Enchanted

by Alethea Kontis

  Her family smiled back at her.

  The glamour Joy had showered upon her enveloped them all: Mama, Papa, Peter, Friday, Saturday—even Trix—were similarly bedecked in their finery. Velius stood with an arm around Wednesday in the fairy-kissed gray dress she’d worn to the ball that first night.

  Rumbold stood before Sunday, as handsome as she remembered, his servant dutifully beside him. In his outstretched hands was Friday’s pillow. On that pillow was Sunday’s missing shoe.

  “...And?” asked Rumbold.

  “...And we’re both saddled with nosy godmothers who are too powerful for their own britches,” Sunday finished.

  “Agreed,” he said.

  “Something’s not quite right, though,” said Sunday, and Rumbold frowned. She walked back to him, reached up, and tousled his magically tamed hair back into the mess it always was. “Better,” she said.

  Sunday and her prince stared at each other for a very long time.

  “I have something for you,” he said finally.

  “Do you?”

  He nodded. “You seemed to have misplaced a recurring theme.” He gestured to the shoe and the boot-shaped house behind her. If he only knew that it was Tuesday’s dress she now wore. “I’m very glad I didn’t take more than a bloom off that bush,” he whispered. “I’d never have forgiven myself if you’d lost a leg.”

  “Are you sure it’s mine?” she teased.

  “This shoe belongs to the woman who holds my heart,” he said. “It belongs to my soul mate. It belongs to my princess.”

  Sunday melted at his words. Hope blossomed inside her, and she felt alive once again. She reached for the shoe, but Saturday snatched it off the pillow before she could touch it.

  “Fantastic!” her sister cried. “I thought I’d lost something back there. Thanks so much for returning it, dearie!” Saturday made a show of tossing her own shoe off and then trying to cram her statuesque foot into the delicate silver and gold creation. The faces she pulled while struggling to get the shoe on as she balanced herself with her new sword made Sunday laugh.

  As terrible as they were sometimes, she was glad she had her sisters with her. She put a hand on Tuesday’s gown, felt Thursday’s pins in her hair and Mondays kiss on her cheek. All her sisters.

  “You idiot.” Friday jumped in, grabbed the shoe out of Saturday’s hands, and pushed her just enough to send her toppling to the ground. “You’ll destroy it with those great elephant feet of yours. It’s obviously my shoe.” She lifted her voluminous skirts. “I figure I may as well be a princess as anything.”

  Sunday was forced into action at this, since Friday was not much taller than she and her foot probably would fit in that shoe. She frowned and plucked it right out of Fridays hands. Friday smiled and kissed her playfully, then returned to where the shadow angel stretched against the beanstalk. She and Madelyn both raised their arms to the sky in victory.

  Rumbold steadied Sunday while she pulled the shoe on. “I cannot promise you a happy ending,” she admitted as she took his hand. “But I can promise you an interesting life.”

  “A man could not be doomed to a better future.”

  They smiled at each other.

  “If I may be so bold, Miss Woodcutter...” he started.

  “Please, call me Sunday.”

  “Sunday.” He smiled again. “Do you think you could find it in your heart to kiss me?”

  Sunday had wondered how long it would take before he got around to asking. And as the morning sun peeked over the horizon to greet them all, she did.

  20. The Barefoot Princess

  “SHE’S UP THERE again.”

  Rumbold massaged his temples while Rollins settled a new sash over an old doublet. This one was violet, and bedecked with twice as many medals as the last one he’d worn. A week earlier, this much weight on his chest would have toppled him. He tried not to think about what he’d sacrificed to regain that strength.

  “The queen is up in the Sky Tower again, writing on stones,” Erik repeated. “You’ll forgive me if I haven’t gone after her.”

  Rollins shuddered visibly at the mention of the tower.

  “We should seal it off,” said Rumbold. “There’s nothing up there but clouds and ruins and bad memories. What if she should fall?”

  “She’d probably fly,” muttered Rollins, before excusing himself. That theory seemed to be the general consensus regarding the fate of Rumbold’s godmother as well; the whole top of the tower had crumbled and fallen after the wrath of the giant king, but no one had seen Sorrow in the aftermath, and no bodies had been found beneath the rubble.

  “How do I look?” Rumbold asked Erik.

  “Like a pompous ass with bad hair,” said the guard.

  “Perfect,” said Rumbold. “The Woodcutters are coming by this morning. Will you be joining us?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” said Erik, this time without sarcasm.

  “Excellent. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to check in with my wife.”

  Sunday was in “their garden,” as she called it, the side garden off the ballroom and over the hedge from the courtyard, where they’d sat after the Savage Seven Riot and where she’d run from him on that fateful night she’d lost a shoe. Rumbold snickered at the thought; after he’d returned that little miracle of silver and gold and professed his love, it was as if she’d vowed to never wear shoes again. She’d only capitulated at his father’s funeral, when Arilland mourned the loss of its long-lived ruler, King Hargath.

  It was Joy whod remembered his name; her link to Sorrow allowed her alone to hold on to it when no one else could. When the minister first heard it, his eyes grew a little wider, but he never let on that the name of Arilland’s lord and master had slipped his mind. It took a moment more for the mental fog to lift and reveal the king’s betrayal: exactly how long he’d been king, what he had done to get there, and how no one could have stopped him. When the minister repeated the name aloud again over the grave, Rumbold watched the eyes of the crowd go wide in waves. The breaking of the spell was thick in the air, and then the wind blew it away.

  Sunday had run wild during their small private wedding ceremony in the Wood by the Fairy Well. Shed danced with him in that little clearing, her toes bare, wearing a homespun gown, a wreath of daisies encircling her golden head. They’d joined hands and shared a cup of water and together they’d thrown silver in the Well, thanking it for making a desperate dream come true. Rumbold had loved Sunday more on that sunny afternoon than he’d ever thought possible.

  It was a rare thing to see his Sunday shod at all these days. He’d overheard her being referred to around the castle halls as the Barefoot Princess. But the courtiers always smiled when they said it, so Rumbold let them keep their silly nickname. He found it hard not to smile when he thought of Sunday, too.

  This morning was no different. Rumbold stood on the balcony and watched as Sunday and Trix tried to convince a squirrel to pull a rope up the old oak tree and throw the knot over the other side so they could hang a swing. The squirrel seemed intent on thwarting them, and each of Sunday’s blustery cries of frustration ended in giggles. Trix jumped up and down, waving his arms in a demonstration of what he expected the squirrel to do. Sunday stomped her foot on the path, and Rumbold caught a glimpse of dirty toes peeking beneath her long skirts. Her hair flowed loose down her back, sprinkled with leaves and tiny flowers, like a river turned gold by the sun. A butterfly perched by her ear, oblivious to Sunday’s halfhearted rants. She would always be his girl in the Wood. He would have had it no other way.

  Rumbold took a deep breath of spring and the wildflowers in the air. He was glad his mother’s spirit had remained long enough to see the two of them together, to see him happy. He turned his face to the sky and smiled into the sun. If the gods were kind, perhaps she could still see.

  ***

  “How many times do I have to tell you? You cannot rush training!” Velius’s command fairly echoed off the walls of th
e Grand Hall. Rumbold had never heard his cousin raise his voice as much as he had since the death of the king, since Saturday had shown up at the training grounds with her sword and demanded to be taught how to use it.

  Saturday was hot on Velius’s heels. “You insulted me by handing me a stick.” She could only mean the practice swords the boys used on the grounds. Actual swords were forbidden to all but the most advanced students.

  “You insulted me by refusing to be taught properly!”

  “I’ve held an ax since I was a baby.”

  “That doesn’t mean you know how to wield a sword.”

  “Only because you won’t let me try and find out!” spat Saturday. “Did you use all your fancy magical powers when you first started training?”

  “Yes,” admitted Velius. “Which is why I don’t advise using them as a crutch.”

  “But you’ve seen what I can do,” said Saturday. “You know what I’m capable of.”

  “I have,” Velius said, “and I do. I also know how quickly you overreact, and how easy it would be for you to get yourself hurt.”

  She shrugged. “I wouldn’t be hurt for long.”

  Velius looked very much in danger of hurting her right then and there to test exactly how long it would be, when Erik put a hand on his shoulder. “Tap out,” he said. They had been taking turns with Sunday’s headstrong sister for several days now, and though the switches happened further and further apart, Saturday still possessed the necessary brazenness to wear both men down to the breaking point again and again.

  It was a sight to be seen, one Rumbold alone had not yet tired of. He remembered the arrogance and frustration that came with being unbreakable. He considered offering Saturday her own rooms at the castle. Then again, she could always stay with her eldest sister, as Princess Monday had chosen to remain in residence.

  “She’s all yours,” spat Velius.

  Saturday opened her mouth as if to speak. Erik said nothing, only raised one finger. She shut her mouth again and glared at him balefully.

  “Saturday,” scolded Seven. “You’re not going to wash up before joining us?”

  Saturday adjusted her swordbelt and patted some of the dust off her sleeves. “I’m no dirtier than the princess’s feet. If she gets to stay, then so do I.”

  Everyone turned to Sunday, who simply smiled and shrugged. Rumbold made a mental note to speak with his new warrior sister. Her being indestructible meant she had a destiny to fulfill, as he had. They should probably find out what that was before she drove his best friends to madness.

  “Oh!” Friday gasped, and put a hand on her patchwork pocket. “I almost forgot.” She reached in and drew out a perfect golden egg, only slightly smaller than the one Rumbold had visited in his father’s collection of curiosities.

  Trix hopped on his toes, eager to tell the story. “Friday sewed the goose back together, too,” he said. “She lays golden eggs!” The ever-frugal Seven beamed at the news, and Sunday visibly relaxed in the knowledge that her family would be taken care of without anyone seeing it as charity.

  Rumbold took the egg from Friday—it was much lighter than he’d imagined—and transferred it to the steady hands of a serving boy. “See that this gets to Cook,” he said. “Tell her to keep the shell for herself.” In a slightly lower voice, he added, “And send the butcher up if you would, please.”

  “They’re good eating,” said Jack Woodcutter, who was still ever so slowly opening up to him. “I had a golden omelet just this morning.”

  “Did it turn your tongue gold?” asked Sunday.

  “It did,” said her papa. “And your mother did everything I asked her to do for the next hour solid.” Seven swatted her husband playfully on the backside.

  “Ah, Friday, before I forget,” said Rumbold. “Yarlitza Mitella was to have returned to the mountains today, but I made sure she heard of you and your deft needle before she finished packing. I took the liberty of arranging a tea with her this afternoon. I hope you don’t mind. She’s very interested in meeting you.” He had braced himself for Fridays inevitable throwing of herself into his arms, but he had not been prepared for the earsplitting squeal that came with it. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “Thank you,” Joy said to him. “I had not thought about pairing those two together.”

  “It seemed to make sense.”

  “Of course,” she said, and welcomed Friday’s embrace when she turned to express her happiness. “I could not have chosen a better apprenticeship for you, dearest,” she said into her goddaughter’s curly mane. “Mistress Mitella will teach you well.” Friday chose her mother as her next hugging victim, and Joy straightened. “In fact, I shall be taking on an apprentice of my own.”

  The family turned as one to see Wednesday in the doorway with Monday at her arm, dark in her dress as a windblown shadow against Monday’s shining light.

  “You’re leaving us?” Trix asked mournfully.

  Wednesday put a gentle hand on his head. “None of us ever leaves,” she said, “not really.”

  “I must take her into Faerie,” said Joy. “She is far too powerful to remain here. Her continued presence will upset the balance.” So that was why Wednesday spent all her time as close to the clouds as possible: to avoid causing chaos in the world below. What they had all perceived as borderline insanity for so long had been necessary for their protection.

  Wednesday tilted her head at him in acknowledgment. “This evil has passed, and now I must go.”

  No one but Rumbold seemed to notice that she said “this” evil instead of “the” evil. He was sure the turn of phrase had something to do with Sorrow. If his godmother had fled back over the borders of Faerie to lick her wounds, then Joy was doubly obliged to follow.

  “I knew you were never meant for this world,” Seven told her daughter, “but you got to be mine for a time. May the gods watch over you, child.”

  “There is only one thing left to do,” said Joy. “One wound left to heal. We need to give this country back its king.”

  Wednesday stepped forward, placed her hands on Rumbold’s shoulders, and kissed both his cheeks. “I hereby cede the throne of Arilland to you,” she said. “My stepson, my brother, my savior, my friend.”

  He was indeed all of those—as Wednesday herself had said, a man born four times. Sunday’s hand slipped inside Rumbold’s and she squeezed her support. The family and whatever servants were present to witness the event took to one knee.

  “Long live the king,” Wednesday whispered.

  The phrase sent chills through his body. Sunday squeezed his hand again. Rumbold did hope to live a long and full life, but not one terribly longer than any other mortal man. He was comforted by the fact that Sunday would remain by his side for all of it.

  “Long live the king!” a voice called from the far end of the Grand Hall in a deep bass: Jolicoeur had joined them. “Long live King Rumbold and Queen Sunday!”

  The cry was echoed throughout the room and then slowly, increasingly, echoed throughout the castle. Within minutes, Rumbold heard it shouted from the ramparts and parapets to the streets below. He bowed his head again to Wednesday and noticed his wife’s dainty—and yes, dirty—toes peeking from beneath her skirts again. The Frog Prince and the Barefoot Princess, now King and Queen. There had been worse rulers.

  In the clamor, Rumbold saw Velius approach Wednesday. He took the hand she offered and kissed it. “To me, you will always be a queen.”

  “Once in this life, again in another,” she said, “and I will always be sorry for it.”

  “We bid you all farewell,” said Joy.

  “Not just yet,” said Rumbold. He beckoned for the butcher. “Dearheart, may I introduce you to Mister Jolicoeur?”

  Jolicoeur put a hand over his heart and bowed to Sunday, who looked up at both of them curiously.

  “Mister Jolicoeur is Captain Thursday’s first mate.”

  Seven gasped. Trix cheered. Sunday dissolved in a fit of laughter that filled
Rumbold to the brim once again with love for her.

  Jack Woodcutter crossed the room and put his arm around Rumbold, who tried his best to remain conscious through the pain of that fierce embrace. “When you’re cursed with one Woodcutter, you’re cursed with them all, eh?”

  “It would seem so, sir.”

  “I won the heart of Sunday’s mother with a goose of my own,” Woodcutter said. “Did I ever tell you that story?”

  “No, sir,” said Rumbold, King of Arilland. “I don’t believe I’ve heard that one.”

  “Have a seat,” said Woodcutter. “I’ll tell you all about it. And then you can tell me how you came to meet my daughter the Pirate Queen.”

  Rumbold settled into a chair large enough for Sunday to curl up beside him, and prepared to be entertained by a lifetime’s worth of his new father’s stories.

  They had a lot to catch up on.

  ***

  I still wonder sometimes about Jack Junior. I walk the flower-lined paths through the garden—my garden—and I dance down the empty hallways of the castle—my castle—and I think back on the adventures that brought me here, all the magic and misery that led us to this place. What songs will be sung about me and my family? What tales do they already tell? Am I a silly girl who befriended a frog or a beautiful stranger in a ballroom full of pretty gowns? Am I a barefoot princess or a benevolent queen? Bean sower and gold spinner and giant slayer: I was all those things. I have lived a life full of love and pain, of Joy and Sorrow, and I live on still. I have many, many years ahead of me, each day with the potential to be filled to the brim with trials to face and challenges to overcome.

  I made Rumbold tell me again last night the story of what had happened with Jack Junior and the wolf, when he had killed the beast and retrieved the gold medallion and sent it back to Papa. I questioned everything, reached in and pulled out every detail he could remember. He went over and over it until he’d had enough of me, and I fell asleep with my mind still mulling over one incontrovertible fact: Jack’s body has never been found.