by Anna Mendell
Rosa glared, and Prince Stefan looked down at his son sharply. Catching his father’s look, the smile disappeared from Edmund’s face, and Rosa felt positively smug.
ROSA went back to her room and took out her godmother’s mirror. Even though she knew she was only growing uglier, she couldn’t help but stare with fascination at her own reflection. She observed with a sort of grim satisfaction her goblin-self gaping back at her.
“This is what they all want me to look like. Mother, father, Alice, and Edmund,” she muttered. “Well, I am just giving them what they want.”
Her eyes widened in the mirror. Behind her, in the mirror’s reflection, was the most beautiful person she had ever seen: a young girl glowing with a serene smile and a gentle beauty. Rosa whirled about in amazement, but the beautiful girl was gone. Instead, there stood a little kitchen girl, so plain and inconspicuous that she must often pass in and out of rooms without anyone noticing.
The kitchen girl curtseyed and said in a nervous voice, “Alice wunder’d if you wanted somethin’ sweet brought up while she’s in the kitchens, your highness.”
A hot wave of anger flashed over Rosa. How dare this plain girl, this kitchen girl, be so beautiful when she, the princess, looked like a monster! Before she realized what she was doing, Rosa had flung the mirror straight at the kitchen girl’s head.
The very instant the mirror left her fingers, Rosa wished she could take it back. She froze in dismay, watching the mirror fly through the air, its sharp corner gashing the kitchen girl’s cheek.
Then it struck the floor behind her, shattering to pieces.
THE BLOOD WELLED, and a thin, long stream dripped from the jagged cut on the kitchen girl’s face. A loud sob of horror burst from Rosa’s chest. A sudden rush of wind stirred behind her. Rosa spun around. Her godmother stood before her, a grave look on her face.
The Green Lady glided over to the kitchen girl and brushed her hand over the girl’s cheek. The blood disappeared, but there remained a long, red scar traced on the girl’s face.
“Godmother,” Rosa sobbed in relief. “Thank goodness you have come.” Shame overwhelmed her, but she tentatively stepped forward. “I didn’t mean to. Can you make the scar go away?” she pleaded.
The faerie lady looked down at her sternly. “No, princess. I am able to heal her wound, but I cannot undo what you have done. Her scar will remain.”
“But the one with a scar should be me,” the princess cried. “She is so beautiful, and I am so ugly. She doesn’t deserve the scar. Can’t you give it to me, or else give me one like it?”
“What’re you saying?” The kitchen girl fell on her knees, flinging her arms around Rosa. “You dear princess, I’m all right. The scar won’t bother me a bit. I am plain, and no one notices me. But you are the most beautiful princess I have ever seen. I would feel so much worse if you had a scar.”
Rosa touched the girl’s cheek and looked with wonder into her eyes. “You are wrong,” she said quietly. “You are more beautiful than I could ever be.”
As the days passed, Rosa found out that the kitchen girl’s name was Edwina. Though only a few years older than the princess, the girl had been working in the kitchens since she could first walk. Rosa took to following the kitchen girl about, casting wistful glances at her from the garden, loitering before the door to the kitchens, only to be shooed back upstairs by Alice or the imposing head cook.
Rosa’s loneliness must have touched Edwina’s heart, for, one day, when Rosa was all alone in the cloistered garden, Edwina snuck away from her duties to sit beside the princess and take her hand.
“Oh, thank you,” cried Rosa. “You have forgiven me. You don’t know how much I want to be friends. But I daren’t, for I am afraid that you must hate me.”
“But didn’t I tell you, princess. I don’t really mind about my looks.”
Rosa shook her head in disbelief, but pressed Edwina’s hand tightly. “We are going to be friends, you and I. I wish to make you my handmaid, would you mind?”
“Oh no, princess!” Edwina cried, “A kitchen girl can’t be a handmaid. It’s too much an honor.”
“Oh, please,” Rosa said. “My father does not refuse me anything I ask, so you can be my handmaid if you choose. I haven’t a single friend in the castle besides Alice, and she’s bossy.”
Something in Rosa’s eyes, in the insistent pressure of her hand, must have convinced Edwina that the princess truly did mean what she said.
“Very well, princess,” she answered, “I’ll be your handmaid.”
Rosa threw her arms around Edwina and squeezed her so tight that she caused her to giggle in embarrassment.
From then on, the kitchen girl stayed with Rosa at all times. At first, the king and queen tried to convince Rosa that a kitchen girl was not appropriate company for a princess, but in the end they allowed Edwina to become her handmaid. Rosa suspected that her parents gave in so easily because they assumed that she would soon tire of her new friend. But Rosa did not tire of Edwina, and soon the king and queen begrudgingly admitted to her that she was better behaved since she had adopted her new handmaid. If Rosa was ever tempted to fall into a passion, the livid scar on Edwina’s cheek was a constant reminder of the consequences of her rages.
Rosa also resumed her lessons with Mercurius and insisted that Edwina join her. Mercurius took on his additional pupil without comment and taught Edwina her letters, while Rosa began the task anew of copying out the ancient scroll.
Now Rosa transcribed without complaint and, after a few days, she began to find beauty in the mysteriously painted symbols, picking up patterns and relations between them as she painstakingly copied them out. She wished she could understand the story they told, for she saw that the symbols spoke, but she had no key to unlock their hidden meaning.
One day, while Rosa was patiently working, Mercurius’ low voice whispered behind her, “You are ready now, Princess Rosamund, I will teach you how to speak the old tongue of the kingdom’s founding.”
In the lessons that followed, he taught her how to speak in the old tongue: a musical language that flowed like river-water. As the weeks went by, the elusive meaning hidden in the manuscript unfurled before her, and Rosa’s heart skipped a beat when she spotted a tall figure wearing a large golden crown painted beside one of the large, introductory symbols in the manuscript.
“This passage,” Mercurius was explaining, “describes the binding of the faerie guardians to the king during the coronation ceremony. They promise to forever bestow seven gifts to the heirs of the golden throne. Do you see the verb here? It implies reciprocity: both the king and the faerie are bound by the same promise.”
“Is this the Golden King whose stories the Green Lady told me by the fireside?” Rosa asked in fascination.
Mercurius cleared his throat. “If by the Green Lady you mean one of your faerie godparents, I cannot say. The Golden King is a mythical figure, and many stories are told of him. Scholars speculate that the figure of the Golden King refers to the first three kings of Aurlia, and their stories are often confused. We do know, however, that, if we compare this manuscript to other early historical sources, we discover that it is with the third golden king, Lyr, that the faerie pact of seven gifts is made.”
“You said that both the king and the faerie are bound by the same promise. What did the king promise to do?”
Mercurius dropped his eyes. “This passage does not say. Perhaps you will find out further along in the manuscript.”
Rosa complained to Edwina when they left the library. “I wish he would just tell me everything he knows instead of making me wait until I read it in the scroll. It takes me so long to merely write out the manuscript, much less translate it.”
“I don’t think it’s taking you long at all, princess!” Edwina exclaimed. “It’s only been about a month, and you are already translating complicated passages in a foreign tongue. You must learn to be patient.”
“Humph!” said the princess.
/> The next day was a great feast day and the longest night of the year. The outside was dark, with roaring winds and a heavy snowfall, but Rosa and Edwina were kept warm snuggled their furs, playing a game of tokens and dice beside the great hall fire. Luck was favoring Edwina, when they were interrupted by a load banging at the castle gate.
The girls watched the guard let a stranger into the hall. His brown hair was streaked with grey, the cloak wrapped around his form was damp and powdered with snow, and he bore a large strangely-shaped case on his back. The stranger spoke privately with the guard on duty, who directed him to the west side of the castle, toward the servants’ quarters and away from the royal chambers.
As the stranger passed the two girls, he bowed deeply. Rosa saw that he had mournful brown eyes with a twinkle in them and a mysterious smile with the ghost of a frown.
After he was gone, Rosa asked who he was.
“He is a traveling minstrel seeking shelter from the storm,” one of the guards replied.
Rosa turned with excitement to Edwina. “Oh, how lucky he has come! I remember there once were minstrels at the court when I was a very little girl, but they used to make my mother cry, and it has been a long time since any have visited us.”
The two girls dashed up the stairs to tell Alice the news and prepare for the evening’s feast.
THE princess and her handmaid sat together at the banquet table. Rosa dressed in the color of her namesake, and Edwina was in golden yellow. Near the end of the meal, the minstrel stepped forward, drawing the court’s attention. He strummed his lute and bowed deeply to the king and queen, but, as he looked at the king, the twinkle disappeared from his eye.
“A tale of love,” he announced, “to win the hearts of gentle ladies. I will sing of the Golden King when he was young and did not know he bore the burden of the golden crown upon his head, for his father had but just died, while he was away on a long journey. I will tell how he chanced upon a faerie garden and so won the hand of his faerie queen. I sing this song to you, O queen most fair.”
The minstrel bowed before Queen Eleanor, and, as the firelight cast flickering shadows on the queen’s dark hair, Rosa saw that her mother was still a beautiful woman. The minstrel’s fingers plucked and danced over the strings of his wooden instrument, and he sang in a voice as pure as water that tripped over the mountain rocks.
A faerie lady sat in her silveréd garden.
The night called the soft breeze
that shook the silver apples in the trees.
In her silver pool shone the white moon.
She sighed because
everything rose and everything fell
and she always stayed the same.
A white lily grew in her silveréd garden
by her silver pool under the moon.
She cried because tomorrow it would wither.
The wind was cold and made her shiver.
She sighed because
everything rose and everything fell
and everything stayed the same.
The king found the silveréd garden
and rested from his long wandering,
seeking the song that sings unchanging.
He gazed at the moon in the silver pool.
He sighed because
everything rose and everything fell
and nothing stayed the same.
The lady saw the king in her silveréd garden
beside the pool under the white moon.
She saw the golden sun shine in his hair,
heard the stars sing their music in the air.
She sighed because
everything rose and everything fell
and she no longer was the same.
The king saw the lady in her silveréd garden
fair as the moon shining in the silver pool.
Their hands did reach, and meet, and clasp.
Nevermore did he wish to be free of their grasp.
He sighed because
everything rose and everything fell
and he found something that would stay the same.
The king and the lady left the silveréd garden,
left the silver apples in the trees,
Their laughter carried in the summer breeze.
They bid farewell to the moon shining in the silver pool.
They sighed because
everything rose and everything fell
and together they would be the same.
The minstrel’s final note echoed into the silence. Unshed tears shone bright in the queen’s eyes, and she ended the silence with her gracious applause. Rosa’s gaze had never once left the minstrel, and she felt that his music woke a secret yearning deep within her.
The king rose. “Minstrel, tell us your name.”
“Neirin. I have traveled far and wide to sing at your majesties’ court.”
“You have pleased us,” the king said, “and you have a place at our royal table for as long as you so wish. And in return, you shall delight us with your music.”
The minstrel bowed again, and the rest of the court musicians struck up their instruments as the king and queen began the dancing. Alice took Rosa and Edwina up to their rooms, since they were still too young to dance. Rosa cast a lingering glance back at the minstrel and saw that he was looking at her and that the twinkle had returned to his mournful eyes.
THE winter days passed hard and cold and with no new snowfall, but the chill was banished whenever Rosa, Alice, and Edwina gathered together before the fireplace in the great hall to listen to Neirin sing enchanting stories to them in a voice that made you remember things you never knew you had forgotten, a voice half happy and half sad.
Once Rosa drifted to sleep with her head resting on Alice’s shoulder, and when she jerked awake, she glimpsed her mother watching her from the door. There was a strange expression on her mother’s face. Rosa could not tell if it was wistful, or even a little sad. But the expression disappeared as soon as the queen became aware that Rosa had caught sight of her, and she left swiftly in a rustle of silks.
THE snow began to melt, and the spring thaw set in, though still the air smelled of winter. Rosa was summoned to her parent’s chambers. She entered their rooms nervously, wondering if she had done anything wrong.
“How would you feel about going to the summer palace with your mother?” the king was saying. “It’s a little early yet, but it has been a long winter. I cannot leave the castle or move the court as there is much here that needs my attention, but that does not mean that you and the queen cannot enjoy some quiet away from our royal affairs.”
“Really, truly, mother?” Rosa asked. A blossom of joy flowered within her that made her so happy she could barely speak. She threw her arms around her mother.
“Now, Rosa, please don’t carry on so. You know I don’t like it.”
Rosa quickly let go, frightened she might accidently threaten her sudden and unsought happiness. She had never spent time alone with her mother before, and she would rather die than do something to change the queen’s mind.
Rosa counted each day that led to their departure. The royal carriage was outfitted with cushions and blankets, and an entourage of courtiers and handmaids were to accompany them. The only thing that marred her happiness was that Edwina was not going with them. Since Rosa was leaving for the summer palace, Edwina asked for permission to stay behind and help her mother, who had just had another baby. Rosa had felt that it would have been selfish to refuse, and she also wanted Edwina to be as happy as she was.
THE night before their planned departure, Rosa was called to the queen’s rooms. Queen Eleanor was reclining on her couch with her hand to her head when the princess entered. The king stood gravely apart, and Rosa went up to him anxiously.
“Is mother ill?”
He patted her head reassuringly. “Don’t you worry, dear. Your mother is all right. It is only that she will not be able to make the journey with you tomorrow. I want you to go on as planned, and your mot
her will catch up with you shortly.”
Rosa felt her heart grow still. She approached her mother and knelt by her side. “Is it true?” she whispered.
The queen’s voice was nasally with irritation, “Not now, Rosa.”
“I will wait for you. We can go together.”
“Do not disturb me, Rosa. You heard your father. I will join you when I am ready.”
“No. You will not come at all.”
The queen flushed and sat up among the cushions. “How dare you say that to me! Do you think you can call your mother a liar?”
The princess lowered her head. “I am sorry, mother. I did not mean to. But I think it is better if you tell me that you won’t come than to have me waiting for you every day at the palace, and then never coming at all.”
The queen gathered her long gown and sleeves together and rose with a smooth rustle of silk. “I am sorry, Rosa. I really did try, but I couldn’t.” And she disappeared into her bedroom.
Rosa felt a light pressure on her shoulder and she rose from her knees.
“Why don’t you go to bed like a good girl,” the king said, “You have a long journey in the morning.”
ROSA did not feel like going to sleep and wanted to be alone, so that, instead of going to her room, she wandered down into the library, which was usually abandoned this late in the evening. She dragged her feet down the marble steps to the library. Now that her mother wasn’t going to the summer palace with her, she realized that she was being simply sent away.
The thought sent a flash of anger piercing through her sadness. Why did both her parents think they could break their promises to her? Rosa clenched her fists. Well, she wasn’t going to be sent away. She wasn’t going anywhere. She would like to see them try to get her to do something she didn’t want to do.
Rosa was startled from her building storm of anger by a flurry of sharp, scratching sounds and saw to her annoyance that she was not alone. Mercurius was at his desk, head bowed over a flickering candle, busy scribbling away at some parchment or other. She turned to leave, but his voice called out behind her.
