Rumpelstiltskin (Timeless Fairy Tales Book 4)

by K. M. Shea

  Rumpelstiltskin

  A Timeless Fairy Tale

  By: K. M. Shea

  a Take Out The Trash! Publication

  Copyright © K.M. Shea 2013

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any number whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of quotations embodied in articles and reviews.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  Other Books by K. M. Shea

  Coming Soon

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  When the hellhound howled, Stil climbed a tree. Branches scratched at his face, and the cold wind further chilled his wet clothes. He positioned himself on a branch, held his breath and clung to the tree trunk. The dull thud of horse hooves pounded in the forest like a war drum. When the animal snorted, its nostrils flared like an ember, placing the beast and its rider three trees over.

  Stil’s lungs ached as he watched the horse paw at the ground. He was almost to the border. He couldn’t be caught now!

  The hound howled again, the noise traveling away from Stil. The mount and rider retreated, cantering after the hound in the darkness of night.

  When Stil could no longer hear the horse, he gasped for air. His chest heaved as he climbed down. He wanted to sit and rest, but he couldn’t take the chance. The rider would be back. Stil needed to get across the border and into Verglas before then.

  Leaves crunched under Stil’s feet as he blindly made his way through the forest, his soaked cloak sticking to him like slug slime.

  As Stil slunk along, he snatched up a leaf and rubbed it between his hands. It turned into the finest silver before cracking and twisting, shaping into an intricate snowflake the size of Stil’s thumbnail.

  “Home,” he whispered before blowing on the magic-made snowflake. It glowed and lifted out of Stil’s hand, twirling and gliding through the air like real snow.

  Stil almost lost sight of it several times. The snowflake was tossed through the dark forest by the rough wind and torrential rains like a toy boat bobbing on an angry ocean, but the tiny beacon of light led Stil closer to Verglas—closer to safety.

  The snowflake bobbed ahead, and Stil smiled when he saw the silvery blue light of the Verglas border, glowing in response to his magic.

  A short distance behind him the hound howled.

  Stil gave up all pretenses of stealth and ran, the heavy pants of the hound snapping at his heels. Lightning illuminated the forest, and Stil barely avoided a fallen tree.

  The border was within reach when the hound caught up. It snapped down on Still’s arm, yanking the mage off his feet.

  The dog wasn’t a normal hunting animal. It was a hellhound—huge, dangerous, and deadly. Red foam dripped from its mouth as it clenched Stil’s arm, breaking his skin and drawing blood. The hound snarled. Its eyes glowed red in the darkness, and deeper in the forest the horse screamed an answer.

  Stil kicked at the canine’s chest and grabbed a handful of mud. “Be rock,” he said between clenched teeth as the pounding of horse hooves drew closer. The mud hardened into rock, and Stil bashed it against the hellhound’s skull. The hound staggered, but it bit down harder on Stil’s arm. Stil held in a shout and hammered on the animal’s skull, using the rock like a mallet.

  The hound let go, snarling and shaking its head. Stil stumbled backwards over a stump, which sent him crashing head over heels to the muddy forest floor.

  Lightning flashed again, illuminating the nightmare when it arrived, carrying its rider. The nightmare was a horse—if it could be called that—which fed on nightmares and craved absolute darkness. It was skeletal, but its nostrils glowed, and its eyes were the same white as spoiled milk. It screamed (a sound more similar to glass breaking than the neigh of a horse) and gnashed its abnormally sharp teeth before its rider pulled it back.

  “Craftmage,” the rider hissed.

  Stil reached into his soaked clothes and slapped a red feather on the soaked stump. “Ignite!” he shouted before rolling away.

  Even though it was old and saturated, the stump exploded into a roaring fire.

  The horse spooked and shied away from the dazzling flames, shrieking in pain as the light burned its eyes.

  Stil leapt out of his roll and ran forward, his eyes hooked on the glimmering Verglas border. Behind him the rider growled, kicking the nightmare forward. After a moment’s hesitation, the mount edged around the stump and chased after Stil, closing in for the kill. When Stil could almost feel the nightmare’s sulfur-scented breath on the back of his neck, he threw himself forward, diving across the Verglas border as the nightmare lunged for him. Stil hit the ground just as ice crunched, and giant stalagmites popped out of the ground—almost impaling the nightmare with sword-sharp tips and edges.

  The rider reined in the nightmare as the ice wall formed, popping and cracking as more ice and snow gathered to create an impenetrable barrier that glowed unnaturally. The rider could travel up and down the Verglas border until his mount dropped with exhaustion, but he would never get inside. The Snow Queen’s magic wouldn’t let him set foot inside the country.

  The nightmare screamed in rage on the other side of the ice wall. He turned his mount around and galloped back into Loire.

  Stil chuckled between gulps of air. He forced himself to sit upright. He was soaked, and his arm was injured. The rain spattered his face as he dug through his cloak. When he found what he was looking for—a ruby cut in the shape of a flame—he breathed on it, sighing in relief when the charm activated and heat seeped into his body.

  Stil stumbled to his feet and started in the direction of his temporary home. “I don’t understand,” Stil said, pushing his sopping hair out of his face. “What merit is there in hunting me?”

  Gemma ran her hand over fabrics and cloth. Her fingers lingered on the bolts of violet-colored velvet and blush-red silk brocade. Her forehead furrowed she internally paged through patterns and dress styles like a child flipping through a picture book.

  Lady Linnea would look fetching in the violet velvet, which would offset her blonde hair. However, red brocade was the rage in Loire thanks to Princess Elle, who wore many gowns made of rose-red material.

  Gemma’s mind raced with the various styles she could design using the fabrics, but her mind was made up when she caught sight of the length of snow-white fur.

  “I’ll take the fur, all of the violet velvet, and some more white linen,” Gemma told the merchant as she tugged on the desired materials.

  “This is to go on the Lovland’s account?” the merchant asked.

  “Yes,” Gemma said. She nodded in acknowledgment to the villager that entered the store—she knew him well. As a child, she had played often with his flat-nosed daughter who had a penchant for pinching. “I might be back for the silk brocade, too.”

  The merchant recorded Gemma’s purchase. “It’s a good cloth. You’re sure you don’t want the grey silk?”

  Gemma glanced at the described material. The silk was well made, and the color was a subdued dove gray, but that shade would make Lady Linnea resemble a pale ghost. “It’s not the right clot
h for Lady Linnea.”

  “Perhaps, but it would look stunning with your eyes,” the merchant said with a winning smile.

  Caught off guard, Gemma blinked twice. “Perhaps, but I don’t need a dress made of silk. It wouldn’t survive my week. This is all I want for now,” she said, resting her hand on the new material before wrapping her purchases with worn linen.

  “Of course, of course. You be careful walking home, Miss Kielland. Mind the weather, you hear?”

  “Yes. Until next time,” Gemma said before she left the tiny store, hauling her fabrics on her back.

  “Morning, Gemma,”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Hagen,” Gemma said to the older woman as they scurried through the village square.

  “Making another dress for Lady Linnea, are you?” the older woman asked, her plump lips set in disapproval.

  “That is what she employs me for,” Gemma said as they hurried past an empty fountain.

  “Frivolous, I say,” Mrs. Hagen grunted. “It’s a shame you took up clothes making. Your mother used to make the most beautiful quilts. Everyone needs quilts in this frigid place.”

  “I should think everyone needs clothes, too, Mrs. Hagen,” Gemma said, “or the city would be a blinding and chilly place to live.”

  “It would WHAT?” Mrs. Hagen exclaimed. “Child, you sound just like Guri these days.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hagen,” Gemma said.

  “That wasn’t a compliment. So, Miss Gemma, when will you pursue a real livelihood? You cannot live off Lady Linnea’s charity forever. After all, who needs fashion and dresses in a country of snow and a mad—,” Mrs. Hagen cut herself off and looked furtively in the direction of the Verglas palace.

  No one called King Torgen mad, even though he clearly was, if they wanted to survive.

  Gemma and Mrs. Hagen reached the perimeter of the village square. In summers, the square used to house outdoor markets. But that was years ago. Now it was used to publically execute whatever poor sop King Torgen decided to kill on a whim.

  “I enjoy making dresses and clothes,” Gemma said.

  “So, buy a doll,” Mrs. Hagen said, her moist eyes sourly directed to Gemma’s cloth purchases.

  Gemma smiled insincerely. “Perhaps one day. But for now, I must bid you good day, Mrs. Hagen,” she said, bobbing a curtsey.

  “Good day to you, Gemma,” Mrs. Hagen said before Gemma sped up her walking pace until she was all but trotting. It was a survival technique. Most of the Ostfold gossips did not have the lung capacity to speak and run at the same time.

  Gemma hurried home, taking a twisting path to Lady Linnea’s house.

  The grand manor was situated closer to the village square than it was to the palace. It was a short walk in the cool, fall air before Gemma arrived. Several flags flew from the flagpole, marking the three additional noble families staying with Lady Linnea’s parents instead of risking the palace.

  Gemma slipped in through the back entrance, avoiding the chaotic mess of the kitchen. She climbed a servants’ staircase and slipped into her workroom—which was a sea of lavish cloth and held the great luxury of a fireplace.

  Gemma rang the bell to summon a scullery maid before she unwrapped her materials and splayed them out over a workbench.

  “Did you need something, Gemma?” a scullery maid asked, poking her head in the room.

  “Sissel—perfect. I was hoping it would be you. Could you get a fire started, please?” Gemma said.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Sissel said, darting for the fireplace. In minutes she had the fireplace cleaned and lit, warming the room to a toasty temperature.

  “Is that all?”

  Gemma snapped a knotted rope. “No. Stand, please.”

  Wide-eyed, Sissel stood, brushing off her ash-smeared smock.

  Gemma walked around the scullery maid, brandishing her rope. She maneuvered Sissel’s arms, measuring them and her shoulder width. “Thank you, Sissel,” Gemma said after making a complete circuit around her.

  “Sissel? Sissel!”

  “Excuse me, Gemma,” Sissel said, bolting for the door.

  “There you are,” Malfrid, the head maid, said. “Cook needs you in the kitchen. Get a move on!” the red-faced woman said, folding her formidable arms across her chest. In this pose, she resembled a cream puff in her brown and white uniform.

  “She was helping me, Malfrid,” Gemma said, but Sissel was already gone, pounding down the servants’ stairs.

  “Hmph, no wonder,” Malfrid said, strolling into Gemma’s workroom. “Must be nice to be paid to sit around a room and do little.”

  “Is it? I wouldn’t know,” Gemma said, writing Sissel’s measurements on a small slate.

  “At least I’m hired because I’m good at what I do—not because I’m a personal friend of Lady Linnea,” Malfrid said.

  “You needn’t worry about that ever happening to you—with Lady Linnea or anyone else,” Gemma said, snagging a pin cushion.

  Malfrid went stiff as she tried to figure out if Gemma was insulting her or not. “Tale-teller,” she finally said.

  “If I told tales, I wouldn’t put up with your presence,” Gemma said, picking up a scissors. “Now if you don’t mind, I have a dress to make,” she said, pointedly staring at the door.

  “You might be proud of yourself, Gemma Kielland. But you’re nothing but a chicken borrowing turkey feathers,” Malfrid said before storming out of the room.

  “Peacock feathers. You mean I’m borrowing peacock feathers,” Gemma called after the stocky maid, although her attention was focused on the fabrics spread across her workbench.

  Most dressmakers would draw out a dress before they started making it. At the very least, they would measure out the material. Not Gemma. She could tell where to cut and exactly how to stitch fabrics together.

  Gemma worked in silence, her eyes—an unnerving mash of gray and blue so pale, they looked like river ice—narrowed in concentration. Her tea-brown hair spilled around her head in wavy, messy, shoulder-length ringlets—the ends twisted up in curls that no amount of brushing could undo. Her heart-shaped face was highlighted by the blue hair-band peppered with snowflake embroidery that ran across her forehead and pushed her hair away from her face.

  Gemma’s button nose twitched as she cut the last piece of pricey fabric, and the door to her workroom opened.

  “Gemma, I see you are hard at work,” Lady Lovland, Lady Linnea’s mother, said as she entered the room. Her daughter and a lady’s maid trailed her like lap-dogs.

  “Yes, My Lady,” Gemma said, setting her scissors aside so she could curtsey to the gentlewoman.

  “That is beautiful fabric. It will look stunning on you—wouldn’t you agree, Linnea?” Lady Lovland said, picking up the violet fabric and holding it out to her daughter.

  Lady Linnea resembled a statue of ice as her mother held the velvet against her blonde hair.

  “It will accent the blue of Lady Linnea’s eyes,” the lady’s maid, Jentine, said after several moments of awkward silence. Jentine was an older woman with silver hair and deep smile lines around her mouth. She usually treated Gemma well, probably because she knew Grandmother Guri. “I think it will complement her greatly. An excellent choice, Gemma,” Jentine said, giving Gemma a warm smile.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Gemma said.

  “Which reminds me, I am most pleased with the newest dress you made for Linnea,” Lady Lovland said. “The train is quite pretty, and the embroidery around the neckline is beautifully done. Didn’t you think so, too, darling?”

  Lady Linnea acknowledged the comment with a slight tip of her head.

  “Thank you, My Lady,” Gemma said, curtsying again.

  Lady Linnea went on, imitating a statue and not looking at Gemma.

  Gemma pushed her blue headband further up her forehead as Lady Linnea all but turned her back to Gemma. “When it is convenient, I shall need to measure Lady Linnea again. I wish to try a new gathering at the waist, and I must be positive my m
easurements are precise,” Gemma said.

  “Of course,” Lady Lovland said, elegantly flicking her fingers at her daughter. “Linnea is free now, I believe. Will you stay, Linnea?”

  Lady Linnea kept her face a perfect mask of porcelain as she curtseyed.

  “Wonderful. We will leave you girls to it. Come, Jentine. I can hear little Karl screaming in the nursery. I should collect him, lest he aggravate our guests,” Lady Loveland said.

  “Yes, My Lady,” Jentine said, following the elegant lady out of the room.

  Gemma listened to their steps fade down the hallway as Lady Linnea stood in the middle of the small room like a carving. When Gemma nudged the door shut, Linnea’s shoulders heaved.

  “Finally,” Lady Linnea said, flopping into a chair like a tired child. “I thought I would never be free of Mama this morning. She spent all of breakfast hounding me to improve my embroidery,” Lady Linnea said, her face scrunching up.

  “What happened to dancing?” Gemma asked, returning to her workbench to start pinning the fabric pieces together.

  “She says I’ve mastered it—which is hardly fair, because you are right: some of the more elaborate steps and turns can be used in swordplay. Speaking of which…”

  Lady Linnea scrambled out of her chair and ran to the fireplace. A short sword was carefully hidden, tucked into the side of the fireplace. Lady Linnea unsheathed the sword. “I only feel alive when I’m holding a weapon,” she said, reverently holding the sword in front of her.

  “Be more careful while practicing, My Lady. That last rip in your dress was in an awkward spot. It was difficult to patch,” Gemma said, threading a needle with ease.

  Lady Linnea swept the sword through the air in several different practice moves before she sheathed the sword and thumped across the room to look over Gemma’s shoulder. “No petticoats?” she asked, her voice hopeful.

  “No petticoats,” Gemma said. “The gown parts in the front and back. Publically it is to show the lacework on the kirtle, but the kirtle splits in areas where the gown sits.”

  “So I will be able to move easier? Gemma, you are a genius,” Lady Linnea said, turning away from the workbench, satisfied with Gemma’s explanation. “Mama thinks you might be one of the best seamstresses in Verglas, but she doesn’t even know the brilliant changes you make to your dresses for me,” Lady Linnea said.