Her Moon: A Retelling of William Shakespeare's The Winter's Tale

by Cortney Pearson

  “It’s dreadfully boring,” he says, guiding me to the desk, covered in papers. “I keep track of paperwork while my father is the loyal scaleman to the king. He’s here analyzing the countryside and I’m helping him catalog the citizens, seeing the specifics of each industry and sequencing them. I take the notes and write up the reports that get sent on to King Leontes.”

  “You wrote up a report on my uncle’s sheep farm? You’re right,” I say, staring down at his elegant handwriting across an open scroll. “That does sound boring.”

  Cove bursts out in laughter. “Nothing as exciting as forging tools and household wares, I suppose?”

  “There’s nothing as exciting as working metal with fire to create something entirely new.” Just above the scroll sits a small triangle with two entwined circles imprinted in its center. “What is this?” I ask.

  Hands behind his back, Cove steps forward and removes the small triangle from its place. He offers it to me.

  “That is an emblem of Sicilia. See how the rings connect? It represents loyalty. I’ve been meaning to give it to you, actually.”

  I trace the emblem’s ridges. “You—you were?”

  “You have such a meticulous eye for detail and things carved by hand,” he says, inching closer.

  I can’t think—can’t breathe. It’s only Cove and me. The rooms, the maps, the reports, Bohemia—all fade to ghosts.

  “The truth is,” he mumbles, “I can’t get you off my mind.”

  His bright blue eyes gleam like marbles. As he did the night before, Cove strokes my cheek with electric fingertips. And this time, he leans down to press his lips to mine.

  The kiss is soft, enigmatic. It swirls and sways, encompassing me, bringing out parts of me I wasn’t even aware existed. The spaces between my bones, the heat beneath my skin, the bellows urging the fire in my chest higher and higher until I burn just being near him, being touched by him, his mouth, him, him, him…

  His lips pull away. His hands trail down, stroking the skin at my arms, exploring their way to the small of my back.

  “Perdita,” he whispers. “Isn’t this strange? I hardly know you, but from the minute we met, something in you latched onto me and won’t let me go.”

  It’s too fast, too much, my brain tells me. He’s right—we don’t know each other. And yet my heart takes the reins, allowing me to roam at will.

  “It’s the same for me,” I tell him, my chest swelling like a cavern flooding from a newly burst dam. I keep my eyes closed, savoring the little surges making their way along my arms, my chest, everywhere his body meets mine.

  His mouth finds mine again. I should stop—we should stop. But I’m magnetized by him. Pulling away goes against every unwritten law of nature.

  “How can this be happening?” I mumble, gripping his lapels, inhaling the scent of his skin. My dreams have all been of escape. Nowhere was a boy included in that, and yet here I am kissing one I hardly know and not minding in the least.

  “What is this?”

  Cove whirls around, arms still around me.

  “Father. I was just—”

  Sir Rutledge’s glare jumps between us. Graying sideburns climb down to his jaw, and an angry glower resides on his brow. The echoes of Cove’s kiss play on my lips. No doubt his father can tell what we were just doing by mere scrutiny.

  Rutledge’s boots echo on the tile and he rips his son away from me.

  “She is exceptionally skilled, but she is a blacksmith.”

  “Father, I—”

  “That’s not the life I’ve created for you! Have you forgotten Florizel?”

  Among all the conflicting thoughts buzzing in my skull—worries and a protectiveness for Cove, shame at being caught kissing him, delight at having kissed him—one remains forefront. Who is Florizel?

  Rutledge smacks Cove hard across the jaw. Cove staggers, but manages to stay on his feet. I grip Cove’s triangular emblem so hard it hurts.

  “You’re not to see her again, is that understood?” Rutledge yells, pointing directly at me. “If you want anything from me, you’re not to see her again. Florizel is waiting. Don’t forget that.”

  With a final glare at us both, he storms back into the hall, leaving us in blaring silence. Florizel is waiting. Cove nurses his jaw, but I don’t wait. I dash out, hating myself for coming here, for thinking I had any right to be with him.

  “Perdita!” Cove calls, but I rush toward the stable and retrieve my horse.

  I press Ivory as fast as she’ll run, then cringe when I arrive at the barn and hear hooves not far behind. Cove bridles in Ember and dismounts, making straight for me. His jaw is still red from the slap, and his dark hair is deliciously rumpled.

  “Perdita,” he says, breathlessly.

  I sniff, squinting into the sun, looking anywhere but at him. “Who is Florizel?”

  “My bride,” he says with derision. “I’m to marry her in the spring.”

  His bride.

  The nearby sheep become the most interesting things in the world. I blink far too many times. “Do you want to marry her?” I finally ask.

  He grips me by the shoulders and, though I fight it, forces me to face him. “Would I be here with you if I did?”

  I break away. What am I, one last fling before he becomes chained to this mysterious woman? “So you are saying goodbye now. Goodbye to the sheepherder’s ward, the female blacksmith whose hands are too callused to be held by yours.”

  In a frantic gesture Cove snatches my hand, clasping it in both of his. When I try to pull free he brings it to his chest. “My father doesn’t own me. He can’t control what I do, Perdita.”

  “You’ll lose your inheritance,” I argue.

  “Let me lose it. So long as I have you, what does a little money matter?”

  “Do you hear yourself? We hardly know each other—we only met a week ago!”

  And money matters. He may not understand, but I do. I stare back at my more-than-humble home. At the thatched roof I’ve helped patch, the chicken coop I’ve mucked out and the sheep grazing along the field. He doesn’t understand what this means. Not really.

  “It doesn’t matter, Perdy! We’ll run away, live in the old mill. You’ll blacksmith and I’ll learn to thatch roofs and we’ll have babies and live a pleasant, simple life!”

  “It could never be that simple.” I remove my hand from his grasp. A rock wedges in my chest. “Maybe we are where we should be. Christabel Attwater has promised me passage with her as soon as I finish her wares. I’ll see England, Cove. I’ll get off this infernal island.”

  He steps back. “You can’t mean that.”

  “I do. Especially if you are to be married. I mean to be as far from you as I can manage.”

  Cove reaches for me, but I tear away from him, lifting my skirts as I run.

  “Perdita!” he cries.

  But I don’t turn, I don’t respond. I can’t bear for him to see the tears streaming down my cheeks.

  Five

  What a fool I was to let myself become so attached in such a short time. Argento warned me about giving my heart away too soon. I’ve seen it in others who ran off in bliss and now are eternally miserable for being too hasty. Where was my head?

  To my surprise, Christabel is standing in our humble living quarters. Memories flood in, memories of when Christabel had been my nanny—despite her high station, a fact I’ve often wondered about. Like always, she wears an elegant dress, its green skirts full and sweeping along the floor.

  “Where has Argento gone?” I ask, sniffling and hurrying to wipe my cheeks.

  She examines something in the palm of her hand. “He will be back soon. He asked me to wait here until Dion comes to tend the sheep for the night.”

  Cove’s promises ring through my head, but I scuff a hand across my eyes and force my thoughts away from him. It’s senseless to center on something I can’t have, so I shift to another topic, one brought to mind again at his mention of the old mill.

&nbs
p; “Christabel, have you heard of the story of the Queen of Sicilia? What happened to her?”

  Christabel gawps at me. “Mercy me, why would you be asking about something like that?”

  “You do know. Please tell me.”

  Christabel sighs and sinks onto the rusty stool. I wince. Nothing in here is clean enough for her to sit on, but she doesn’t seem to care about sullying her fine skirts.

  “King Leontes’ friend had been visiting them for nine months when this friend figured it was time to go home. But by this time, the queen—who was quite pregnant, ready to burst, I expect—begged and begged the friend to stay.”

  “And the king didn’t like that?” I surmise.

  Christabel rises again. “He grew suspicious when he heard how earnestly she begged the man to stay, and his jealousy got the better of him. Instead of trusting his wife and finding out the truth, he banished her to prison and tried to kill his friend. The queen had her baby in prison. The friend fled.”

  Cove had mentioned a few of these details as well. Talk about overreacting. “And the queen, did she die? What happened to the baby?”

  “No one knows, Perdita. She was lost. The king summoned an Oracle to discover the truth, but by the time the soothsayer learned of the queen’s innocence, the poor woman had died.”

  The queen died. And in prison, no less.

  It was bad enough seeing that statue of her. But hearing the whole story, knowing all the sad details, is too much. No wonder the king couldn’t bear to see the replicated image of her. The memory alone is torturous.

  “No one really speaks of it now, you know,” Christabel goes on. “Most people believe it’s only a legend. It’s been seventeen years, after all.”

  “What was her name?” I ask quietly, petting Argento’s soft alpaca wall-hanging near the door. “The queen’s?”

  Christabel hands me the item in her palm. I recognize the clay flower Argento had found in my basket so long ago and flip it over to find the H carved on the backside. I’ve wondered a thousand times what that H stands for, and I push down the rising suspicion building in my gut.

  “The queen’s name was Hermione,” Christabel finally says.

  ***

  In the village I slow Ivory to a stop and retrieve the lock and key I’d finally mastered. Lord Barrington had requested it weeks ago—I’m glad to get it off my hands and receive payment. The fences need repairing.

  Through the past two weeks I’ve tried ramming down any and all thoughts of Cove—and that statue—but he’s everywhere I turn. In the air, the sky, the trees. Even riding Ivory is painful. I haven’t seen him since the day he kissed me. It’s just a stupid crush, I tell myself. This will pass. He can marry, and I’ll see the world. That’s that.

  Several villagers pass and greet me. I nod in response, lugging the heavy lock toward the manor’s front door, when the sound of horse’s hooves approaches.

  “Here you are!” says an ardent voice.

  Cove swings down. Before I know it, I’ve dropped the lock and he’s pulling me to his chest and into the shadows beside the brick wall.

  His lips meet mine in a frenzy, and while I know I should fight, the sensation is too much, climbing up my legs, my arms, my chest, reeling me to him.

  “Cove,” I say once he breaks away, breathing hard.

  “I’ve found us passage,” he says, thumbs scaling my jaw. “On a vessel bound for Sicilia. But we must leave tonight.”

  I stare at the street beyond him. “Tonight, I can’t—I promised Christabel I’d finish her order.” It’s so close. I just have to complete the detailing. And after thinking it over, I have to ask her about the H on that flower.

  Cove bends his gaze to mine. His eager blue eyes are pleading. “It’s tonight or not at all. My father is away on business—it’s our best chance to sneak away. This vessel leaves at sunset. Please, Perdita. Come with me.”

  “What about Florizel?”

  He continues stroking my face. “I mean as little to her as she to me. I’m just a wealthy conquest. I assure you, our elopement will be a blessing for her as well.”

  A thousand reasons tumble through my brain. Reasons to stay. Reasons to go. I want to adventure, to see the world. I wanted to go with Christabel—I’m about done with her items. And Argento—I can’t leave him with nothing but a goodbye note. Not with a broken fence and a crumbling farm. What kind of gratitude would that be for all he’s done for me?

  But Cove. The way his glances say more than words ever could, the way he touches me, the way my soul alights just being near him. His warm breath touches my neck.

  “The moon, Perdy,” he whispers. “Let me give you your moon.” His lips close beneath my ear, and then he’s off, mounting Ember and riding away.

  ***

  Argento sits near the fireplace in our home, his feet wrapped in thick woolen socks made from our sheep. He cradles a steaming mug in his hands and stares at the flickering flames.

  “You’re back early,” I say, surprised to see him here so soon. “Hard day today?” I take the rocking chair opposite from him. He nods.

  Cove’s request has tormented me all day, so it’s a relief my stepfather has returned from the mountain. I’ve got a decision to make, but I need answers first. The best place to start is the beginning.

  “Can I ask you a question, Argento? You told me you found me as a small child. How?”

  His glassy expression shatters. He blinks, looking older than I’ve ever seen him. “What?”

  “How did you find me?” I ask. “You’ve never really told me.”

  Argento takes a deep breath and stares into the fire. “It’s time to rest, Perdita. We both have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

  “Please. Please tell me.”

  “It was seventeen years ago. A terrible ordeal. I found you in a basket by the wayside where one of the king’s retainers had fallen sick. I offered to care for you.”

  Good heavens, it can’t be. I go rigid. “The king’s…retainers…Why would I have been with the king’s second man?”

  “Perdita, I—”

  Slowly the cogs settle, each chinking into their places. Seventeen years ago, a baby girl went missing. A baby girl born in a prison.

  Dashing upstairs, I throw a few items into a pack and scribble a hasty note, just in case. I know Argento will understand. He’s got to. He’s still in his place by the fire when I come back down again. I lean in for our usual quick kiss on the cheek.

  “Thank you. For everything you’ve done for me. I love you, Argento. I can’t explain now, but I have to go.”

  Six

  I don’t bother re-saddling Ivory but instead swing myself onto her bare back and charge down the hill. I don’t stop—not for the wagons, not for citizens crossing the streets. One woman carrying a basket stumbles backward, the contents toppling out. I go straight to Christabel’s lavish home.

  “It’s me, isn’t it?” I say, not bothering to knock. “Queen Hermione. I’m the baby she lost so long ago.”

  Christabel stares out the window. Several extravagant chairs trimmed with lace adorn the space. “He told you, did he?” she asks.

  I stride deeper into the room. “How long have you known?”

  “I was there when the retainer brought you,” Christabel says. “When the horrible news was shared, and we saw the Sicilian royal seal in your basket—along with that flower—Argento and I knew no one could know. So he brought you here, raised you, and I helped in any way I could. I was in no position to be a mother to you, not when I had my own child to look after, but I offered…financial assistance when needed. Until you began blacksmithing, that is.”

  I think again of the statue, and after several stretched moments, I speak.

  “Cove asked me to run away with him.”

  Christabel’s mouth falls open. Seeming to realize this, she closes it. Her teeth click. “Does Argento know?”

  I shake my head and sink into one of her fancy chairs. “I don’t know wha
t to do. But I don’t want Cove to know the truth about my parents. Not yet. His father despises me. I don’t want to suddenly be welcomed with open arms simply because of my birth status. I don’t want the praise, the glory I know will follow should word leak out. I don’t want to be the king’s lost daughter. Argento is all the father I’ll ever need. I told him so in this.”

  I hand Christabel the note explaining everything, including the money I left for him in the basket where my maps are. Sadness strains her eyes as she takes it.

  “I understand.”

  I rise and hurry to her. “Then you know this has to die here. Queen Hermione’s daughter stays lost. Promise me. Please, Christabel.”

  She laughs. “I had hoped to present you as a lady at court in England. But this Cove Rutledge—you love him?”

  Words don’t come for several beats.

  “I barely know him,” I say.

  “But you want this.”

  “I do,” I say, surprised that it’s the truth. “I want to be with him. I like him. He’s kind to me. He makes me laugh, makes me feel like I’m important. I want to find out what love is. And with the way things are I can’t do that here.”

  “You could make this simple, you know. Tell the truth. Argento and I could help. You still wouldn’t have to appease Cove’s father. The two of you could still marry, could still make it.”

  I shake my head, remembering the statue. Her sadness. Her loss. “I know what would follow. I don’t want to return to the man who betrayed and killed my mother.” I’ll never call King Leontes my father. Never.

  “If you do this—run off and marry that boy—you know you’ll have to eventually tell him the truth.”

  “I will. When the timing is right, I will.”

  Her green eyes meet mine. She squeezes my hand. “Very well. Hermione’s baby is lost.”

  I hug her. “Thank you, Christabel. Oh, and I left you a crate back at the barn.”

  ***

  I ride hard. Sunset illumines the horizon with rays of gold and orange. Ivory’s flanks quiver beneath me, but still I push her until I arrive at the dock. Gulls caw and flitter from stacks of cargo to gather on the ropes blocking the dock from the ocean.