“Fallin’ apart,” Arny repeated, and burped. “We was made a long time ago.”
“Ah,” Quirk said with a nod. He looked at Griff. “Your mother used the thimble to turn them human.”
Griff didn’t want to talk about the thimble.
“Story’s been waitin’ a long time,” Arny said, blinking. “Too long.” Then he turned and shuffled back toward the stable.
Quirk watched him go. “I think he must be right. According to Story, Rose should have pricked her finger on the spindle on her sixteenth birthday. Months ago, I’m guessing.” He frowned, then pointed at the castle. “And now the spindle has been revealed. Rose is in terrible danger, and there’s nothing I can do to help her. As soon as it’s dark, I’m leaving. I’m going to look for something of my mother’s.” He paused, and then went on. “Her thimble, as it happens. It has different powers than the Godmother’s thimble.”
Words rattled around in Griff’s head. “Why . . . ?” he managed.
“Why tell you?” Quirk finished for him. “Yes. That is a question, isn’t it.”
Griff stayed silent.
Quirk paced in a tight circle, his hands behind his back. “Here’s the thing, Griff. You know how powerful Story is. Rose is under enormous pressure to allow it to play out. She’s strong, but I don’t know how long she can withstand it.”
“What if . . .” Griff cleared his throat. “What if she can’t resist?”
“Her curse will rise,” Quirk answered, “and Story will seize its chance, and it may not be possible to defeat it. There is nothing Rose and I could do after that, to fight it.”
“I will,” Griff grated. “I’ll fight it.”
“Yes, well.” Quirk looked solemn. “You have the Godmother’s thimble, and you’ve shown that you can wield it.” He paused, as if waiting for Griff to protest. “Whatever happens, you must not put it on again. If you do, Story will seize its chance, and it will take you. Do you understand?”
Griff jerked out a nod.
“Good. Now, I came to tell you to stay away from Rose. Your intentions might be good, but your actions . . .” Quirk shrugged. “Whether you mean to or not, you would do what Story required of you.”
His words were worse than a stab to the heart.
Griff stared bleakly at the grim, black walls of the castle. He knew there was no point in protesting. Quirk was right not to trust him. He couldn’t even trust himself.
CHAPTER
26
HALFWAY THROUGH THE AFTERNOON, THE LADIES-IN-WAITING peered into the sitting room. I was standing with my back pressed against the tapestry. I’d been there for a long time, long enough that the cold from the stone wall had seeped into me; my feet in the pinched shoes were numb. The light from the window had changed, and now the spindle was in darkness.
“Oh here she is,” said Miss Olive, swishing into the room.
Miss Amity went to the window and opened the curtains.
After a keen glance at the spindle, Miss Olive sat down in a chair. “We’re so excited, Lady Rose.”
My head was full of fog; all I could do was blink at the afternoon light flooding the room.
“It’s your birthday tomorrow,” Olive went on.
“Oh,” I croaked, and peeled myself from the wall. “How old am I turning?”
“Sixteen, of course,” Miss Amity answered, and went to sit beside Olive.
“But—” I shook my head to clear the fog. “I turned sixteen months ago.” In the early spring, Shoe and I had celebrated the sixteenth anniversary of the rainy night that Pen had brought me to him. I had baked brown-sugar cakes, and Shoe made a special dinner. Really, I was closer to seventeen than sixteen.
“Of course you haven’t,” Miss Amity said with a sniff.
“She’s right,” Miss Olive put in. “If you were already sixteen, how could it be your birthday tomorrow?”
“Because it’s not,” I said flatly.
“Turning sixteen,” sighed Miss Olive. “The perfect age for a young lady, I’ve always thought.”
It was like arguing with water. I shrugged and let the Misses’ conversation flow around me.
The spindle was still sitting on the table at Miss Olive’s elbow. I would keep an eye on it, I vowed to myself. So it couldn’t take me by surprise.
“The seamstress will be here soon to fit your party dress,” Miss Amity said.
“Ooh, the party!” Miss Olive leaned toward Miss Amity. “Will you wear your lavender?”
“The pink, I should think,” Miss Amity answered with a nod to me.
“Oh, of course,” Miss Olive agreed. “Rose pink.” She smiled with sickly sweetness at me.
There was a knock at the door, and the Keeper entered, followed by the seamstress, who carried a sewing box, and Sally, who held what looked like a canvas-wrapped body in her arms.
“Ooh, the dress!” Miss Olive screeched.
“To the bedroom,” Miss Amity pronounced, and we all trooped up the stairs to my round tower room. So much pink. It was like being in a mouth without teeth.
Sally pulled me to the wardrobe, where she stripped me down to my petticoats and corset, then added two more lace-edged petticoats. Reverently, the party dress was unwrapped from its canvas cover. It took Sally and the seamstress, with the Keeper’s help, to lower the dress over my head. Sally pinned it up the back; for the party, the seamstress would stitch me into it.
I turned to look at myself in the mirror. My face was the same as always. The dress was . . .
Well, it was spectacular. It was made of rose-pink satin, with very full skirts gathered at the back into a cascade of pink and white silk roses and green silk leaves. It had a gauze overskirt spangled with tiny pink diamonds; froths of lace dotted with silk rosettes edged the neckline and the tiny capped sleeves, and there were more roses nestled in gauze at the waist.
“The shoes,” Miss Amity said, and waved at Sally, who presented a pair of pink satin shoes with diamond buckles, “and the jewels,” she added, pointing at Miss Olive, who opened a velvet box to show a diamond necklace, hairpins, and bracelets.
“My goodness,” I breathed.
“Nah, then,” said the Keeper. “See to th’ fitting.”
With an obedient curtsy, the seamstress went to work, having me step onto a low stool, then crouching at my feet to pin up the hem, pausing now and then for whispered consultations with the Misses and the Keeper.
The dress looked as light as gossamer, but with the wide skirts and the extra petticoats, it was heavy. I tried to stand without drooping. Sally was sent to build up the fire, and the room grew hot, stuffy. My feet ached in the shoes that didn’t fit me right. All of it made me feel light-headed, as if I was drifting away.
The Misses had settled on some chairs near the hearth, Amity with her tatting. Then Olive pulled out her ball of thread. I hadn’t seen her gather up the spindle before we left the sitting room, but there it was. Seeing it was like being doused with cold water; I was suddenly wide awake again, my heart pounding. My eyes stayed fixed on the spindle. As Olive drew thread from her skein of flax, its tip flashed in the light. Almost like it was winking at me.
“Nah then,” came the Keeper’s soothing voice.
“Stand to thissss side,” hissed Sally, and her cool hands seized my waist and turned me away from the spindle.
The seamstress adjusted the fall of the overskirt, then marked a few places at the bodice. All the while I was acutely conscious of Olive, sitting behind me, spinning thread with the spindle.
“Hold thisss, if you please,” Sally hissed.
I held out my hand.
And . . . something pricked my finger.
The spindle.
I gasped and flinched and wobbled on my high heels for a moment, then fell off the low stool, tumbling to land on the carpeted floor, my skirts and gauze settling like a pink cloud around me.
The seamstress stood with horrified hands over her mouth; I heard Olive titter and Amity give a disdainfu
l sniff. The Keeper stared down at me, eyes wide.
And . . . I opened my hand to see that Sally had given me a pincushion, with one pin loose. Not the spindle at all. There wasn’t even any blood on my finger.
I let them help me back to my feet and onto the stool. The seamstress continued with her adjustments. After an eternity, the dress was ready; they took it off me and wrapped it again in its canvas cover, and hung it like a dead body in the wardrobe.
I let Sally put me into a dinner gown and lead me down to the dining room.
As on the other nights, my father sat at one end of a long, gleaming table, my mother at the other end, and I took my place halfway between them. A chandelier lit the room. We ate with silver forks from paper-thin porcelain plates, and drank from crystal goblets. The food was bland, but fancy, and served by footmen from silver platters.
My mother and father were not quite as blank as usual. My mother seemed to have finally come to understand that I was her baby, all grown up. She stared at me, fascinated, and ate nothing.
Between bites of poached fish and pastry, my father talked about the party. Sir Roland would be there, and Sir Richard and Sir James, and the other courtiers, and the cook was baking a special cake, and afterward there would be dancing.
I listened with half an ear, realizing that I hadn’t seen what Miss Olive had done with the spindle. It could be here, in the dining room.
I glanced down at my plate, at the silver forks and knife and four different spoons, all gleaming in the candlelight. My hands trembled, and I folded them in my lap. My head was spinning, and my stomach roiled with uneasiness. My lack of sleep made my thoughts fuzzy. My father was still speaking, but I couldn’t make sense of his words.
Neither of them noticed that I didn’t eat and didn’t speak. I’d been so hopeful that finding my parents would mean I’d also found my place in the world. But I hadn’t. They had to know that it wasn’t my birthday. They were so caught up in Story, they were more like paper cutouts than a real mother and father. If I tried to get away, they’d be the ones to order the servants to pursue me unto death.
When they had finished, I got up from my chair, curtsied to them, and went out. For half a moment, outside the dining room door, I considered rushing out to the stable to see Griff, just to talk to him. I knew that he was dangerous, that I wasn’t supposed to miss him. But I did.
He was in the stable, alone—always alone—with the knowledge of what he was weighing on him. I wished I could help him carry that burden. It was easy to see, now, why he was so silent. There were so many things that he couldn’t speak of. If I could, I would go to him just to feel his arms come around me, and then kiss him until he told me everything.
“Come ’long, Lady Rose,” the Keeper said from behind me.
With a sigh, I let her lead me back to my pink room in the tower.
There, Sally silently undressed me, unbraided my hair, and buttoned me into my lacy nightgown, then curtsied and went out.
Wearily, I took the candle she’d left me and crossed the room. I reached out to set the candle on the table next to my bed, and froze.
The spindle was there.
It was like a snake, ready to strike. I couldn’t move it. I couldn’t even go near it. Which meant I couldn’t sleep in my bed. What if I turned over during the night and put my hand on it, by accident?
Except that it wouldn’t be an accident, would it?
Blowing out the candle, I sat on the floor, my back against the wall, watching the fire in the hearth crumble away to red embers, and then ash. The room grew dark, and then darker.
The entire mass of the castle, and everyone in it, weighed on me, pushing me. My story—the Story—needed to continue. It needed me to prick my finger, to be taken by the curse. And then what?
I would sleep.
Quirk had already left. We had made a mistake, I thought, not trying to get away together.
And Griff . . . he was awake, too, thinking of horrors of his own.
I shook my head. I didn’t know what I could do to help him.
Tomorrow. As soon as it was light I would find a way to get out of the castle, to escape.
AT LAST THE gray light of morning seeped into my room. I hadn’t slept at all. If fog had filled my head yesterday, today it was filled with glue. My thoughts felt slow and heavy.
A sound at the door, and Sally stepped into the room holding a tray. I climbed stiffly to my feet. “Good morning,” I croaked.
“Sahhh,” she said, seeing my undisturbed bed. She put down the tray and went to the wardrobe, then brought me my robe. “Sit,” she ordered, and as I settled in a chair near the fireplace, she poured tea and brought me a steaming cup.
It was fragrant and sweet, and my cold hands warmed around it. Some of the heaviness in my head lifted. Silently I watched as she added more wood to the fire, then selected a dress and laid it out on the bed. Sally seized a brush from the dresser and started on my hair. I set down the teacup and closed my eyes.
The servants were all creatures of Story, I knew that. They’d all been created by the Godmother. But they’d shown me kindness, too. I wondered how much they knew about what was happening. “Sally, in the story, what happens to the girl after she pricks her finger on the spindle?”
“Sssahhh.” The even strokes with the hairbrush stopped.
“You all seem to know about it,” I said.
“Yesss.” Another silence. Then, “She falls under a spell of sleep.”
“On her sixteenth birthday,” I finished for her. “Then what happens?”
“All sleep. Ssssleep for hundreds of yearsss.”
I jerked around to look at her. “Hundreds?”
“Ysss.” Her slitted eyes were opaque. “Then he comes. The prince. Ssstory sends him.”
A prince, of course. Like in Story’s tapestry, in my sitting room. “What does the prince do?” I asked, fascinated.
“He kisses her. He loves her. Only the kiss of true love can stop the curse and wake the sleeper. She awakens, the castle awakensss.”
I blinked. “How can he love me if he’s only just met me?”
“Love at first sssight,” Sally answered. “A device of Story.”
“And the girl loves him, too?” I asked.
“Of course.” Sally set down the hairbrush and went to fetch my dress. I watched carefully to be sure she stayed away from the spindle beside the bed.
“I can’t imagine falling in love with somebody I don’t even know.” I shook my head. “I mean, it’s not very likely, is it?” It reminded me of being kissed by Tom, back in the village. He’d thought that he could possess me—or the beauty—and he’d done it against my will. Even more likely, the prince sent by Story would be like one of the courtiers. “What if I don’t want him to kiss me?” I asked.
“She must. She is Story’sss. There mussst be a happily-ever-after.”
I felt a sudden freezing chill. Story would do this. I’d become a doll—Story’s clockwork doll—and I would not fight when the prince pressed his lips to mine. I’d be lost. “And . . . and Story gains more power, doesn’t it, if this happily-ever-after happens?”
“Ysss. It escapesss. It spreads.”
Fright fluttered in my chest. The only thing standing between me and Story’s victory was my will.
Will was the most important thing in a fight. Griff had taught me that.
But thinking about Griff, and the role he might be playing in all of this, was too painful. All I could do was try to get away. It might be enough to disrupt the inevitable.
Getting to my feet, I took off my robe and let Sally put me into an ordinary pink dress, not the one for the party. She returned to the wardrobe to fetch a pair of shoes.
“Not those,” I said, peering around her. “Are my boots here? The ones I was wearing when we arrived?” I spotted them in a corner of the wardrobe.
“Sahhh,” Sally protested as I dug out the boots and sat down to put them on. They fit perfectly because
Shoe had made them with the best materials, with skill, and with love. Remembering him gave me strength, determination.
My heart beat faster and my fingers shook as I laced up my boots. It was still early morning. The ladies-in-waiting were late risers, and my parents wouldn’t expect to see me until later, when the party started. I could walk a long way in Shoe’s boots before anyone noticed that I was gone.
“Sally,” I said briskly, turning to her. “I am going out for some air. I need you to wait here, and not speak to anyone, all right?”
“Sahhh.” She bowed her head, obedient.
“Thank you.” I whirled, went to the door of my tower room, and flung it open.
And there, waiting at the top of the stairs, were two footmen clad in ice-blue uniforms. They both had catlike whiskers, round yellow eyes, and furred ears.
I halted, and felt Sally’s cold presence at my back. “They serve by seeing you’re safe,” she hissed.
“They’re guards,” I realized.
At my words, one of the men’s ears twitched toward me. They were both very alert. They wouldn’t let me set a single foot outside the walls of Castle Clair.
Slowly I closed the door. I took a few steps toward my bed, then stopped as I realized the spindle was pulling me in again. Resisting it, I headed toward the chair beside the hearth.
I sat, feeling limp with weariness and misery.
Tonight. It would happen tonight, at the party. I was entangled, and I would never get free.
CHAPTER
27
THE LADIES-IN-WAITING LED ME DOWN THE STAIRS TO MY sitting room and guarded me all day. I watched carefully; Miss Olive brought the spindle and kept it on the table beside her while she made dull, ladylike conversation with Amity. As they talked, all I could do was sit there like a lump, too tired even to think. I kept my hands gripped together and stared at the spindle. I wouldn’t let it out of my sight. I wouldn’t reach for anything in case I reached for it. Sally brought tea and then lunch, and then more tea, and I ate nothing and drank nothing.
At last it was time to get ready for the party.
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