by Unknown
Promises and Pastry
by Melissa Mead
This story illustrates the main editorial difference between me and Marion. She didn’t like “recycled fairy tales”—in fact, that was one of the paragraphs on her rejection list. I, on the other hand, like to see new twists given to old tales, as long as they are well done. This story certainly qualifies.
Melissa Mead lives in Upstate New York, and she loves messing with fairy tales. You can see more of what she’s up to at her website, http://carpelibris.wordpress.com.
I’d just taken a loaf of rosemary bread out of the oven when the old woman appeared in the kitchen.
She looked like an old woman, like the kindest pink-cheeked, white-haired granny possible, but her eyes gave her away. They always do. All the Good Folk of our land have silver eyes, like mirrors with a fathomless hole in the middle, taking everything in and giving nothing back. All their magic can’t change that.
Besides, benevolent grannies don’t just appear from empty air.
“I’m your fairy godmother, Ella dear,” she said.
I stood there with the bread peel in my hands and a smile pasted onto my face, wondering what I’d done to attract her attention.
“I know how you’ve yearned to go to the prince’s ball tomorrow night, and I’m here to help you do just that.” Her smile shone brighter than the copper I’d spent hours polishing.
My heart sank. Yes, my plans had involved going to that ball. Through the servant’s entrance, the way I’d been sneaking out to do for months. Cook was expecting me. I’d slowly earned her respect through hard work and more skill with spices than she’d expected from “gentry.” For weeks, my yearnings had involved getting away from my stepmother and stepsisters and doing what I loved best in the gloriously-equipped royal kitchens. Had I really been foolish enough to speak them aloud? I was sure that my ostensible benefactor’s plans didn’t involve kitchens.
“I don’t want to be disrespectful, but I thought that the Good Folk didn’t like the word ‘fairy,’” I said, playing for time.
She didn’t. I saw her wince when I spoke the word, but her smile replaced it almost instantly.
“Merely a word, my dear. What do names matter? And I am your godmother. Your dear mother swore this when you were born.”
Worse and worse. What had Mother done? And names didn’t matter? To a fairy? Something strange was going on.
“Mother never told me about you, Godmother,” I said, careful to keep any hint of skepticism or reproach out of my voice. Saying “Where were you when she died? Or when Father did? Or when Stepmother decided to use me to replace the entire household staff?” could end not only my plans, but my life. If the rumors were true, it might even do worse than that.
I hadn’t been careful enough. Those mirror eyes glittered.
“You’re refusing my gifts?”
I didn’t know what happened to people who refused a fairy’s gifts, but I’d seen what happened to people who accepted them. Ida, the Squire’s milkmaid, had worn a real silk dress to marry her sweetheart, just like she’d wished. Then her husband was hanged for stealing the dress. The next day, they found Ida’s body five miles downriver. She’d barely begun showing.
“I’m overwhelmed,” I said, which was true. “I mean—to have someone as powerful as you just show up—I really don’t deserve this.”
“It’s your destiny,” the fairy godmother assured me. “You were born to marry the prince.
“Born to?” I had a horrible feeling that now I knew what Mother had done. And why she had died so young.
“Enough talk. This wish has been a long time waiting. Put down that bread, child! Your hands—what have you been doing with them? Such dark circles under your eyes—haven’t you been sleeping? And young ladies shouldn’t have muscular limbs, like some common laborer.”
I was proud of my strong arms and legs. Of my ability to heft full cast-iron kettles and churn cream until the butter came, and make the old iron stove heat evenly. My stepmother and stepsisters, who’d never cleaned a stove in their lives, turned up their noses at the sight of my sooty clothing. I didn’t care. I wasn’t the sheltered, ornamental thing I’d been before Father’s ruin. I had a real skill, one that stopped the neighbors from pitying my scorched and flour-spotted dresses and had them swooning over my baking instead. It didn’t excuse Stepmother’s cruelty or her daughters’ scorn, but it was a consolation I didn’t want to give up.
“Perhaps some other young lady would be more worthy of your gifts,” I suggested.
This time I had gone too far. The air of the kitchen crackled. I felt a pressure on my mouth, like a shushing finger held to my lips. “What happened?” I exclaimed. My voice sounded oddly muted and flat.
“Take your hands away from your mouth, girl. I can’t see your lips. That’s better. Don’t worry; the spell will wear off in time for you to say “I do.” And I haven’t done anything to you directly, my darling saucy godchild. I’ve just stopped your voice from traveling further than an inch from your lips. Now; be a good girl and let me make you happy. You’ll want a pretty dress, of course. Something pale pink. No, you’ve let your complexion go too much for such a dainty color. Blue, then. Trimmed with blush roses. And more for your hair. Look into my eyes!”
Startled, I did. Those otherworldly mirrors reflected back my astonished face, crowned with a pink wreath that prickled my forehead. A sudden weight of satin dragged against my body.
“Beautiful!” A full-length mirror appeared next to the icebox, displaying the whole frothy, lace-trimmed creation, complete with slippers the color of my godmother’s eyes gleaming beneath the hem.
“The slippers are my own creation.” She beamed. “Windows, as it were. No, not for peeking up your dress. Don’t look like that. They simply show me the area around you. The palace is such a big, imposing place, I can’t have you wandering off. And if you do, the thorns in your headdress will give you a little reminder to get back on track.”
I shuddered.
“Now, I have to go arrange suitable transport for tomorrow night. I suggest you get to work on your hair. It’s a disaster. You’ll have to arrange it more becomingly. I’ve laid a little extra enchantment on your washtub to keep the water hot, and left you some much better soap than that harsh yellow lump you were using. Until tomorrow, my little flower!”
And she was gone, leaving me in that absurd froth of a dress. My carefully-baked loaf lay cold on the counter, and Stepmother’s summoning bell was jangling at a furious volume. I stripped off the ball dress, wreath, and slippers, hurried into my other work dress, and ran to answer it.
Not being able to talk had one benefit. Once I convinced Stepmother and her daughters that I was ill with a sore throat, they left me alone for the night rather than risk getting sick. I scrubbed with my fairy godmother’s rose-scented soap (no sense wasting it), slipped out the back way, and ran the mile to the palace. The sun hadn’t quite set, and I hoped that Cook would be far too busy to notice my tardiness.
I was right. The other kitchenmaids teased me for smelling like a fine lady’s rose garden, but Cook waved me in without my having to say a word. The ovens roared at full blast, pouring forth roasted beef and fowl, and loaves of bread enough to build a wall. Two girls were pushing thick soup through a stretched tammy. Others stirred pots, chopped vegetables, and minced forcemeat.
I went to work on a batch of salmon pastries, without joining in the usual chatter. The others commented on my silence, but I just grinned and turned my attention back to the intricacies of working with puff pastry. My stepsisters would have berated me for ignoring them, but these girls, my friends, just shrugged and let me work.
I worked all night, and stumbled home to collapse on my cot and sleep like a stone. Fortunately, when Stepmother stormed downstairs to harangue me for ignoring her summons, she took my heat-flushed cheeks as a sign of fever and declared that no one was to enter the kitchen.
My fairy godmother entered anywa
y, of course. As soon as Stepmother’s carriage had rattled off to the ball, she appeared.
“Up, lazy child!” she exclaimed with false gaiety. “Get dressed! You only have until midnight!”
To do what? I managed to convey the question with a look of silent bewilderment.
“To win over the prince, of course! Your destiny demands that you both fall in love before midnight, or all my hard work will be for nothing. Your dear mother would be appalled.”
While she bustled me into that bouquet of a ballgown, I pondered. She wasn’t granting my wish; she was granting my mother’s. Her dearest wish had been for her daughter to marry a prince.
I wish she’d told me. Mine had been, for the longest time, to have my mother back. Now it was to get away. Away from this house, from Stepmother and her endless demands, from her whining, mocking daughters. And from the fairy godmother I’d never wished for.
I have to admit, her magic was impressive—and reminded me that despite her taste in dresses, my godmother was one of the Fae, older than mankind and more powerful than the prince, king and queen combined. She led me outside (and when I quietly tried balking, a thorn jabbed me in the forehead, hard enough to draw a bead of blood.)
At her command, a pumpkin growing near the house tore itself from its vine and rolled to her feet like a dog coming to heel. There it swelled and grew, becoming as large as a coach. While it was growing, my godmother called fieldmice from their burrows and began an odious transformation. The poor things squealed and shrieked as their bodies re-formed, their tiny substance stretching to fill an illusion of horse-ness. I turned away, nauseated, to see that the coach-sized pumpkin had become a coach in truth. My godmother, smiling beatifically the whole time, manhandled me into it. I felt as manipulated as the poor mice.
But as the coach rolled away, guided by unseen hands, I had time to think. The fairy hadn’t come with me. Something was restraining her. And what happened at midnight? If I could keep away from the prince until after twelve o’ clock, I hoped I might just get free of whatever curse my mother had unwittingly set in motion.
~o0o~
The bewitched coach stopped in front of the palace. I tried to steal around to the servant’s entrance. My crown of roses drew more blood. And this time, the crown wouldn’t come off. Nor would the gloves, or those treacherous, spying shoes. Or that overblown dress. Before anyone could catch me trying to strip off my clothing on the palace lawn, I steeled myself and entered by the front way.
A trumpet blast startled me. (Not, alas, right out of my shoes.) The major domo looked expectantly at me. His silence attracted more attention than a shout would have.
Of course. He was waiting to announce my name. But the fairy’s prohibition was still in effect, and I wasn’t about to press my mouth to his ear in order to be heard. I smiled and inclined my head, and tried not to blush as I descended the staircase into the gaslit ballroom.
After an entrance like that, I had no hope of retreating to a quiet corner, much less the kitchen. Young gallants swarmed from all sides, begging the honor of signing my dance card.
“Gentlemen.”
That one quiet word, delivered in a matter-of-fact voice, parted the whole crowd. The speaker strode past the men surrounding me, and studied me with frank curiosity. I studied him back. Yes, I stared at the prince. In this ballroom, in this dress, washed ghostly by the gaslight, deprived of my voice and name, I felt unreal. This other girl, this Not-Ella, didn’t quite exist, and could stare at royalty with impunity.
The prince’s mouth quirked up at my scrutiny. He had a nice face. Brown eyes—warm brown, like cinnamon. A quick smile. He wore the formal crimson and gold uniform of the royal family easily, as easily as I wore my baking apron. A silvery coronet circled his wavy hair. I thought it would have looked better in gold, to match the uniform, but overall he made a fine picture.
“May I have the honor of this dance, Miss?” He extended his hand.
I hesitated. Dancing with the prince only put me one step closer to completing whatever my godless godmother had planned. But my crown of roses dug its thorny claws into my forehead, and the prince looked hurt and baffled by my silence. I had no real excuse to refuse him, and no way to leave. I relented and allowed myself to be swept onto the dance floor.
“I’m Prince Theodore,” he said, unnecessarily. Everyone knew about the prince, and story of Their Majesties’ long, barren years of praying for an heir. Of their rumored meetings of sorcerers and astrologers.
And their longed-for heir was now wearing a coronet that shone like my enchanted shoes.
I stumbled. Officially, the Royal Family had nothing to do with the Fae. Fairy bargains were the stuff of peasants’ tales and nursery warnings. Officially, making deals with the Fae was a crime. A sin. The Church claimed that it involved selling one’s soul. Officially, no respectable person would do such a thing.
But my mother, a respectable merchant’s wife, had made one. I suspected I knew how Their Majesties had gotten their heir.
“Are you all right?” said Prince Theodore.
I nodded, hoping that no trace of my treacherous thoughts showed on my face.
The prince’s silver coronet winked in the light of the chandeliers. No, not silver. Glass. Mirrored. Like the shoes I wore.
The prince noticed my gaze. “Darn thing pinches horribly,” he said, guiding me through a turn. “But it’s expected.” He looked at me sidelong, as though about to divulge a great secret. “Sometimes, when I’m in a temper, I could swear it burns. Ridiculous, no? If I’m stubborn enough, it leaves blisters. Father says I’m just not used to wearing it.”
I shook my head, laid a hand on his arm to guide him away from the worst of the crowd, and signaled for him to watch. Then I turned my back on him and walked away.
The thorns dug in at once. I kept walking. They clawed harder. One more step. Two. Three. A drop of blood trickled down my forehead. Hiding it with my hand, I walked back to the puzzled prince.
“What was that all about?”
I moved my hand. He gasped. I motioned for him to be quiet.
He produced a spotless white handkerchief from his pocket. Gently, apologetically, he wiped away the blood. “Fae curse?”
I nodded.
“And your voice, too?”
I motioned him closer. I could feel myself blushing, but after all, he’d touched my face. I was only whispering in his ear. “Until I obey.”
“What do they want you to do?”
I blushed even harder.
He looked grim, and waltzed me back to my seat as the song ended. “Mother and Father won’t admit it, but the Fae really rule this kingdom. Even people who won’t bargain with them are afraid of them. They’re everywhere.”
I started to nod. Then I grabbed my dance card, with its stub of pencil, and wrote “None here.”
“You’re right. They can't set foot in the castle. Miss...?” He bent his head again for my name.
“Miss Ella, will you violate every rule of courtesy and dance with me some more? We seem to have much in common.”
I pointed to his coronet and gave him a cheerful “You’re the prince!” grin. And though plenty of young gentlemen looked disgruntled when we danced off again, none objected.
“Tell me truthfully, Miss Ella,” he said, the music of a rousing quadrille drowning out his voice. “Did you bargain with the Fae to wed me?”
Of course he would assume that. He was the prince, after all. And not bad-looking, either. Most girls would jump at the chance just to dance with him. I responded with a firm headshake. He chuckled.
“You don’t have to be so adamant about not wanting me. Was the wish your own?”
If he thought my other reply was decisive, this one nearly snapped my neck.
“Neither was mine. So; someone else made bargains with your life. Can they be summoned to court?”
I was surprised to find tears stinging my eyes. Mother had cared for me, sang silly songs with me, told me s
he loved me with nearly her last breath. Despite her foolish bargain, I still missed her.
“Someone you cared for. And they’re gone?” he asked, more gently than I ever would have expected from a prince.
I nodded.
“Yet the bargain stands. And you’re tied to me.” He looked grim. “I think the Fae may have found their way into the palace. Through you. You may not be looking to marry me, but someone expects you to, right? And those thorns will hurt you badly if you don’t. Possibly even kill you.”
Nod.
“I suppose marrying wouldn’t be too terrible. We seem to be getting along well enough.”
I remembered poor Ida’s waterlogged body, the catcalls and jeers from the streets on the day of her husband’s hanging. What fate would they inflict upon the prince? And his family. Whatever the Fae had planned, it would leave the kingdom without an heir, leaving an opening for whatever the Fae convinced the desperate townspeople to accept. This kind, gentle young man didn’t deserve to be their pawn.
I laughed a silent, bitter laugh, tears of anger and frustration pouring down my face.
“It would kill you, your Highness,” I whispered in his ear.
Prince Theodore glared at the roses in my hair. “And it wouldn’t be pleasant for you either, I suspect. But how do they know? This castle is warded against all supernatural beings. We’d know if one got in here. How do they know when you walk away from me?”
I held out a mirror-shod foot.
“Ah. I’ve heard that the Fae use mirrors and crystals to spy on people. They...Wait, the set’s ending. May I escort you for refreshments? It will be easier for us to talk sitting than dancing.”
The salmon puffs I’d helped make had come out perfectly. The prince had three.
“You’re examining those pastries as though you’d made them yourself and were waiting for someone to judge them,” he said.
I blushed, and at his encouragement, whispered my secret aspirations.
“Now I’ll have to try all your creations,” he said. “These are wonderful—and I don’t even like salmon! Here; have some.”
