the crowd. “I can’t lose both of you. W-what will I d-do?” she said, hooking her fingers on Gemma’s cloak and collapsing to her knees in a mess of mindless sobs. “Gemma!”
As Gemma dispassionately looked down at her panicked mother, she knew without a doubt that if she told King Torgen her father had lied, claiming the death sentence for herself and her father, her mother would not long survive them.
“N-not both of them, p-p-please!” Gemma’s mother said, raising her eyes to the ceiling.
Gemma ignored her mother’s cries as she weighed her options. Either way Gemma was going to die, but was it worth it to see her father killed for getting her into this mess as well? Should she say yes to spare him—to spare her mother?
“Well? Did he lie?” King Torgen asked.
Gemma sucked in a gasp of air as she considered her response. She loved her mother. Things looked grim, but just maybe…
Gemma glared at her father with her ice-eyes, hating him more than ever as she said, “No, My Lord, but he was mistaken.”
“Oh?” King Torgen said, leaning back in his throne.
“Yes. I cannot spin straw into gold because straw cannot be spun into anything; it hasn’t the right fibers,” Gemma said. Everyone in the room held their breath for a deathly moment of silence before Gemma continued, “But I can spin flax into gold.”
“Thank you, Gemma! T-thank you!” Gemma’s mother said, pulling on her cloak.
Gemma ignored her mother and stared King Torgen in the eye. Having just sacrificed herself for her father—whom she didn’t much like—and her mother—whose weak will chafed Gemma—she was not feeling charitable. Even though she was going to try and survive this, luck was not on her side. Only one person had ever evaded death when King Torgen ordered it, and such an order was a fairly frequent event.
“I see. And how do you do it?” King Torgen asked.
Gemma pressed her lips together before she responded. “The flax must be freshly cut from the fields, dried, and the seeds removed. After which—,”
“The plant must be harvested, I understand. Then, you spin it into gold?” King Torgen said, waving a hand to dismiss Gemma’s unspoken words.
“Not yet,” Gemma was quick to say. “The fibers must be harvested from the flax. The plant must go through the breaking, scutching, and heckling process to remove chaff and properly groom the fiber.”
Seizing the only glimmer of hope she had, Gemma continued, “Additionally, my magic must be performed away from any eyes and only at night. Moonlight must be allowed to shine on me as I work, or the results will not be permanent.”
Maybe Gemma could escape. King Torgen would surely demand a demonstration. With the limits she just set, he would be forced to leave her alone, at night, in a room with a window.
“I presume you would prefer to do the harvesting, breaking, scutching, and heckling yourself?” King Torgen asked, his voice oily.
“The gold would be of higher caliber,” Gemma said, kicking herself for not thinking of that requirement earlier. The longer she dragged the process out, the more time she had to think of a way to escape!