The real Mother Goose

Mother shuddered, closing her eyes against the thought, not wanting to remember George’s hungry, narrow glance, his groping hands. Instead, she held out hope that the search party the King had sent out would find Artan and bring him home, where he belonged. Maybe he could clean up the mess she’d made, she thought with a bright flash of hope. She’d take whatever punishment was coming to her, if only he could be here, beside her, again.

Her daydream drifted toward the days-and nights-they’d spent together in this room, in the big four poster bed, Mother in various states of undress and restraint. She didn’t know how long it had been before she opened her eyes again, startled this time not by the noise, but the lack of it. Molly’s breathing was deep and even-she slept, too.

Cocking her head, Mother frowned, opening her mouth to call Willie, when the little man appeared, his brow knitted, his eyes panicked. “Mother! He’s gone!” She’d known. Even before he spoke the words, she knew.

“Jack’s escaped! I swear it was one of the cats who let him out, that female one, she’s so sly. Mother, he’s gone! Gone!”

“Call Blue,” she said, her voice as unsteady as she was as she stood. “Get the carriage. Maybe we can catch him.”

* * * *

The King and Queen were the last people Mother wanted to visit, and after they’d scoured the countryside for hours, she decided not to turn that direction after all. If Jack had gone after Jill and managed to get past the gates, his fate was sealed. There was no stopping what was going to happen, even if Mother showed up in the great hall asking if they’d found her charge. In fact, things would only be worse for her, she reasoned, for all of them. Better let things take their course, she decided, letting Blue help her down from the carriage, barely noticing him as she went into the house.

The house was quiet that night, and Mother insisted, in spite of Willie’s objections, that the cats sleep in her room. Molly curled against her mistress, licking away her tears, while Mother pretended she wasn’t crying at all. Things were fine. They were going to be fine. One way or another, she was going to get them all out of the mess she’d somehow made, although she wasn’t quite sure how, on either front. How had this happened? And how in the world was she going to fix things?

That night, she dreamed of Artan, of flying, white wings spread wide, soaring above it all. The reality of morning dawned far too soon, and Mother found herself dressed and ready, standing at the window of the drawing room-the curtains had been replaced, the remains of the grandfather clock cleaned-waiting for something, although she wasn’t sure what.

She wasn’t sure, until Jack burst into the drawing room, dragging a sobbing Jill behind him. Both Blue and Willie followed quickly as the youth stood defiantly in front of Mother, his blue eyes dark with fear and determination.

“Help us.” Jack swallowed, pushing a red curl out of his eyes-he desperately needed a haircut, Mother thought, apropos of nothing. “Please. They’re coming for us, and we’ve nowhere else to go.”

Jill, wearing only Jack’s shirt-he stood bare-chested and barefooted, his face cut, bruised and dirty-collapsed at Mother’s feet, still crying.

“I don’t want to go back there. Please help us,” she begged, wrapping her arms around the older woman’s boots. “I just want to be with Jack. That’s all I want. It’s all I ever wanted.”

Mother swallowed, blinking fast, thinking faster. She squatted down, cupping Jill’s tear-streaked face in her palms, and kissed the girl’s forehead.

“Mother will make it all better,” she promised. “Come with me.” They did. They all did-following her down to her bedchamber. Mother packed three bags, one for Jill, one for Jack, and another, larger one, for herself.

“Mother, can I ask-?” Blue frowned as the woman began to change out of her usual attire, donning man’s breeches, cinching the waist tightly, a man’s white shirt, certainly Artan’s and entirely too large. She tucked in into the breeches, pulling her hair back tightly before turning to Blue.

“I think you know,” was all Mother said, tossing the two smaller bags at Jack’s feet, along with a clean, warm change of clothes for each of her charges, who immediately scrambled to dress themselves. “Blue, three horses, please. The fastest we own.”

“Not the carriage?” Willie’s voice was high and panicked, and Mother patted him absently on the head as she passed.

“Not this time,” she murmured, plucking a dark wool cape from a hook. “Not this last time.”

“Mother-” Blue sounded almost as distressed as Willie, but she gave him a sharp look, her eyes flashing.