The Daughters Grimm

by Minda Webber

  “What is it?” Fen asked, noting warily his children’s grubby little faces and fingers all directing outrage at his new wife.

  “She’s going to make us eat pea porridge soup, nine days old,” Ernst cried, his little face a mask of abject misery. “With a peck of pickled peppers.”

  “Pickled pointers,” Merri corrected, holding up her fingers and lying through her sweet little teeth, then contrarily added her two cents. “She’s making me and Shyla wear sackcloth and ashes!”

  Fen merely raised a brow, while Rae turned livid. “Never in all my life have I heard of pea porridge soup—one day old or a thousand!” Ernst snorted, so Rae pointed a finger back at Merri. “I said that if you were going to work in the garden, as is your wont, you need to wear something less dressy so it would not get so dirty. But never did I mention sackcloth or ashes, although it certainly seems appropriate now.”

  “Did you hear her, Papa? She wants to make me a hag?” Merri screeched. Alden simply burped and began rubbing his lamp, which Rae believed was to call forth a genie to send her to perdition…or at least back to Cornwall. “Wicked old stepmother. She made me polish her pearl brooches.”

  “I do not have a pearl brooch,” Rae snapped. “Even if I did, I would not cast pearls before swinish children.” Tearing her gaze away from the terrible trio, she stamped her foot. “Although, a dozen new brooches would be a good gift for a new bride. Most especially one who has to put up with wild accusations and pillaging little Viking children. A wise husband would take note.”

  Ernst could see indecision in his father’s eyes, so he quickly added—rather judiciously, he thought— “This morning she gave Nap a poisoned apple.”

  Rae gasped in outrage. “Do you know,” she began, putting a finger to her chin, “my sister once loaned me a book. The Importance of Beating Ernst. It was a wild book, and I find it now is a jolly good idea.”

  “Enough! I will hear no more about poisoned apples or beatings,” Fen shouted. He was absolutely certain that Rae would never poison his children, even as angry as she was. He also knew that if anyone could drag Rae down off her vain high horse and make a woman and mother out of her, it was his unruly but devious little scamps.

  Rae turned and stared at the brats. “Eating pickled pointers? Poisoned apples? I wouldn’t give your new stepmother any ideas, you little scalawags,” she snapped. Then she stomped out of the room, forgetting her genteel upbringing long enough to let out a few choice words she’d heard her brothers use. One of them started with peck.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The Unmagnificent Seven

  Having no one to carp to, Rae stormed down the long hallways, seething with ill usage and giving the Schortz family portraits the fish eye. “How dare he take their side against me? How dare they accuse me of such atrocious doings?”

  Rae’s vengeful musings were cut short by a loud crash. A crash, in her opinion, could only mean one thing: More little monsters were about. If she were sensible, she would turn tail and run. Still, she slowed down and peered into the room where the noise had originated. In the gloom of the shadows, she could make out a bust in pieces on the floor, and three of the little Schortzes staring down at it.

  “I’m glad it was a bust of Caesar. Papa never really liked it,” Quinn said.

  Poppy nodded. “We could says our new mama doned it.”

  Shyla shook her pretty little head. “No. I feel bad about what I helped Nap and Ernst do yesterday. Our new step mama is very pretty. I like her.”

  An expert at eavesdropping, Rae eased further into the shadows by the door. Even though she despised these little scourges, Shyla was a beautiful child—like Rae herself had been. Perhaps they had something in common, and she could groom the little girl to be the toast of Prussia one day. The thought of being stepmother to an upcoming toast spread a jellylike feeling across her. It was odd—a sense of pride in something other than herself.

  “I bet she can’t put a worm on a hook,” Quinn remarked.

  Rae wrinkled her nose. Of course not! She wouldn’t touch a worm with a ten-foot pole; they were almost as disgusting as her new stepchildren.

  “We should tell her about the ghost,” Shyla ventured, peeking up at her brother.

  “No, Nap and Ernst wouldn’t like it,” Quinn replied. “And I don’t like to make my twin brother mad.”

  Ghost, what ghost? Rae wondered. Was there a ghost here in the castle, like in Greta’s books? Rae bent down to hear better. Of course, yesterday she had been made a fool, so why should she believe what they were saying now? Still, they didn’t know she was listening, so what would the sly fiends gain by making up ghost stories?

  Shyla seemed to read her mind. “She wouldn’t believe us, anyway,” the little girl said. “Not after we fibbed about Papa being an ogre.”

  “I saw it once,” Poppy remarked, her voice rather high. “It’s a bad old ghostie, and I cried.”

  “Oh, silly, you’ve never seen it,” Quinn replied, his eyes rolling.

  “Well, I heard it.”

  Patting her little sister’s head, Shyla nodded. “I’ve heard it too.”

  “And Nap’s seen it,” Quinn added. “The night he saw it, he couldn’t sleep. He sat up all night with his dagger. It clawed him.”

  Poppy nodded, rubbing her arm. “I knowed it. The scars on his arm. It probably kilt our nurse.”

  Rae leaned back against the wall. Died peacefully in her sleep? Fennis had lied to her! He was as devious and diabolical as his children. Yet, she was not only married to him, she was married into this ghastly family in an admittedly beautiful home that had specters gliding through its shadowy halls. Unlike Rae, her sister Greta would be ecstatic in this situation. She’d probably even get along with the brats.

  Creeping away from the door, Rae shook her head. If there was a ghost in the castle, she would lock her door every night. Solemnly she vowed she would never go out of her room at midnight, since that was the dreaded hour when witches and ghosts roamed the earth. Even, she imagined, in fancy little castles.

  Of course, if this ghost was so utterly horrible, why hadn’t it gotten the children already? With her brow furrowed, she pondered the question for a while.

  “Of course! They probably have protection. The demon spawn probably made a pact with the Devil. They are probably related,” she muttered softly.

  As Rae hurried down the corridor and far, far away from the wicked little dwarves, she didn’t hear the little giggles turn to raucous laughter. Nap stepped out from behind the velvet drapes, where he’d had an excellent and unrestricted view of the doorway due to a large mirror hanging to his right.

  “She fell for our ghost story! Again!” he cried. Their laughter turned to hooting calls and shouts of victory, and downstairs, the passing maids and footmen shifted uneasily, glancing warily about them. When the Schortz children laughed like that, prospects were grim for their poor beleaguered targets.

  After dismissing her maid for the night, Rae sat down at her dressing table and unbuckled her house slippers. Lonely and bored, she picked up her silver-backed brush and began to brush her hair, which was so long that she had to fold it over her lap as she worked. The maid had brushed it earlier, but Rae had nothing else to do. Fennis had been called into Wolfach on some business dealing with Prince von Hanzen. She had discovered this by overhearing the butler tell one of the footmen. As a new husband, Fennis should have let her know himself, she believed, not hear it secondhand. This husband of hers had much to learn.

  In another part of the castle, she heard a door slam. “It’s probably one of them,” she said to herself, and shuddered. She would get even with the children as soon as she devised a villainous enough plan. “One worthy of Macbarancle, or Macduff, or Macbeth or whomever. One of those Macs anyway. The big one.”

  Glancing at the mirror, she found herself frowning. As it would make lines, she immediately stopped. “One hundred and three, one hundred and four,” Rae counted as she stroked her
hair. The shadows deepened. Rae yawned slightly and set the brush down. “I might as well go to bed.”

  Her third night as a bride, and she was still as innocent as a lamb. The insult piqued her vanity, yet at the same time she felt a smattering of relief. And there was a tiny part of her that felt discontent, along with mild curiosity at the mysteries of the wedding night.

  Rae crossed the room, passing several tables on her way to the oversized creamy-white sleigh bed with its lace coverlet. Suddenly, she heard a noise outside in the hall. Halting abruptly, she turned slowly toward the door. Was it the brood?

  She heard a low moaning. Cautiously, she crossed to the door. “Hello?” Was someone hurt, or was this those sneaky stepchildren? “Is someone there?”

  A low moan was the only answer.

  “Oh, drat! This is a fine pickle.” She couldn’t help being reminded of her husband and the wedding night. “And it’s just what I need to complete my list of woes—a haunted castle.”

  She cautiously unlocked her door and stuck her head out, muttering, “Surely a ghost wouldn’t moan. According to Greta’s Gothic novels, they rattle chains and boo at people. At least, I think that’s what they do.”

  Outside, the corridor was empty. But the moaning was louder.

  “Can one of the little toads be sick?” And if they were, should she do anything? If Nap were sick, or the fibbing twin or the grumpy Merri, she would let him or her nurse him or herself back to health. Still, if it were the pretty one, Shyla, or the little one, Poppy, or maybe even Quinn, perhaps she should take a look. The youngest, the vicious little biter, was on his own.

  Taking a cautious step into the hallway, which was lit by a half-dozen wall sconces, Rae then followed the sound down the stone corridor, passing three sturdy wooden doors before she came to a turn. Inching forward, Rae cautiously stuck her head around the corner…and stopped short as a skittering noise accompanied the faint creaking of chains. Fear flooded her system. Clinging to the wall, Rae held her candle high in one hand.

  The massive hallway was long and dark, with thick black shadows hiding whatever was making the noise. “Who’s there?” Rae called.

  Another low moan sounded, followed quickly by the sound of rattling chains. She took a step back, her spine pressed to the wall as she watched a figure emerge from the deep shadows. She was stunned, her mind refusing to believe that she was facing a ghost. If only Greta was here, she would know what to do.

  “Go away!” she cried.

  The ghostly specter did the opposite, skittering across the ancient stone floor and coming ever closer.

  “No,” Rae gasped, fear filling her. Her head grew dizzy with terror as the shadows receded and she caught a better glimpse of the ghastly phantom. The figure was covered in a white shroud, with dark red stains crusted upon it. Rae’s breath quickened, and she could feel her heart racing. Something wicked was unquestionably coming her way.

  “Go away. Shoo!”

  The shrouded form raised its chains high in the air and shook them, emitting a horrible screech. And behind this heinous spirit of the grave, there was a scrambling sound, and rattles of more chains, as if they were striking the floor.

  Finally Rae’s instinct to survive overcame her paralyzing fear. She screamed, running down the corridor as fast as her dainty feet would carry her, with her lacy blue dressing gown flying behind. As she groped for her door, she felt something grasp her ankle. Lurching across the threshold, she shook off the grip of the evil thing that seized her, then slammed the door.

  Outside, she heard a scratching on the hard wood, and a tiny voice asked, “Come pway wiff me.”

  Her eyes grew round with horror. “No,” she murmured. “Anything but that.” She had barely survived the attack from the living ankle-biter.

  “Let us in!” several little howlers demanded.

  “Not by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin.”

  “Then we’ll huff and…put a gypsy curse upon you!” a voice threatened joyously.

  The sounds of chains rattling in the hallway outside her door, and the now recognizably demented laughter of the seven little living Schortzes, had Rae’s blood boiling. She didn’t know how they had done it, but somehow they had managed to make her eavesdrop on a conversation. It was diabolically clever. She would use this lesson and file it away for future reference, in case she ever needed to do something so dastardly. Their execution had been perfect. Wait until Greta heard about this night’s antics. Her eldest sister would probably laugh a little, but would also console her. Most importantly, Greta would help Rae come up with a grand plan for revenge

  Rae yelled, hands clenched into tight fists, feeling fairly secure since the door was very thick and latched tight. “See if I come to check on you next time I think you’re sick! You can die ranting and raving in fevered delusions, while I’ll stand by with a merry smile on my face.”

  “Fooled again!” Nap shouted back, and he threw off the shroud, laughing as he jangled the chain. “You’re so easy to trick.” A chorus of laughter filled the air.

  Rae shouted back, their shameless mirth grating on her nerves and self-esteem. “I’m counting to six. If you know what’s good for you you’ll flee, else I’ll beat you with a big old stick!” Glancing about, she spotted her empty chamber pot. With fierce determination and quick hands, she quickly dumped all her face and body powders into it.

  Outside, staring at the door, the youngest Schortz girl shook her head. “She was awful scared,” she said thoughtfully. “Maybes we shouldn’t’ve done it.” Alden just growled.

  Suddenly, Rae flung open the door and threw the contents of her chamber pot upon them. Four of the children were close enough to get the full blast, sputtering as white dust flew everywhere. Hands on hips, momentarily victorious, Rae commented, “If you want to play ghost, you need to be white!”

  Seeing the fires of anger spring to life in several sets of beady little eyes, Rae made a quick and wise decision. She slammed the door in their faces once again, and shouted through the door, “Now you look the part.”

  This time, the last laugh was hers.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Would-be Princess and the Peas

  The children’s hour was every hour at the baron’s castle, as Rae could regrettably attest. Just this morning she had awakened late, feeling as if she had slept on hard little pebbles. Reaching beneath her sheet, she found a large scattering of peas—and not the cooked variety, either. Her temper boiling, Rae quickly went in search of the legume-loving brood. She was not a lady to be trifled with, and her future seemed to be war and peas.

  Besides, she had come up with a fine plan to frighten the nefarious little urchins, a scheme worthy of her sister and her wicked little brothers. She smiled and handed her maid another letter to be delivered to Greta, this one describing her ordeals. Shaking her head, Rae pondered why her elder sister hadn’t already written. She hoped that Greta wasn’t sick. This time, if she received no note from her sister, she would go at once to Aunt Vivian’s and check on her herself. Greta loved her, unlike Rae’s oafish husband and his nasty little children.

  Straightening her shoulders, she went in search of some much-needed help. If her wily plan was to succeed, some of the servants would need to be pressed into service, and from the short while she had been at Castle Durloc, she believed that the butler and the first footman could be trusted to keep a secret and aid her vengeance. Much of the staff would likely help, as they had for some time borne the brunt of the children’s pranks.

  After questioning several servants, Rae hurried to the study to find the butler. There he stood, a great mess in front of the fireplace. Ashes and dust were everywhere, and the butler was busy dusting it off his jacket. Rattled, he glanced at the fireplace with an expression no longer stoic.

  “Let me guess,” Rae said. “The baron’s bratlings?”

  He nodded, wiping gray ash off his dark brown mustache. “Yes, madame. Now, may I help you?”

 
“I assume this nefarious trap was laid for me?” she guessed.

  Again, the butler nodded. His face took on a long-suffering expression. “You know, they were not always this bad. After their mother died, the baron was mad with grief. Later, though his grief lessened, he found it hard to discipline them because they were still grieving for the baroness.”

  His words touched Rae. But while the children had suffered, there was no excuse for letting the prickly pack run wild. “I understand they were hurt, but they need boundaries, else they shall tear the castle down around our ears,” she stated. “Do you know where they are?”

  This butler merely looked up and trembled. Warily, Rae joined him in his study of the ceiling, and she soon heard shrill cries and stamping feet, like a rampage of stampeding elephants. Then came the sound of that laughter: a noise no sane person would challenge.

  The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. “I know I should see about the beastly little dears, but I must talk to you about something,” she said.

  The butler leaned against the wall, still shuddering. “I would hide beneath the settee, but the last time I did, they trapped me there. They placed spiders around the sofa. I have never been fond of spiders.”

  Rae placed a comforting hand on the butler’s arm. “I can just imagine the terror you’ve borne. Now, now— Heinrich, isn’t it?”

  Tersely, he nodded again, and more ash fell from his forehead.

  “Well, Heinrich, their reign of terror shall be brought to a swift end. I will not back down, since I have more backbone than that. Nay, nor will I sit still for their backbiting— or ankle biting. I tell you there will be a backlash from all their backwards, forwards, and sideways sneakiness, and an overhand slam for their underhanded dealings.” She paused for effect then added dramatically, “I have a plan. But it is a secret plan. Where is the baron? I don’t want him getting wind of what I am about to say.”