Sunday clasped her shaking fingers together and swallowed the lump in her throat. He was definitely a man in a frog’s body, and he was sad. She couldn’t think what in her words had moved him so, but that wasn’t the point. She had touched him. Not just him as a frog but the man he used to be. A more gracious reply Sunday could never have imagined. “I am honored,” she said, for she was.
“And then I interrupted you.” Grumble snapped out of his dreamlike tone into a more playful one. “Forgive me. As you can imagine, I don’t get many visitors. You honor me by indulging me with your words, kind lady. Do you write often?”
“Yes. Every morning and every night and every moment I can sneak in between.”
“And do you always write about your family?”
Sunday flipped the pages of her never-ending journal—her nameday gift from Fairy Godmother Joy—past her thumb. It was a nervous habit she’d had all her life. “I am afraid to write anything else.”
“Why is that?”
Maybe it was because the honesty was intoxicatingly freeing or because he was a frog and not a man, but she felt strangely comfortable with Grumble. She had already told him so much about her life, more than anyone had ever before cared to know. Why should she stop now? “Things I write... well... they have a tendency to come true. And not in the best way.”
“For instance?”
“I didn’t want to gather the eggs one morning, so I wrote down that I didn’t have to. That night, a weasel got into the henhouse. No one got eggs that morning. Another time, I did not want to go with the family to market.”
“Did the wagon break a wheel?”
“I got sick with the flu and was in bed for a week,” she said with a smile. “‘Regret’ is not a strong enough word.”
“I imagine not,” said Grumble.
“And now you’re wondering what would happen if I wrote that you were free of your spell.”
“The thought had crossed my mind.”
“You might not come back as a man but as a mouse or a mule or a tiger who’d eat me alive. You might come back as a man but not the man you were. You might be missing something vital, like an arm or a leg or—”
“My mind?” Grumble joked.
“—breath,” Sunday answered seriously.
“Ah. We must always be careful what we wish for.”
“Exactly. If I write only about events that have already come to pass, there is no danger of my accidentally altering the future. No one but the gods should have power over such things.”
“A very practical decision.”
“Yes.” She sighed. “Very practical and very boring. Very just like me.”
“On the contrary. I found your brief essay quite intriguing.”
“Really?” He was just saying that to be nice. And then she remembered he was a frog. Funny how she kept forgetting.
“Will you read to me again tomorrow?”
If her ridiculously large smile didn’t scare him off, surely nothing she wrote could. “I would love to.”
“And would you... be my friend?” he asked tenuously.
The request was charming and humble. “Only if you will be mine in return.”
Grumble’s mouth opened wide into what Sunday took to be a froggy grin. “And... if I may be so bold, Miss Woodcutter—”
“Please, call me Sunday.”
“Sunday... do you think you could find it in your heart to... kiss me?”
She had wondered how long it would take before he got around to asking. A maiden’s kiss was the usual remedy for his particular enchantment. Normally Sunday would have declined without a thought. But he had been so polite, and she was surely the only maiden he would come across for a very long time. It was the least she could do.
His skin was bumpy and slightly damp, but she tried not to think about it. After she kissed him, she straightened up quickly and backed away. She wasn’t sure what to expect. A shower of sparks? Some sort of explosion? Either way, she wanted to stand clear of whatever was involved in turning a frog back into a man.
Sunday waited.
And waited.
Nothing happened.
They stared at each other for a long time afterward.
“I don’t have to come back, you know, in case you were offering just to be courteous.”
“Oh no,” he said quickly. “I look forward to hearing about your sisters. Please, do come back tomorrow.”
“Then I will, after I finish my chores. But I should go now, before it gets dark. Mama will be expecting me to help with dinner.” She stood and brushed what dirt she could off her skirt. “Good night, Grumble.”
“Until tomorrow, Sunday.”
“Sunday, where have you been?”
Mama was a woman of few words, and those she was begrudgingly willing to part with could sting enough to make eyes water. She took one look at Sunday’s skirt and answered her own question. “Dawdling in the Wood again. Well, I’m glad you decided to come back before the bugaboos made off with you. I’ll thank you to take that spoon from your brother and get to stirring the pot. He’s been at it long enough.”
“Yes, Mama.” Sunday removed the kerchief from her hair and slid her book into the pocket of her pinafore.
“Thanks, Sunday!” Trix happily handed over the spoon and scampered off to meet Papa, Peter, and Saturday at the edge of the Wood, at the end of their workday, just like he always did.
For all that he was two years her senior, Trix looked and acted like he had stopped aging at twelve. His fey blood kept him from growing at the same rate as his foster siblings—ultimately, he’d outlive them all. His blood was also the reason he was allowed to tend the cows but never milk them. Trix had a way with animals, but milk from his bucket was always sour. And if Trix stirred a pot for too long, the stew would be... different. The outcome was never the same. The first time, the stew tasted of the finest venison, with seasoned potatoes and wild mushrooms. The second time, it stank of vinegar. Mama never let Trix stir the pot for too long after that. She said the family didn’t have enough food to go gambling it away, no matter how delicious the end result might be. Mama only ever bet on a sure thing.
Sunday worked the spoon absent-mindedly as she dreamt, scraping the bottom after every three turns. Mama checked on the bread in the oven. Friday set the table.
Most of Friday’s dark hair was caught up into a knot, but several curls escaped, much like the halo of iron gray snakes around Mama’s head. Friday had been mending—the straight pins in a row down the length of her sleeve gave her away—and she was wearing one of the patchwork skirts Sunday loved so much. Friday was deft with her needle, her own nameday gift from Fairy Godmother Joy. The fabric stallkeepers at the market gave their rags and remnants to the church in lieu of their tithe, and the church in turn gave them to Friday, along with measurements of any newly orphaned children and what articles of clothing they needed most. In return Friday kept whatever small pieces were left. Eventually, those pieces made up Friday’s multicolored skirts. They were Sunday’s favorite not just because they were so beautiful and lively, but because they were the result of many long hours spent toiling for the love of children her sister might never know.
“Go fetch Wednesday down from the tower,” Mama told Friday as she set down the last fork. “Your father will be home any second.”
Papa walked in the door as if on command, followed by a very weary Peter and a flushed and bright-eyed Saturday. Sunday imagined that on the verge of death, her workaholic sister would still be flushed and bright-eyed.