Queen of Gold and Straw: A Rumpelstiltskin Retelling

by Shari L. Tapscott

  “And that brings us to that. Why did you dispose of them?” I whisper. “Are the women in your life so disposable? Have you no heart?”

  He stands, stepping up to me. “Perhaps I don’t. But I was never the one doling out the sentences.”

  “Yet you never stopped it. You let your advisors believe you were drugged and malleable, and you watched those women die.”

  Conrad shields whatever emotion is sparking in his eyes, schooling his expression with royal aplomb.

  I step past him, leaving him standing by the window.

  “Greta,” he calls, making me pause. When I look over my shoulder to meet his eyes, he says, “I stopped it with you.”

  A heartbeat goes by, then another. Without answering, I turn away from him and continue down the hall.

  I miss the wildflowers the most.

  No, that’s a lie. I miss Rune more than anything—so badly I feel as if my stone heart chips a little each day. Soon, there won’t be anything left.

  But besides Rune, I miss the flowers.

  I stand by the tower window, looking out from my usual spot. The glass panes are closed now, no longer open to let in fresh air. Snow flies in flurries, dusting the trees with white. It’s the first storm of the season, and I felt its imminent arrival last night—saw it in the clouds, smelled it on the breeze. If I’d been home in the cottage, I would have hurried outside, cut as many wildflowers as I could carry in my arms, brought them inside and crammed them into vases. Saved them for a few more days.

  But I wasn’t home.

  Perhaps Gerlind rescued a few, but I doubt it.

  Maybe those hardy flowers will live, shake off this storm, grow for another week or more. Or perhaps this is it, the end of autumn, the beginning of winter, a time of quiet contemplation and too little sunshine.

  Conrad steps next to me, silent as a specter, hands clasped behind his back as he too stares out the window. From the corner of my eye, I see him send a questioning look my way. He’s probably wondering why I continue to stand here, day after day. It’s been a month. One month without word or sign of Rune.

  The initial heartache has been replaced with anger. Why did he leave me? Surely there was some other way. He gave up too soon—too soon.

  A voice in my head taunts me, as it often does: Maybe he didn’t love you as you loved him.

  And maybe he didn’t. But I’ll never know.

  “Do you often leave the castle?” I ask Conrad without taking my eyes off the landscape.

  I can feel him watch me, feel the weight of his gaze. He’s asked nothing of me—nothing. It’s a kindness I didn’t expect, or perhaps he’s merely disinterested. Maybe there’s nothing about me that draws him; maybe he finds comfort elsewhere. No matter his reason, the king hasn’t so much as kissed me.

  By choice, I sleep alone in a tower, the place I last saw Rune, and Conrad’s yet to question it. Maids and serving men simply came in a month ago, changed the drapes and bedding for those fit for a queen, and that was that.

  “I do leave the castle, yes,” Conrad answers, his tone wry.

  “I’m surprised your advisors allowed it. I thought you might have slipped out that day we met.”

  He lets out an unexpected laugh, a dark sound from deep in his throat, but says nothing else.

  “Do you remember the wildflowers in the meadows?” I ask idly, my hand finding its way to the thick, cold glass pane. “The ones that bloom late in the season, when the afternoons are warm but the nights are cool?”

  “Not particularly.”

  And why would he? A king certainly has more pressing things to dwell upon than the weeds that grow past the forest.

  “Tell me about them,” he says.

  I turn my head slowly, meeting his eyes. My husband watches me, waiting, looking as if he has nowhere better to be than here, letting me ramble about flowers.

  “They’re a type of rapunzel, though inedible. The bells are deep purple, with wheat-yellow centers, and they have long, graceful stalks.” I turn back to the window and trail the very tips of my fingers over the glass. “They’re the last to bloom—the last of the season. My favorite.”

  “There are roses in greenhouses. Orchids as well. You can have all the flowers your heart desires.” He turns to face me, standing close enough I can feel the contrast of his heat against the cold seeping in from the window. “I’ll cover your room in petals if that’s your wish. Say the word, Greta, and it’s yours.”

  My heart tells me to walk away, stay true to Rune, wait for him to return. My head says he’s not coming back.

  I am alone. I’ve lost too much—my mother, my love, my freedom, my home. All I have is this young broken king, a king who acts bored with the world, too high to be affected by its often-heartbreaking realities—but whose eyes harbor pain, just like mine.

  Maybe that’s why I step forward, testing him, testing myself. “I don’t want roses or orchids,” I say. “I want rapunzel, daisies, grass, and meadows.”

  Our eyes lock, an unspoken challenge I don’t quite understand. Disconcerted, I attempt to walk past him, perhaps to wander the hallways and pretend I don’t hear the servants whispering about their new witch queen—the peddler’s daughter who spun straw to gold. But as I pass, Conrad catches my arm and tugs me back, right into his chest.

  My hands fly to his shoulders, and my pulse quickens with fear. His spice fragrance surrounds me, capturing me hostage as much as his arms. He’s solid under his doublet—tall and strong.

  If my heart weren’t destroyed, I might swoon. Conrad’s striking, undeniably dangerous…

  Mine, a wretched voice whispers in my mind.

  At least until he grows bored of me.

  “You don’t think I can give you those things?” the king asks, his voice low.

  We’re close, too close. I feel like a traitor in another man’s arms. Conrad and Rune are so different. Rune was beautiful; Conrad is handsome—too handsome.

  “What do you want from me?” I ask, my voice weary.

  The king clasps my hand and raises it to his chest, right over his heart. He watches me, waiting for me to pull away. “What do I want? Perhaps I want you to fill this emptiness. All my life, I’ve been hollow. And I wonder if you, the girl who can bewitch elves, can cast your spell on me.”

  I stare at him, my own heart beating too loudly to think. Then I whisper, “Broken things can’t mend broken things.”

  He lowers his head until his lips hover over my ear, so close I can feel his breath on my skin. “But surely they can try.”

  “I’ve given my heart to another, and he has shattered it.” I shake my head. “I have nothing left to give to you.”

  “Beautiful queen,” he says, lowering his head, no hint of mocking in his tone despite the title. “Who said I only want your heart?”

  Indignant, filled with righteous anger, I jerk my head up to meet his gaze. Conrad watches me, not the slightest trace of remorse in his dark brown eyes. One moment passes, then several more.

  Perhaps it’s the pain, the loss, the intense feeling of betrayal that has me wrapping my hand around the back of the king’s neck. Conrad’s eyebrows jump, startled by the contact, then his narrowed eyes drop to my lips.

  He’s a villain, the man who ruined my life, and yet, I’m moving closer, wanting, needing, desperate to fill my own hollow core.

  I push all thought and reason away, bury it with a lifetime of messy emotion. There’s nothing but now, this moment and this need to connect with another human being no matter how destructive it might be.

  And then Conrad releases me. With his eyes still on mine, he steps back, putting space between us. I draw in a sharp breath, grappling emotions I have no name for. Then I turn on my heel and walk for the door.

  Before I get very far, I’m stopped by an arm around my waist that pulls me back against a muscular chest. Conrad whispers, his tone deep and dark, “Lips to lips, taste and touch. Broken queen, are you prepared for that?”

 
; “Isn’t it what you want?” I demand. “What you asked for?”

  “I want more than sweet kisses, Greta,” he says, his words caressing my ear.

  I turn, making him release me. We stand close—so, so close—but we do not touch. “You’re my husband. Why do you ask for something that already belongs to you?”

  A crooked smile ghosts across Conrad’s face, making him look momentarily unburdened by the world. “When you come to me, it will be your choice.” He leans in a fraction closer, his dark brown eyes sparking with something that nearly takes my breath away. “When you are with me, I want my name on your lips, in your thoughts, consuming you. I will not share your head, nor will I make you a victim in your own mind.”

  I open my mouth, but no words come out.

  He nods, apparently pleased to get his point across. Before he leaves, I set my hand on his arm, a bold move, stopping him. Unable to meet his eyes, I stare across the tower. “You said ‘when.’”

  “It wasn’t by mistake.”

  And then he’s gone, leaving me in my tower, leaving me to my chaotic, tumultuous thoughts.

  Chapter 20

  The sun slowly sets outside my shelter. Dust motes dance in the rays of light that slip through the canopy of enchanted leaves, making the air sparkle like fairy magic. Outside, it snows. In here, it’s summer.

  I lie on this wretched bed, as I have for the last month, immobile and hating the world. I cannot count the times I’ve closed my eyes and fervently wished for death.

  Eva swears my spine is almost fully healed, along with all the intricate mechanisms that work together, controlling movement. I can move a little now, shift my arms and legs and feet. When the feeling began to work back, my appendages prickled like they’d been deprived of blood, driving me mad. I couldn’t move, couldn’t shift, couldn’t ease the nagging sensation. And it went on, and on, for days. Even now they prickle, but it’s an intermittent sensation, tolerable.

  But I’d bring back the maddening pain if it would keep my mind from Greta. I think of her constantly, her memory a ghost, haunting my every waking moment—and most of my nightly dreams as well.

  Eva has entered the castle for me several times, checking on the girl I love. She slips through, undetected, protected by the fact that the humans in these parts aren’t aware of our dark-haired cousins. The duchess says Greta’s vacant and pale, but that the new queen wears her finery well. She’s incredibly lovely for a human.

  But I already knew that last part.

  According to Eva, all the kingdom can talk about is how besotted the king is with his witch queen. They say she cast a spell on him, healed his addled brain, saved him from his madness while ensnaring his heart.

  It’s as good a story as any, romantic even. The people love and fear her. She stands in tower windows, looking out for hours, a vision cloaked in quiet sorrow.

  But no one knows why the queen is so morose. How could she be when King Conrad is on his knees, begging to please her?

  My sweet girl is loyal, I will give her that. And as much as that darkly pleases me, I break knowing she’s unhappy. It destroys me that I’m not there, easing her pain, kissing away her sorrow.

  I grit my teeth, shaking my head, trying to rid myself of the image, because that one leads to the one of her in her royal husband’s arms, head bent up, hair cascading down her back, lips waiting for his.

  He can have her, all of her. And some part of Greta wants him as well; I know it as I breathe. Perhaps it’s the uncanny intuition of my magic, or maybe it’s just that I know her so well. No matter how I’m privy to the knowledge, it’s a truth, a silver knife, embedded deep in my back, keeping company with the pain in my damaged spine.

  The light fades to twilight, and the dust motes cease to wink, their afternoon magic spent. Eva’s out, gone for supplies, she said. Except when she visits the castle, I don’t know where she goes or what she does. My family must be frantic, wondering what’s become of me. I have no idea if Eva has contact with them, or if she’s simply here, with me, healing my broken, shattered body without asking for anything in return.

  At least not yet.

  If my mother has taught me anything, it’s that elven women are nothing if not cunning.

  My stomach grumbles, and I realize I haven’t eaten since Eva left early this morning. Accustomed to my helpless situation, I slip into a dark, self-indulgent depression and allow myself to drift.

  I wake to the sound of shuffling snow outside the trees, of frantic breath and fear. The emotion is so strong it’s tangible.

  “Eva?” I call out, my voice groggy though I am now fully awake. I can’t rise, can’t pull myself from this forsaken pallet.

  Without my aid, the duchess flies inside, closing the hidden door behind her. Her hands fly up, and the silver glow of moonlit magic surrounds her palms and leaps to the perimeter of our sanctuary as she fortifies the ward.

  Her hair is wild, flying about her head, peppered with a few leaves and a small, rogue twig. Her chest rises, causing her dress to strain as she gasps for breath.

  For the first time since I changed a barn’s worth of straw into gold, I feel for my magic. It’s sluggish, weak like my muscles, but it obeys. A warm glow fills the room as I perform a simple light charm.

  Finished with her own spell, Eva’s hands drop to her sides. My eyes lock with her frantic ones. She straightens, reaches for her invisible royal facade and dons it like a well-made cloak.

  “What happened?” I demand.

  She licks her lips, resisting the urge to tell me. I can see her hesitation, and I take note of it. She looks down, brushing bits of forest from her gown. It’s not elven, but human-made, a handsome creation of emerald that fits her like a glove before widening at her hips and then meeting the ground in a graceful fall of fabric.

  Velvet, I think idly. Something Greta never wore.

  “Trolls,” she finally says, her tone so flippant I might as well have asked her about the weather.

  My frown deepens. Why are the creatures coming from their caves? We have wards protecting our borders—protecting even the humans’ border. They are not impenetrable, but they are certainly a deterrent. What has lured the trolls across the agonizing web of unseen magic that sears their flesh like a bolt of lightning as soon as they touch it?

  “Your Grace? Are you all right?” It irritates me in the worst way that after all she’s done for me, I can’t even rise to comfort her, to make sure one of the beasts didn’t catch her with a wicked claw, graze her with a yellow fang. There are few things we elves fear, but trolls are one of them.

  They are naturally resistant to our magic, and it takes a precious lot of it to harm them. Human sorcerers, with their blazing spells that lacks any finesse, are better fitted to deal with these particular vermin—even if they are inferior to us in almost every other way.

  I scan Eva, looking for wounds, but other than appearing as if she took a tumble, she seems unharmed.

  Feeling my gaze, she finally looks my way. Her face is composed, but her cheeks are as pale as her graceful neck, and her icy eyes barely conceal her residual terror. “I’m fine.”

  “Eva?”

  Studiously ignoring me, she walks forward, carrying a small basket on the crook of her arm. She sets it on our table and unloads its strange contents—two bruised apples, a misshapen loaf of bread, and a crumpled parchment of black tea with leaves escaping from a tear in the side of the package.

  “I had salted bacon,” she says absently, letting out a laugh that’s just about the most forced thing I’ve heard in my life. “But I’m afraid the trolls claimed it—it’s probably what attracted them in the first place.” She shakes her head, dismissing the whole ordeal. “I’ll have to be more careful with the beasts roaming.”

  “Eva,” I repeat, this time more sternly. But she doesn’t listen. After a month I’ve learned things about her: trivial things, interesting things, frustrating things. Such as the fact that she’s the most stubborn person I
’ve met in my life.

  Because of that, I do something I haven’t attempted in over a month. I grit my teeth, fight my stiff, aching muscles, and try to rise.

  “No.” Her eyes dart my way, proving she was paying attention to me after all. She leaves her things, hurries to my side. “Stay still.”

  But I don’t stay still, because my muscles respond. I groan as they protest, though it’s not the searing pain that I have grown so accustomed to. It’s the pain of disuse.

  “Help me,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “You’re not ready,” she pleads, her worried eyes fluttering over me. She looks very much as though she wants to plant a hand on my shoulder and push me back.

  “It doesn’t hurt,” I lie, though there is a shred of truth in the words. It doesn’t hurt the way she believes it does.

  The duchess sits back, her jaw tightening. It’s a formidable look. Regal. Untouchable. “If you can lift your arm and place a hand on my shoulder, I will help. But if not, you will stay in that pallet as I’ve instructed.”

  I’m already breathing far too hard, but I concentrate. Slowly, with muscles trembling, I lift my arm. Eva’s eyes latch on it, her face brightening with hope. “That’s right,” she breathes. “How does it feel?”

  “Humiliating,” I manage.

  And she laughs. The sound fills our tiny fortress. Her merriment surprises me so thoroughly, I lose my determination and fall back, feeling as if I ran across the kingdom without stopping.

  She leans over me, her face softening, her light eyes gleaming with triumph. “You are close now; do not despair.”

  Her hair—black, ebony—falls over my chest. I lower my gaze, my eyes fixated on the image. Raven hair, not chocolate. Blue eyes, not brown. An elven duchess who smells of rainstorms and spruce instead of a human girl who smells of wildflowers.