The
elderly, she had discovered by this time, were easily ignored. Merrigan settled
under an apple tree where she could see and hear the activity at the smithy.
Before the morning was half-gone, she was enraged at how the man ordered the
four boys around, as if they were slaves. If she was right, he was a fraud,
stealing their inheritance. Just like her kingdom had been stolen from her. She
had to bite her tongue not to shout a command to stop, whenever he slapped the
boys with the heavy leather gloves used for handling the hammer and tongs. Or
when he swung a bar of red-hot iron perilously close to one boy who didn't
respond fast enough to suit him.
"Hello,
Merrigan."
She
stiffened at the sound of that damp, warty-sounding voice. It couldn't possibly
be -- could it? She looked down, bracing herself, and nearly didn't see the
tiny, brownish frog sitting on a pillow of moss only a few steps away from her.
Thank goodness, it wasn't Veridian, prince of frogs.
"What
do you want?" She started to slide away, then stopped herself. She refused
to admit that the sight of a frog, especially a talking frog, made her
distinctly uncomfortable.
"Why are you scowling at those poor boys? Are they too noisy for you? Too dirty? Too ragged?"
"Not them." She could have bitten her tongue, to be caught conversing with a frog. What had conversing with Veridian in her mother's secret garden ever done for her? "Their uncle. I'm sure he's stolen the smithy and their inheritance. There's just something about him I don't like."
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