Queen of Gold and Straw: A Rumpelstiltskin Retelling

by Shari L. Tapscott

  For some unknown reason, I cannot pull my eyes away. Eva’s hair looks like silk, but what does it feel like? Would it be cool between my fingers? Soft? As smooth as it appears?

  I save the idle questions to ponder later and pull my attention to the duchess’s face. She holds herself very still, her lips parted ever so slightly. After a long moment, she pulls back, swallowing thoughts and questions of her own.

  “Where are your guards?”

  “My guards?” she repeats, standing abruptly, depriving me of the soft blanket of her hair. Her scent, however, lingers. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because they followed you like eager puppies in the castle, and yet you’ve been alone for almost a month now.”

  It should have struck me sooner, but I’ve been preoccupied with my own pain and selfish loss.

  Again, she won’t look at me. “I sent them back to Ivalta.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  I study her, wondering what she’s hiding from me. “Eva.” I say her name quietly, the way you would talk to a friend—a friend you can trust. I’m not sure how we came to this point, or why we’ve been thrust together, but here we are. “Sit. Talk to me.”

  She hesitates so long I’m afraid she’s going to resist. But then she lowers herself into the chair that rests at the head of my pallet, the one she’s occupied for many long, long hours, and smooths the folds of her gown. Then she looks down at her hands. “We had…a scare.”

  “What kind of scare?”

  I’m going to have to pry the story from her. I find it intriguing that I care. So intriguing, in fact, that I temporarily forget about my pain and focus on the worry in her eyes.

  She looks up, pinning me in place. Her expression goes fierce, beautiful but strong. Iron and satin. “Let’s just say there’s a man who wants to find me…and I don’t particularly want to be found.”

  “Who is he?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It matters to you.”

  “He’s just…” She looks away, shaking her head. “I was young and headstrong and so, so very foolish.”

  I want to rise from this wretched bed, do something other than lie here like a slug. “Tell me.” My only hope of comforting her is letting her spill her story. It’s agony locking it inside; I know.

  “His name is Marcus,” she finally says. “He lives in a village near our border. I won’t bore you with the details, but we had a ridiculous, whirlwind sort of romance. It was…exciting. Until it wasn’t.” The words are light, but her tone is laced with jittery fear.

  “Did he hurt you?” I demand, dread building.

  “Not…yet.”

  “He won’t,” I vow, realizing how ridiculous the promise is when I’m lying flat on my back, as worthless as a man can possibly be.

  She lets out a soft, incredulous laugh, her mind obviously following the same trail as mine.

  “Anyway,” she continues, her alabaster fingers stroking the velvet of her gown over and over and over. “I came here to hide, to use your castle as a temporary sanctuary so he might grow bored and move on.”

  “And here I thought you came to woo me,” I tease, the words escaping before I have a chance to think.

  Eva pauses, her eyebrows rising.

  My throat closes; my empty stomach knots. I don’t know why I say it. We’ve never traded flippant banter. How could I when I belong to another—another who pines for me just as I pine for her?

  The duchess and I stare at each other, both too discomfited to speak.

  Her tongue darts out, moistening her lips, a nervous habit. “No.”

  I tear my eyes away, feeling like a perfect fool. “But he followed you?”

  “I suppose he must have.”

  “And your guard?”

  “We brought a maid as a decoy. They left with her, rode toward the coast, hoping to draw him away. I wasn’t supposed to leave your brother’s castle until they returned for me.”

  “But you did.”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  She laughs again, this time the laugh less amused. “Your mother is…”

  “Trying.”

  “Yes.” A real smile tugs at her lips, though she wants to push it away. Too soon, her fleeting amusement disappears. “And I couldn’t bear Callista’s sorrow. Every time she looked at me and thought of the alliance, it was as if I reminded her that her arms remain empty—that the baby she has so long yearned for…might never come.”

  Another bout of guilt assuages me. I’ve thought of many things in the last month, but all of them revolve around my pain, my sorrow, my turmoil. And all the while, my brother and his wife suffer in silence, waiting for the child they may never have. Eva lives in fear of a man hunting her across the kingdoms. And our fair, dark and brooding forest is quickly becoming overrun with filthy troll vermin.

  I turn back to Eva. “Did this man, this Marcus, find you tonight? Is that the true reason for your terror?”

  She bites the edge of her lip before she answers, shaking her head. “I swear it was a troll.”

  It’s a half-truth, one I don’t understand. Does she speak in riddles to keep her secret? Why?

  “Your Marcus—”

  “He is not my Marcus,” she all but snarls, fire in her eyes. The intensity takes me by surprise.

  “I’m sorry.” I wrinkle my brow as I study her, fascinated by the new array of emotions I’m seeing in the composed duchess of the mountains. “But is he cursed? A were-creature?”

  A were…troll?

  Help us all if such a thing exists.

  Eva begins to laugh again, giving me a look that says, “aren’t you clever?”

  But she says, “No. He is most assuredly not a were-creature.”

  “But he’s not an elf, is he?”

  She stares at me, loathing the conversation. “He is not.”

  “Human?”

  “Yes,” she bites out.

  “Ah.” I look away, letting it soak in. Then I shake my head, snorting under my breath. “We are a foolish pair, aren’t we?”

  She sets a hand on my shoulder, a gentle move that makes me ache. “You are not as foolish as I. The girl you fell in love with is far superior to the snake I snared for myself.”

  “I don’t understand your fear.” I angle my head back, wishing I could turn toward her, irritated I cannot. “I felt your magic—you are magnificent. With one hand, you could have him cowering at your feet.”

  Her cheeks stain pink, the praise affecting the duchess in a way I didn’t expect.

  “Why?” I press. I’m a toddler, a young child, constantly asking her questions, constantly demanding answers.

  But I must know.

  “His magic is far stronger than mine.” Eva waits, holding her breath, her eyes filled with fear as she waits for my reply. She’s just admitted something far more forbidden than an elven duchess falling in love with a lowly human, something that would have my family casting her out of our kingdom, sending her back to Ivalta for good.

  “You fell in love…with a sorcerer?”

  She said she was foolish, but I had no idea. Though the union was likely innocent enough, if she had gone too far, married the man and had his child…

  Humans who can wield magic are troublesome enough. But a sorcerer with elven blood running through his veins? Disastrous.

  The punishment for entering into a relationship with a sorcerer is death. If she had been anyone but the king’s sister, she’d be nothing but a memory.

  And then another thought hits me, crashes over my head like a fat, spiny log. Of course.

  “Say something,” she begs me softly. “Please.”

  “This sorcerer—you say he’s very powerful?”

  “Yes,” she whispers.

  I meet her eyes, wishing I could shake her. Wishing I could pull her into my arms and swear it will be all right. “Is he strong enough to control trolls? Coax them to cross the borders and search for th
e elven duchess who ran away from him?”

  She swallows, her throat moving with the movement. Finally, after several heartbeats, she whispers, “Yes.”

  Chapter 21

  My mother taught me to sew at a young age, a necessary skill for a peddler’s daughter. But I now have seamstresses who make me grand gowns, who fill my wardrobe with beautiful, delicate things.

  Many ladies of the court embroider, putting their delicate mark upon swatches of fabric, passing the cold, snowy days chatting about subjects that seem inane to a girl who used to spend her winters wondering if there would be enough wheat to last until spring.

  They invite me to join them, but I decline. My own ladies-in-waiting trail me, ready to do my bidding. Conrad gave them to me, a gift of sorts, hand-selected by His Majesty himself. I think they’re frightened of me, terrified that if they somehow anger me, I’ll turn them into a toad or a pig or some other unsavory creature. Maybe if I smiled, it would ease their fears.

  But I can’t find it in me.

  We’re deep in winter now. Two months have passed since my wedding. Rune is a memory—a painful memory.

  I knew in my heart, in my very being, that he’d return. That he’d save me. But with the winter came the realization that Rune is a wraith of my mind, haunting me, making me wonder if I knew him at all.

  Perhaps I imagined him. Maybe I am a witch; maybe I spun the gold. My brain plays tricks on me, making me question if I’m going mad myself. If someone is slipping something into my drink, I wish they’d hurry the process along and be done with it.

  But I know better. No one is tampering with my wine.

  Conrad has been absent most of the last month. I’ve seen him only briefly. He doesn’t call on me anymore, doesn’t visit me in the tower.

  He’s likely taken a mistress. I almost can’t fault him for it. I’m a shell of a woman, older than my years and so very tired.

  “Your Majesty,” one of my ladies says from behind me, her voice high with surprise. But she’s not speaking to me.

  I turn, the hem of my amethyst satin gown skimming the floor, and find my husband behind me, causing my ladies to lower in dramatic curtsies. Despite the king’s reputation, they’re all in love with him. And who can blame them?

  Conrad’s in an iron-gray doublet today, one that brings out the ash shade of his brown hair and eyes. His boots are tall and black, and he wears his rapier at his side. He looks formidable, especially with his enigmatic expression.

  But I’m not frightened of him, not anymore. If he wanted to kill me, why would he wait this long?

  He holds out a hand. “Greta.”

  I study him, my curiosity piqued. Conrad never seeks me out. He barely speaks to me.

  After a moment, I step forward, my gown trailing behind me, and set my hand in his. His palm is warm, dry, and significantly larger than mine.

  He gives my ladies an absent nod, dismissing them, and then turns back the way he came, taking me with him. My hand rests on his, held just in front of us, a regal and rather ostentatious way to walk if someone were to ask me. Naturally, no one has asked.

  “Where are we going?” I finally say after several long, quiet minutes when I find I can help myself no longer. We make our way to the southern wing, climbing up a wide flight of steps that eventually narrow into a winding, circular staircase.

  Conrad glances my way, a strange, almost eager look on his face, and then he looks away, schooling the expression. “Up.”

  “Yes, I can see that.”

  Curiosity burns in my chest—and it takes me by surprise. It’s been so long since I’ve felt anything.

  We come to a stop in front of a heavy door, one with a large iron handle and a decidedly ominous feel.

  I turn to Conrad. “So this is it, is it? You’ve decided to off me in the tower?”

  He lets out an abrupt laugh that startles me so badly, I stare at him with my lips slightly parted.

  “Close your eyes,” he says, a rare grin spreading across his face. It’s like sunshine in the dark, a beacon in the night. My heart—that broken, shattered, miserable part of me—gives an extra thump. It’s a strange, forgotten feeling, new and guilt-inducing. But it’s there all the same.

  “Do I look like a fool?” I ask once I find my voice.

  “No.” That disarming smile fades, but it lingers in his eyes. “But you’re going to have to trust that I have no plans to ‘off you in the tower.’”

  I stare at him for several moments, more than a little hesitant. Finally, when he fidgets with impatience, I close my eyes. He steps behind me, and the door hinges creak as they open.

  Two distinct sensations accost me at once. The first is the sound of trickling water, like that of a creek bubbling over smooth, worn rocks. The second is a smell that hits me like a punch in the gut. I gasp as I breathe in the aroma of freshly tilled soil, herbs, and wildflowers.

  Other things slowly drift to me as Conrad nudges me inside the room. Warmth. Sunshine. The sound of birds fluttering in branches.

  “Open your eyes,” the king whispers from just beside me.

  I shake my head, my eyelids closed tight. “I can’t.”

  He chuckles under his breath, and his fingers splay at the small of my back. “Why not?”

  “Because I’m afraid.” The words are small, barely a whisper. I can’t explain where the terror is coming from, but it’s there. This is too much.

  Too much.

  “Greta,” Conrad says, stepping closer. “Open your eyes.”

  And I do.

  “Conrad.”

  It’s a garden, built right in the tower. On the southern side of the circular room, the stones have been replaced with glass, letting in the winter sun and trapping its heat. An enchanted creek ribbons around the room, through beds filled with grass, small shrubs, and full-size trees.

  And wildflowers.

  “It took forever to explain to the botanist what kind of flowers you were looking for,” Conrad says, his voice almost hesitant. “I hope those are right.”

  The rapunzel grows before me, dark purple bells on tall, graceful stalks.

  “I ended up traipsing to your meadow myself, shuffling through the snow, finding seeds from spent flowers that were dry enough to start. I couldn’t tell what I was looking at, so I found as many different types as I could. When they forced the bloom, we believed these were them.”

  I can’t look at him, so I stare at the flowers. “You went to the meadow and dug through the snow to find seeds to take to the botanist to plant, and then you had a sorcerer force their growth once they sprouted?”

  He gives me a one-shouldered shrug.

  The pain in my chest intensifies, leaving me nearly breathless. “Why would you do that?”

  Conrad turns to face me. “Because striving to make you happy makes me feel a little less empty.”

  My jaw trembles as I wake from the numbness that I’ve protected myself with these last few months.

  “I just wanted to see you smile.” The king looks down, studying the cobblestone path under our feet, and a dark lock of hair flops over his forehead, begging to be brushed back. “Specifically, I wanted to be the one to make you smile.”

  Emotion washes over me, painful and messy. My face crumples as I so desperately try to fight back all that I’m feeling. I stand tall, doing my best to staunch the tears, but they spill over, run down my cheeks, make me gasp for breath.

  I turn from the king, scrubbing the tears away with the palm of my hand, hiding my shame.

  “Greta?” Conrad asks, his voice worried.

  “I’m fine.” But I can’t ebb the flow. I haven’t allowed myself to cry, not once, and now there is no stopping. I wave him back, silently asking him to give me a moment.

  “I’m sorry.” He sounds anguished—dejected even. “I thought—”

  Before he can finish, I step into him, wrapping my arms around his middle. He freezes and then slowly, hesitantly, embraces me, pulling me close while I cr
y on his fine brocade doublet.

  “This isn’t exactly the reaction I expected,” he says, his voice wry but somewhat relieved.

  “He never came back,” I blurt out, unable to help myself.

  Conrad stiffens, and then his hand finds my hair. Slowly, he runs his palm over the length of it. It’s a stilted movement—like he’s not accustomed to giving comfort. “I know.”

  My father didn’t want me; I understand that. I’ve never been good enough, and I’m a painful reminder of what he lost.

  But I thought Rune loved me. I knew deep down, in the center of my very being, that he’d come back for me no matter what.

  I pull away from Conrad, tears running down my cheeks, meeting his eyes. “Tell me the truth. Did Rune try? Did you kill him? Or is he in your dungeon?”

  Conrad’s face softens with pity—a crushing expression. After a moment, he shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Greta. As far as I am aware, your elf never came for you.”

  I bite my bottom lip, willing the tears to stop. I inhale sharply through my nose, inadvertently breathing in the fragrance of the indoor garden. The smell tugs so strongly at my senses, I almost begin sobbing again.

  But I resist.

  I wipe the last of the tears from my eyes, straighten my shoulders, and look at the masterpiece the king of all Morgenbruch created for me. “Thank you,” I say, finally gaining control over myself. “Do you think I could spend a little time here? Alone?”

  “It’s yours. You can stay as long as you like and come as often as you want.”

  A bird lands on a low-hanging branch, chirping merrily in the heated garden, happy to be here and not braving the snow beyond the glass. I study him for a moment and then walk the path and lower myself to the ground, letting my gown surround me.

  Conrad watches me—I can feel his eyes. After a few minutes, he leaves, shutting the door behind him.

  I wake to the sound of water trickling near my ear. Cool stone presses against my cheek, and the smell of living things surrounds me. I sit up slowly, quite groggy. It’s dark beyond the windows and far cooler in the sunroom than it was when I fell asleep.

  Flames dance atop torches scattered throughout the garden room, leaving the space washed in warm, flickering light. Whoever lit them must have thought it strange to find the queen asleep amongst the wildflowers. I’m sure that will only fuel the witch rumors.