The Prince and Her Dreamer

by Kayla Bashe

  "Oh, Clara, I'm sure he doesn't want a lecture," her mother began, but Uncle Drosselmeyer shook his head.

  "No, go on, this is all quite fascinating."

  Clara beamed at his encouragement. "Besides that, the fact she's dressed all in one color means that she's like the Green Knight from Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, who asked Gawain to chop off his head on Christmas Eve and then walks away without a scratch on him. Furthermore, the fact that she was slain in battle, but was spirited away by a wizard to lie in a deathless sleep and will one day return to free her county? That's just like the legend of King Arthur, and how Merlin—or was it the Lady of the Lake?—spirited him away to Avalon, which in turn references the resurrection of Christ." She sat back, breathless and proud.

  Uncle Drosslemeyer raised one rakish eyebrow. "That was as good as a round of applause from anyone else. I can see you've been doing a great deal of reading."

  She nodded. "Mother and Father say I eat books instead of reading them, and that I'll read them out of house and home! Fritz teases me by saying one day my bookcase will fall over and I'll be crushed to death, but he's just cross because I'm too busy reading to play with him. Have you any books for me?"

  "You'll see," he said, and smiled mysteriously.

  With some people, 'You'll see,' meant no. With others, it meant yes. But with Uncle Drosselmeyer, it meant just that: a mystery. He was the one person Clara had never been able to predict.

  "Why don't you go say hello to Archibald?" her mother said. He was some distant relative about Clara's age, a third cousin twice removed, or a second cousin three times removed—she wasn't quite sure. Having no particular objection, Clara agreed, and went to greet him.

  "H-hello, Clara," Archie murmured. He had taken off his hat and was twisting it nervously. His red hair looked even redder in the candlelight, and so did his flushed face. "How, er, how are you?"

  Clara smiled, trying to put him at ease. "Very well. I've been reading a book about the history of—"

  "Nice day, isn't it," he interrupted. He peered down at her and shifted from foot to foot. The weather is very…it's snowing!"

  "Oh, it is! I love snow…I love poetry about snow. It's so poignant. Have you read—"

  "You look very beautiful tonight, Miss Clara," he said, reaching for her hand. His fingers were cold and clammy, like peeled grapes. Clara pitied his earnestness. Why was he so shy and awkward? If only they could have an actual conversation, she was sure they could be friends—she'd seen him with a book several times.

  Maybe she could ask him about that. "What have you been rea—"

  "Er, I really have to say hello to—nice talking to—you really do look beautiful, Merry Christmas!" And he scuttled away, getting redder by the second.

  Clara concealed a sigh. Boys were so odd!

  *~*~*

  "I have a gift for you, Clara," Uncle Drosselmeyer announced after dinner. He hadn’t made her wait long before solving the mystery this time. "It is a special gift, and I ask that you open it now, instead of on Christmas morning." From under his cloak—seemingly from nowhere—he produced a large box.

  Clara had been planning to slip away. Why had Fritz seemed so uneasy when he asked her to meet him later? But the box's wrapping shone in gold and scarlet, and her uncle handed it over so delicately. She peeled the paper away, unfolded the box, and stared in fascination at the contents.

  "She's too old for dolls," Clara's mother proclaimed.

  "Not this doll. She's beautiful," breathed Clara.

  For she was a perfect copy of the illustrations in her book of the Red Prince. Her solemn emerald eyes really opened and shut. Her mouth seemed a bit overlarge for her face, but in a charming fashion, and it quirked up just a touch at one corner as if she knew some splendid secret. Though her shirt and bloomers were sewn onto her soft cloth torso, the red wool coat could be removed.

  Clara exclaimed over every detail. "Oh, how cunningly made it is! Look; there's a tear in the front of her jacket, right where she was stabbed in the last chapter of your book, and someone's sewn it up again with the darlingest little needle. But the stitches are the wrong color red. As if it's wartime and whoever it was can't manage anything better. And those buttons—" She peered closer, gasped in delight. "They've got the tiniest version of the crest of the kingdoms! Look, that's her unicorn, and I'll bet anything that below it are the snowflake and the blossom." She rose from her chair, feeling as if she glided through a perfect dream, and knelt beside the tree where the light was better.

  The littlest girl cousins clustered around Clara, their dresses as bright as holly berries, eyes wide with wonder and longing.

  "Can we see it, please, Clara?" asked young Marie.

  "Yes, but be very careful," Clara said, handing down her precious gift.

  The girls passed Clara's doll around, fascinated. "Her hair is so soft."

  "Look at her boots, they've got little laces!"

  Marie handed the Red Prince back to Clara and ran to fetch her own doll. "Betsy," she said very seriously to the love-battered cloth toy. "Show some respect!" And she made Betsy bow at the waist. "Very good to meet you, Your Majesty," she said in Betsy's voice.

  Clara picked the Red Prince up and had her bow back, just the slightest nod of respect to an equal. "Likewise, Lady Betsy." It was different from the voice she'd intended to put on: lower than her own, rich and throaty, with the barest hint of a Northern accent. "And to you as well, Lady Marie."

  Odd. She'd always imagined the Prince's voice would sound more like flutes or windchimes.

  "Please will you stay and play with us, Clara?" another little cousin asked.

  "I'm sorry," Clara replied, disentangling herself from her doll's young admirers. "Mother wants me to mingle with all the guests."

  "Like the boys? Boys are yucky."

  Clara stifled a laugh. "I'll try to play with you later, I promise."

  The doll was the perfect size to hug to her chest for support—especially because the looks Fritz were casting her over dessert seemed more frantic than ever.

  As soon as she could, she slipped away. "Fritz?" she called cautiously, stepping into the hallway. "Are you here—is everything all right?"

  It wasn't Fritz who spoke. It was Thomas. He hadn't changed much from childhood, when he would accidentally shove her into furniture: broad shoulders, blue eyes, and a sneer like a cow scenting its pasture. "I told Fritz I'd break the limbs off all his toy soldiers if he didn't arrange for you to meet me here. Gullible young scamp, isn't he."

  "He was very frightened." She didn't want to come closer to him, but he pushed off the wall and stalked to meet her.

  Unconsciously, she took a few steps back, trying to maintain some distance between their bodies. "What is this about?"

  "Clara, you're beautiful. I want you more than I've ever wanted anything. Horses, fine wines, a villa in Italy—I'd give you whatever you wanted. Whatever I required to make you my wife."

  He sounded ridiculous, and she wanted to laugh. But the expression in his eyes appeared deadly sincere. "You barely know me—we've spoken all of four times in our lives!"

  "With a face like that, you don't need to speak," he murmured, his sour breath redolent of scallions and steak.

  The doll's porcelain head dug into her chest as he pressed against her and grabbed her face.

  This can't be happening! Clara thought. She stood motionless as his tongue repeatedly prodded against her lips. His damp mouth made her skin crawl, and she wanted to vomit. At last he drew away, breathing heavily.

  "Clara," he said, "oh, Clara," and tugged her close again.

  Clara, trying not to tremble, steeled herself against the possibility that he would attempt further liberties with her person. She wanted to cry out or dart away, like a rabbit running from a hawk. But he was so much bigger and stronger than she was. What if he hurt her, the way his fervent grip was bruising her arms? What if no one believed that she'd been lured to this alleyway on false pretenses? F
ritz would speak up for her, but he was only a child.

  She closed her eyes and tried to pretend that this would end any moment now.

  Suddenly, Thomas cried out. He seized the doll from her and dashed it on the floor, hissing with pain. There were real tears running down his cheek as he cradled his hand to his chest. "What did you do that for?"

  Clara had no idea what he meant. "I didn't hurt you. You're the one trying to accost me."

  "You've done something to me with that stupid doll. I didn't like the look in its eyes. Look, I'm bleeding! It's as if your doll stabbed me!" He showed her a large scratch on his hand, the sort an angry cat might have inflicted, with the expression of a hurt child. As if he expected her to kiss it better.

  "It's just a doll sword. It's not even sharp. How could you have cut yourself on it?"

  He gaped at her. "It could be infected! I could fall ill and die!"

  "That's no concern of mine. And you should know better."

  "But it hurts. You should apologize—"

  "Touch me again and I will scream." The words popped out of her on impulse, infused with bravery she didn't feel. There was a difference tone to her voice, the same alto she'd used when she'd pretended to speak for her doll.

  Her throat felt strange, but not in a way she minded. It didn't hurt. It made her feel powerful.

  "All right. There's no need to make such a big incident about it. You're really overreacting—you should have been flattered—" Still muttering words of dark foreboding, Thomas stormed away.

  Clara recited Emilia's speech from Othello under her breath until she could move without trembling. Then she bent to pick up her doll.

  One of the doll's arms wobbled in its socket. Prodding gently, Clara could tell the impact had jarred the limb, possibly loosening it.

  Coming back into the dining room, Clara caught sight of herself in a window: disarranged hair, pale cheeks. She would easily be able to convince her mother that she was feeling unwell. Fitz caught her face, looking pinched and drawn with worry, and she gave him a wan smile back.

  She was glad to leave the party and return to her own safe, book-filled room.

  Perhaps it was akin to the idolatry Abraham had scolded his father for, but she felt indebted to the doll for protecting her. "Poor dear creature," she murmured, settling down on her bed. She propped the doll up on a pillow.

  Small buttons decorated her shirt. Had they been there before? Maybe she was just paying more attention now. To her surprise, the shirt did loosen a bit; enough that she could wiggle the cracked arm out of the neckline.

  Humming a gentle waltz, Clara pondered the problem. Uncle Drosselmeyer would be too busy to fix the doll immediately, but at least she could show him she was taking proper care of his thoughtful gift. She used a handkerchief and put the doll's arm in a sling. That would keep it from falling out any further until he could make repairs.

  "A bit of patience, and you'll be good as new," Clara told her.

  Some dark curls tumbled across the doll's face. Clara tucked them back into her braid and stroked her smooth porcelain forehead. Except her hair ribbon had fallen out in the commotion, and the whole braid was coming undone. Clara took a scrap of lace trim from her sewing bag and carefully sat the Red Prince upright.

  "It's a shame to put all those lovely curls away, though. Maybe partway up. Like in the picture of the Red Prince's coronation."

  Except the doll must have been in storage for ages and ages, for her shining curls were one big snarl.

  "Well, we can't have that," Clara said, half to herself. It was honestly a relief to have something to do. Without a task, her mind would slide back to the terror of earlier, replaying muddled fragments of how his touch had felt. She didn't want to stay afraid.

  The methodical undoing of knots, the satisfaction of a job well done; the feeling of carefully working the brush through hair, starting from the ends and then gradually progressing upwards, until it fell nearly and shone: Clara had always found brushing a doll's hair incredibly satisfying. And this doll had such soft, shiny hair, too. After a while, she looked just as pretty as her portrait in the storybook. But there was something missing. The country in the book had either a warmer climate or shorter winters than England, for the Red Prince had never been pictured in anything more seasonal than her coat and riding boots. Still, as dashing as it looked, the coat wasn't appropriate for a freezing Christmas Eve.

  "I don't know how to knit a sweater, but a few rows…" Clara dug through the books until she found her knitting needles and a ball of claret-colored wool yarn.

  The completed scarf was just long enough to knot around the doll's slender neck.

  "In case Marie wants you to visit Betsy, or whichever doll she gets for Christmas. She'll think it's darling," Clara said. Perhaps it would appear silly to talk to a doll in such a manner, but just the imaginary concept of having a friend who understood her—who understood all the ways in which she was different—helped her feel much less alone. She climbed into bed and extinguished the light.

  *~*~*

  It was Christmas Eve, and everything was silent. From adults to children, the family and their houseguests all slept.

  Then there was a sound.

  On Clara's night table, the porcelain doll's head cracked. A girl's finger pushed through. The finger flexed—once, twice—in the darkness.

  A whole fist punched through the porcelain.

  Cloth seams strained, then burst as a body pushed forth. The doll's head shattered completely as a human head of dark curls shoved into existence.

  The figure—now fully sized—stretched, overbalanced, and landed on the carpet with a muffled thump. Looking up at the ceiling, Mathilde Aneszka Radegund, the Red Prince of the Crystal Kingdom, took her first breath in twenty years, and smiled her first real smile in twenty-three.

  To be alive—truly alive! Not as she had been in the hours before the spell, dying by millimeters as the world spun out of control around her nauseous body and her heart sped into a gallop towards its last beat, colors dimming and sounds fading away. Not trapped eternally in a state between life and death, able only to observe her movement from one pair of shadowy hands to another, to mouth toy food made of sawdust and paint and sit only where she was placed.

  Alive.

  Somewhere on the street below, a drunk sang to himself, cheerfully off-key. When Mathilde opened the window a tiny bit, the snow had a sharp, fresh scent. Wind chilled her falling tears, and when she caught her breath it came out as steam. She held her fingers to the window. The air began to numb them. The uneven seams of her wool socks itched, and she wiggled all nine of her toes.

  I have toes, she thought. Blessed be the Source of all goodness, I have hands!

  Although she knew to stay quiet in the darkness, she could have screamed, danced, wept. Joy rushed through her, flooding her body the way chill winter air filled her lungs with every inhalation.

  Then she took a few deep breaths and collected herself.

  I still have a kingdom to save.

  She retied the soft, cozy scarf around her neck.

  Only a human can free you with an act of pure unselfishness, she remembered Ross saying. Or something like that, at least. Mathilde gathered what memories she could: delicate hands sifting through her hair, a Christmas carol gently hummed. How old was the girl in the pink dress, anyway? Would she be all right when she woke to find her Christmas doll gone? The dust of time had clouded her doll eyes, leaving her with only impressionist colors: white-gold and blue. But despite Mathilde's curiosity, she couldn't linger. The Rat King could arrive at any moment to finish what he'd started all those years ago. She got to her feet.

  Except she'd spent decades as a straight-legged doll. Knees—how did they work? She fell forward, barely managing to catch herself, and stubbed her nose on the carpet.

  In an instant, in an intake of breath, the girl awoke.

  For a moment the two of them just stared at each other. But Mathilde, her head spin
ning more from dizziness than surprise, wasn't forced to find words.

  "What are you doing in my room?" the girl gasped. At once she sprung to her feet. The mattress springs creaked. "Leave at once by whichever window you came in through, or I shall scream!"

  With her bare feet, full-lipped pout, and loose curls, she looked as frightening as cotton candy. And even under her long, demure nightgown, the swell of her full breasts was easily noticed. She was clearly older than Mathilde had expected. And much, much prettier. Hardly an hour ago, she'd been cradling Mathilde to that flawless bosom.

  The girl flapped her hands, clearly distraught. "Haven't you ever read the Bible? Stealing is a sin, especially on Christmas Eve. What did you do with my doll?"

  "I can explain," Mathilde said hurriedly, struggling to her feet. She grabbed the bedpost and heaved herself up. The girl darted back, pressing herself against the wall. As Mathilde stepped into the circle of light from her window, the girl looked at her properly for the first time.

  "Oh my goodness," the girl whispered. "Oh." She sat down heavily and covered her face with her hands. The bed springs creaked again. Her eyes having adjusted to the darkness, Mathilde was able to obtain a better look.

  Long, pale hair fell over her shoulders like liquid moonlight. In her floor-length nightgown, she looked exquisite and delicate. Like a lily of the valley. Like a pink rose.

  She hiccupped, and her shoulders trembled. Was she crying? Mathilde wanted to hold and comfort her but would no more touch her without permission than shatter a Christmas ornament. She stood by and held her own hands awkwardly.

  "Are you all right?" Mathilde asked when she could bear the silence no longer.

  The girl blinked up at Mathilde, wide-eyed and winsome. And Mathilde realized she was laughing and trying so intensely to muffle that laughter that her whole body shook.

  "My uncle Drosselmeyer, who gave me you, doll—you, and the book about you. He was here today. I ate dinner with him. And I told him…how clever he was to make everything up!" She shook her head. "No wonder he looked at me so strangely. He must have thought I was being ridiculous."