ARC: Stolen Songbird

by Danielle L. Jensen

  And I was done with crying – tears accomplished nothing but exhausting me further and I needed my wits about me if I were going to escape this place. Perhaps not today, tomorrow, or even the next day, but I would stand beneath the sun again. I swore it to myself.

  My scowl deepened as I brooded on the various ways I would see Luc punished for his actions. I did not realize the weighing process had concluded until I was abruptly lifted off the scale and set next to Marc. He wrapped the cloak around my shoulders and pulled the hood up, obscuring my face.

  “Your mien is of one who is plotting murder,” he said in a quiet voice, handing over my battered boots.

  “More than one,” I replied, struggling with numb fingers to tie the laces.

  To my shock, he knelt at my feet and tied them for me, black hair falling forward to hide his face from me. “Your feelings are understandable, Cécile,” he said, “but for your sake, it would be best if you kept them to yourself. Tristan is my cousin and closest friend. I assure you that he will allow no harm to come to you. Although you did not choose this life, perhaps, over time, you might come to find it satisfactory.” He stood up.

  I met his gaze. “Is that what you aim for in life, my lord? Satisfactory?” He was being kind, I knew, but I had never had a good grasp over my temper. “For I have always aimed for something more. Happiness, for instance.”

  “I aim to live, my lady,” he replied, turning to the shadows. “You should do the same.”

  The King’s voice silenced us. “You needn’t take payment all at once, boy. No doubt it would be easier to make several trips.”

  Luc snorted. “You think I trust you to give me the rest if I leave my gold here? Stones and sky, you must take me for a fool.” He continued shoving the treasure into his pack.

  I was convinced his rudeness would garner the King’s ire, but His Majesty seemed only amused. “As you wish.” He gestured in our direction. “Get her cleaned up and dressed, Marc. The moon reaches its zenith in only a few hours.”

  “What happens then?” I asked, feeling my hands turn colder still.

  Marc took hold of my arm and led me from the room. “You’ll be bonded.”

  CHAPTER 6

  CéCILE

  The chambers Marc led me to were lit by the light of two lovely troll girls dressed in drab grey dresses belted with black and white sashes. They dropped into deep curtsies at our entrance. The room itself was lushly appointed: tapestries and paintings covered the walls and thick carpets muffled my footsteps. In the center stood a giant copper bathtub filled with water and next to it was a small dining table set with a feast fit for a queen. It made me think of the dinner I had missed tonight – the one my grandmother had been preparing for my going away party. My father would have set up a pig turning on a spit over the open flames, and I could imagine our dogs watching with wistful eyes, begging whoever walked near for scraps. Gran would have made some potato mash, along with last year’s carrots and beets drenched with butter. And her famous apple cinnamon cake. Cake that couldn’t be made without eggs. I squeezed my eyes shut, remembering the way the yellow yolks had mixed into the mud. I had gone away, but there would have been no cake, no dinner, no party. Only a fruitless search in the growing dark.

  “Quit being a sentimental fool,” I muttered to myself. “It’s just food.” The three trolls look at me askance, and I gave them a weak smile. “That’s quite the spread.”

  “Have as much as you like,” Marc said. “If there is anything in particular you want, let the girls know and they will arrange for it.” He then turned to the servants. “You have three hours.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the girls responded in unison, curtsying again as he strode from the room.

  “You must be hungry, my lady,” one of them said.

  “Mostly, I have to pee.”

  The girls giggled and pointed to a side door. “Over there, my lady.”

  After I had rid myself of a few gold coins’ worth of extra weight, I came back and surveyed my options: bath or food. My growling stomach decided for me. I set into a bowl of thick stew as if I hadn’t seen food all day, which I hadn’t, and then gobbled down handfuls of berries and an apple, their juices running down my chin to add stains to my already destroyed shift. The girls watched me with wide eyes. “What are your names?” I asked between bites.

  Both of them jerked as though slapped. I stopped chewing, and watched them exchange meaningful glances. “I don’t think that is what she means,” one whispered to the other.

  “I’m called Élise,” the elder said to me after an uncomfortable pause. “Call her Zoé.”

  “Cécile,” I said around a mouthful of bread, deciding to ignore the awkwardness. I was acting like I’d never met a manner in my life, but stones and sky, I was hungry.

  “We know, my lady. We’ve been expecting you.”

  The bread stuck in my throat, and I set aside the rest of the loaf, my hunger vanished. “I’m not anyone’s lady. I’m just Cécile.”

  “You are betrothed to Prince Tristan, my lady. After tonight, you will be a princess of Trollus,” Zoé said, her wide eyes growing even wider. “You are so fortunate, my lady – His Highness is exceptionally handsome.”

  “And brave,” Élise chimed in. The girls clutched each other’s arms and pretended to swoon.

  “And dreadfully rude,” I grumbled, getting to my feet and walking over to the tub. I’d never bathed in front of anyone other than my gran or my sister before, but I knew that this was how the nobility did things. Making a fuss over their presence would only draw attention to my common upbringing. Pride was armor, and I wouldn’t let them take it from me. My scant clothing discarded, I climbed hurriedly in, wincing as my collection of abrasions stung.

  “Is the water warm enough, my lady?” Élise asked, passing me a sponge.

  “It’s…” I glanced towards the cold fireplace on the one wall. Clearly the grate hadn’t known a fire in a long time. After a moment’s contemplation, I realized I hadn’t seen an open flame since Luc’s lantern. “I’d like it a bit warmer,” I said, curious as to how she’d manage such a feat.

  The troll set aside the bottle of bath salts she had been pouring in and touched the water with a fingertip. It swirled around me, glowing faintly silver, and almost instantaneously the temperature rose. She withdrew her hand, and the steaming contents settled. “Warm enough?”

  I soaked for a good hour in the tub, the trolls ignoring my protests and setting to scrubbing, trimming, washing, and filing with an intensity never before directed at my body.

  With the dirt washed away, my injuries stood out in stark reds and purples on my pale skin. Élise dispatched Zoé to get some ice – something I learned their magic could not create –and I spent the rest of my bath holding a silk-wrapped block against my swollen eye while I sipped a cup of mulled wine.

  Élise and Zoé were quite beautiful, but something set them apart from the broken beauty of the troll nobility. Their hair, for one, was not jet black but dark brown, and a faint flush warmed their faces that did not mark the cheeks of the other trolls. “You two are sisters?” I asked.

  “Yes, my lady,” Zoé replied from where she sat at my feet. Her eyes scrutinized my face as though searching for something. “Our mother was human – like you.”

  So the legends were true. The trolls had been at the business of stealing, or perhaps purchasing, young women for some time. “Is she here in Trollus?” Maybe they let them go once they’d fulfilled their duties.

  “No, my lady.” Sorrow crossed her face. “She died when we were quite young.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, wishing there was some way to ask how the woman had died. Part of me was still convinced I’d come across a case of a human roasting in a cooking pot.

  “Such a beautiful color,” Élise said, interrupting my thoughts. “When they told us you had red hair, I scarcely believed their words. Is such a shade common under the sun?”

  “Not really,” I admitted.


  “Then it must be prized.”

  I thought about how often I’d wished I’d been born with my sister’s blonde hair, or even my brother’s plain brown mop. “Red hair isn’t prized at all. Everyone teases me all the time, and being a redhead means I get loads of freckles in the summer. My mother tells me I should stay out of the sun, which is hardly possible on a farm.”

  “Why would anyone choose to stay out of the sun?”

  I bit my lip, realizing that obviously the sun would be a sensitive issue for the trolls. I shrugged and set the cup aside. “My mother is vain. Besides,” I said, in an attempt to change the subject, “I’d rather have dark hair like you trolls.” A compliment never hurt.

  Élise shook her head. “Nothing common is prized, my lady. One might as well value a stone in a sea of rock as value black hair in Trollus. Now come,” she said, motioning for me to follow. “Time for you to dress.”

  Walking stiffly over to the privacy screen, I ran a hand down a heavy, dark green silk dress, which felt warm, almost alive, under my fingertips. Onyx beads decorated the cuffs and tiny jet buttons marched up the back to the high lace collar.

  My wedding dress.

  “Why isn’t it white?” I couldn’t think of anything else to say. In the Hollow, we had a tradition where every girl’s dress included something from a wedding dress of a family member or friend. Sometimes it was just a bit of lace or some fancy buttons, but often gowns were entirely created out of dresses from weddings past. Gran said that the tradition brought love and good fortune into the union. I had always seen myself in the dress in which she had married my grandfather, with its handmade lace overlay. Not this unworn, unloved… thing.

  Sweat broke out on my hands and I grew cold beneath the thick robes. A haze of black crept over my vision of the dress. My knees trembled and my body swayed. “I think I’m going to be sick.” A basin appeared in front of me, and I proceeded to retch up everything I’d just consumed. I couldn’t do this; couldn’t go through with what they were asking of me. If I stayed, my virtue would be the price, and that was something I could never win back. No one would care whether it was against my wishes or not – my reputation, such as it was, would be ruined. I had to escape now.

  Avoiding the concerned gazes of the girls, I held up my hand. “I need some time alone.” My eyes latched on the adjoining bedchamber. “I’ll lie down for a few moments.” Walking into the other room, I shut the door firmly behind me and then dashed on silent feet to the one leading to the hallway. The lock was bolted.

  With one of my hairpins, I set to work on the lock, grateful, not for the first time, to my brother for teaching me how. When the catch was sprung, I turned the knob, and with a backward glance at the empty room, stepped into the hall. I immediately collided with something solid.

  “Fancy meeting you here, Cécile.”

  My heart sunk. “It’s you.”

  “The one, the only, as they like to say,” Tristan said affably, brushing off his coat where I’d bumped into him.

  “Which ‘they’ would that be?” I asked.

  “Oh, you know. Them.” He waved a hand in the air, dismissing the question. Then he frowned. “Have you recently vomited? How vile. It wasn’t because you indulged in too much wine, was it? I can certainly tolerate drunkenness in myself, but not in a woman. It’s quite unladylike.”

  Raising my chin, I tightened the cord holding my robe in place. “I’ll have you know that I’ve never been drunk.”

  He smirked. “You needn’t act like that is such a grand accomplishment. I’ve heard the continent is full of a similar sort – teetotalers, they call them. I understand they can reduce even the liveliest party to a dull affair in no time at all.”

  “Don’t act like you know the first thing about the continent,” I snapped. “It isn’t as though you’ve ever visited.”

  He flinched, silent for a moment. “Have you?”

  “No,” I admitted. “But I very likely would have if you hadn’t kidnapped me.”

  “I didn’t kidnap you,” Tristan said, his voice filled with irritation. “Your friend Luc did.”

  “He wouldn’t have done so, if not for you. And he isn’t my friend.”

  “That might be the case, but I don’t doubt that he’d have substituted an equivalently dastardly deed in its place.” He pointed a finger at me. “Mark my words, the boy was of a vile sort.”

  “Then you are two of a kind,” I snapped.

  “Ha ha,” Tristan snorted. “How dreadfully clever. And speaking of clever, is this to be your bid for escape?” He contemplated my clothing. “In a dressing gown and bare feet? Now tell me, if I go put on nightclothes and slippers, might I join you, or is this a solo adventure?”

  My eyes stung. “You think this is all exceedingly funny, don’t you? I’m nothing but a joke to you.”

  His brow creased in a frown. “If you’re a joke, it isn’t an especially humorous one.”

  I threw up my hands in frustration. “You are the most intolerable individual I’ve ever met.”

  He bowed. “Why, thank you, Cécile. Always a pleasure to have one’s accomplishments recognized.”

  “You are the last person in the world I’d choose to marry,” I hissed.

  “I don’t entirely relish the idea myself,” Tristan said, “but sometimes we must do the unthinkable.”

  “Why must I?”

  Tristan tipped his head slightly, expression considering. “Because you have no choice,” he finally said. “Just as I have no choice. There is no way for you to escape Trollus, Cécile, and if you were caught in the attempt…” His eyes closed, black lashes resting against his cheeks. “My father’s anger is a formidable thing, and I do not wish to see you harmed for aggravating him.”

  His eyes flickered back open. “Now let’s return you to your maids – you can’t very well marry me wearing such a tasteless outfit.”

  Élise worked a small miracle with her cosmetics. While my eye was still swollen nearly shut, at least it was returned to a normal flesh tone. The dress covered the worst of my injuries. Tight lace sleeves concealed the scrapes on my arms and the bruise purpling my right shoulder. The bodice could not have been tighter if it had been painted on, and the fabric stretched sleekly down my torso, loosening at the hip and cascading out behind me like a waterfall pouring into a river of green silk. A knock came from the door, and I wobbled as I turned, unsteady on my green and gold brocaded heels. Marc entered, carrying a gilded box and half a dozen sparkling tiaras hooked haphazardly around his arm. Setting the box down with an unceremonious thud, he unhooked the various jeweled bands and let them clatter to the table, showing as much care for their value as if they’d been glass and tin. “Take your pick.”

  I picked up a masterpiece of gold, black diamonds, and emeralds, marveling at how the gems glittered in the troll-light. The tiara alone would be worth a small fortune. The box of jewels Zoé was sorting through was worth enough to buy whole estates. Yet she showed less reverence for gems than she had the shoes I wore on my feet.

  “That one is gaudy,” she said, plucking the tiara from my hands. “This is better. And these.” She handed me a simple coronet of gold and onyx and a pair of matching earrings. “You’ll need to take that off,” she said, gesturing to my necklace.

  I touched it with one hand. “I never take this off – it was a gift from my mother.”

  “You aren’t a farm girl any more, Cécile,” she said softly. “There are expectations regarding your appearance.”

  I closed my hand over the pendant, loath to part with it. It was the last thing that was mine – the last bit of my identity that would be stripped away if I gave it up.

  “I’ll give it back to you as soon as the ceremony is over,” Zoé said, and though I could see pity in her expression, she still held out her hand. This was not a choice – and the last thing I needed was her tearing it from my neck and breaking it.

  Sighing, I undid the clasp and handed it over. “Put
it somewhere safe.”

  Nodding, she put the necklace in her pocket and began fastening my new jewelry. Once these were in place, she turned me to face the full-length mirror in the corner. In the eerie glow, I scarcely recognized myself: I appeared older and, if one ignored my swollen injuries, pretty.

  “Are you ready, Mademoiselle de Troyes?”

  If a thousand years came and went, I still wouldn’t be ready, but I gave a weak nod.

  “Be brave,” Marc said, the half of his face I could see filled with sympathy. “Just do as His Majesty requests and this will all be over quickly.”

  On Marc’s arm, I walked through the hallways of the palace. The only sound beyond the ever-present roar of falling water was the click of my heels and the rustle of my dress. He said nothing. I said nothing; although I was desperate to know what to expect. I contented myself with examining the artwork lining the hallways. No surface was left unadorned, walls and alcoves filled with sculptures so detailed I half expected them to spring to life, and paintings so vivid it was like looking out a window. Never in my life had I seen such a wealth of beauty, and it seemed such a shame that it was forever consigned to shadow.

  As though sensing my thoughts, Marc’s light grew brighter. “I think we take the artistic talents of our people for granted sometimes,” he murmured.

  He paused and pushed open a door. I quickly recognized the mirrored hall from earlier, when I’d been brought to meet the King. Light flew up to the ceiling, illuminating the paintings I had caught but a glimpse of earlier. “The life’s work of one of my ancestors, Charlotte Le Brun,” he said.