Toad Words(36)

She had rehearsed it so many times in her head that it came out as one long run of syllables—pardonmesirbutIvesometrufflestosell—and he was staring at the pigs with their panniers anyway.

“Eh?” said the farmer.

Snow took a deep breath and repeated herself, more slowly.

“Truffles,” said the farmer. “Oh. Aye. I suppose these are truffle pigs, then?”

“Yes,” said Snow. “Very—very fine truffle pigs. Yes.”

Greatspot lifted her snout and smiled at the farmer. Puffball kept his head down and tried not to look like a gigantic wild boar that could tear a field apart with his tusks. This was a losing proposition.

“Clever makin’ ‘em carry like that. Wouldn’t have thought you could stop a pig rolling. You want to go down to the middle of town,” said the farmer, pointing. “Cook at the inn’ll give you sommat for a truffle, and if you’ve any more, go over to Elias the merchant. He’ll buy ‘em to sell later, out on the road.”

“Thank you,” said Snow gratefully.

“Mind,” said the farmer, holding up a hand. “Go to Cook first, if you’ll hear a word of advice. Cook’ll give you a fair price. Elias won’t cheat you, but he’d milk blood from a turnip if he could. If he knows what Cook’s paying, he’ll have to match it, you hear?”

“Yes.” Snow took a deep breath. She had haggled with the peddler—although she’d been angry, so it hardly counted. The notion of haggling with someone else, someone who could say “no” easily, that was harder.

Still, she had come to the end of what being quiet and biddable could do for her.

“Thank you,” she said. “That is good to know.”

“Good luck,” said the farmer. “Keep those pigs out of my field, though, eh?”

“I will,” said Snow. She put a hand on Greatspot and Puffball, and they walked forward, toward the town.





The cook was easy. Even though she was very different than the cook at the castle, there is a kind of universal similarity among good cooks. She came to the door behind the inn, where Snow stood with the pigs.

The cook took a truffle, rolled it between her fingers, sniffed it, and laughed out loud.

“I’d take your whole bag,” she said. “All of them, if I had a king’s ransom lying about and could afford them.”

Snow, who was getting very odd looks from the stableboy, said, “Will you take one, then?”

“I will,” said the cook. “I’ll turn my husband upside down, until he coughs up the money. And I’ll give you a plate of stew while you wait, shall I?”

Snow reached inside herself and pulled out a smile.

“Make it three,” she said.





They returned from Mousebury long after dark, the panniers weighted with many things—flour and potatoes and bags of salt and great harsh chunks of soap. (The pigs were somewhat bemused by the soap, but willing to go along with Snow’s whims.)

Elias the merchant had been honest with her—there were too many truffles for him to sell in Mousebury, and he could not buy them all at anything approaching a fair price. But he bought half the sack, at only a little less than Cook had paid, and gave her the price half in gold and half in barter. Snow felt that she had not done too badly by her friends.

“Come back in a few months,” said Elias, as she tightened the strap on a pannier and tried to balance potatoes on one side and the flour on the other side of the very patient Puffball. “Come back and bring me more, and I’ll be able to take them out to the great summer fair. Then I can buy more from you.”

Snow nodded. She did not know what to say. Would she be here in three months? Would her father have come home? But how could she leave the boars when they needed her?

But the cook had said something before she left that had given Snow sudden hope.

“You know,” said the cook, scraping the last of the stew into Puffball’s bowl, “you know, if you’ve got some truffles left to sell, you might try the convent up the road.”

“Convent?” asked Snow, surprised.

“Aye. The Sisterhood of Saint…ah…bother. Saint something. Well, there’s only about a dozen of them, but they’re decent women. A few hours walk that way. Their honey is good, but their beer is better.”

“Thank you,” said Snow, taking her own bowl of stew. “I’ll have to visit. Which way did you say?”

A convent, she thought, as the cook rattled off directions. No one cheats nuns. I’m pretty sure there’s a hell just for that. I wonder…I wonder what they’d do if they found out the boars talked…Well, I suppose they could scream “Black magic!” and try to hit Puffball with a broom. He’d probably think that was funny.