The Shepherd of Weeds Read Online Free

smothered in a savage pink.
    “I’m parched!” Ivy explained. Indeed, whatever potion she had been given had made her mouth dry and stale, and left behind the taste of bog. “Is there any water around here?” she repeated.
    “You little savage!” Mrs. Mulk drew herself up to full size. “Where are your manners?”
    “Sorry. May I
please
have some water?” Ivy smiled her most endearing smile—one that charmed nearly everyone—but itfaded quickly when she saw the look upon the woman’s plump face.
    Mrs. Mulk inspected this new, pitiful creature before her with interest. Flux had told her the child was a special one. But if looks were anything (and to Mrs. Mulk they were
everything
), there was some mistake. The orphan’s hair was wild and uncombed, her fingernails ragged and dirty. But the carpet she came in was salvageable. Wrinkling her nose at the stench of mildew, Mrs. Mulk decided it would make a fine blanket for one of the children in her care.
    The caretaker drew herself up.
    “Well, orphan,” Mrs. Mulk said. (She addressed all her charges thusly—even the invalids.) “Which is it?”
    “Which is what?” Ivy wondered.
    “Don’t take that tone with me, orphan! Do you have the power to heal? Or, is it like I said, that all children are born liars?” Mrs. Mulk challenged.
    Ivy blinked.
    The custodian noticed that the creature’s face had a strange pallor and her eyes were flecked with glittering gold.
    “All of Caux is clamoring about your supposed healing powers. ‘Child of the Prophecy,’ ” Mrs. Mulk scoffed. “You’ve got everyone fooled—but me. Those who expect the return of the old King will soon be disappointed, if I have anything to do about it.”
    “I am
not
an orphan.” Ivy narrowed her eyes at Mrs. Mulk.
    “Indeed?” She’d heard that one before.
    Mrs. Mulk turned to go, but as she did, a strange look passed over the woman’s face—a niggling thought of a lost opportunity.
    “Although … I am nothing if not fair.”
    “I can see that,” Ivy lied.
    Mrs. Mulk leaned in then, her ravaged skin and rouged cheeks aflame with desire. “I will give you one chance.”
    “For what?”
    Mrs. Mulk’s words were coming quickly now. “I’ll give you one chance to prove yourself. Make me young again. Use your powers and restore my youth. Do it—and I’ll free you. You, and that bag of bones that’s hiding behind the stairs.” Mrs. Mulk wheeled about, pointing at Rue’s hiding place. Rue stood, frozen and panicked, and Ivy’s heart sank.
    “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Ivy whispered. Even if she wanted to, she could not chance a cure—for every time she did, she found herself in her father’s Mind Garden. The risk was too great.
    “Just as I thought.”
    Satisfied that she had proven yet again that children were nothing if not worthless, the custodian stepped nearer to Ivy. Mrs. Mulk brushed her hands together briskly as if the entire matter was dismissed, and peered closer at the tedious, conniving creature.
    The child was wearing a tattered dress the color of agravestone’s shadow. Mrs. Mulk could tell that at one time it had been a desirable, expensive frock, the product of fancy tailoring and unique lace, and this realization caused a deep surge of envy to bound about her insides. Yet the dress had seen better days and appeared to be falling apart at the seams—the girl could obviously not be relied upon to maintain it. One of the girl’s shoulders was exposed where the dress had failed. An old family heirloom, she decided. Perfect for the Boil Pile.
    “You will tender that dress to me, young lady,” Mrs. Mulk informed Ivy. “The orphans in my home wear this.” She produced a gray flannel rag with a pair of armholes.
    “But I’m not an—”
    “Hand it over. It’s going to the Boil Pile.”
    The history of Ivy’s dress now bears a moment of reflection.
    The unusual fabric from which it was sewn is unknown, but its origins are not. Ivy received