But a miracle happens. The roses start to lift their heads, and once they do, the clouds part to reveal a ray of sunshine, and a rainbow casts its colors above us. I smile at the flowers that had once caused me pain, happy they now look well as drops of rain slide down their petals and to their stems. While the ground appears to be mud, it still feels dry and hard beneath my feet.
A hand rests on my shoulder.
"What were you dreaming about?"
Suddenly I am not in the rose garden, but lying on a stone ground. Prince Henry stands above me, holding out a bouquet of deep purple roses.
"I know you can't take them with you, but I gathered them just the same."
He places them on the ground beside me and I sit up, wishing I could pick them up and hold them to my nose. I lean over them instead, still attempting to breath in the sweet smell of blossoming roses.
"You picked them for me? Thank you," I say, thrilled to be out of one dream and into another, one where I am with Prince Henry.
"What is it you were dreaming about?" He smiles mysteriously, as if holding onto a secret.
"Why?" I ask, suddenly self conscious. Had I been drooling? Father always used to tell me I drooled in my sleep. And talked. Oh, please tell me I wasn't talking.
"You were smiling." He sits down on the bench beside me.
"I was?" Relieved, I try to remember where I'd been before. Ah yes, the roses. "Oh, I was in a rose garden, the one outside the hot house where I'm fast asleep." It feels strange to be talking about where my body is, when my mind is clearly someplace else.
"Your parents put you in a hot house?" He leans back on one hand and takes a bite of a plum with the other. "Why would they do that?"
I bow my head, feeling ashamed of the truth, whatever the truth may be, for I've only ever speculated as to why they've done this. "I like to think it was because it was too painful to have me so close to them, so accessible." I look up to Henry, wanting to take a bite of the real food he holds so carelessly in his hand, so taken for granted. "I imagine them coming to see me in my bedroom often those first few months, caught up in their sorrow and grieving, until finally they knew it was time to move on."
"I'm sorry." He takes one more large bite of the plum and then tosses the remains into a nearby shrub. "Does it pain you to talk about them?"
"Yes," I admit openly. "I hate to think of them mourning me when I am not dead to be mourned. Does that make any sense?"
He leans forward now, placing both hands on the edge of the bench. "Perhaps you should be grateful that your parents are still alive."
The words sting me, cutting me through the center. "How can you say something so cruel to me?"
"My parents are dead." He speaks it without any emotion. A simple accepted fact.
I search my memory for some knowledge of this. The king and queen of Fallund? Dead? No, this is news to me. "I'm sorry," I say, for nothing else comes to mind.
An uncertain silence stands between us. Had he slept the night outside in the garden? The thought of asking him this question mortifies me. Thankfully, he begins to explain.
"You've been out here for some time now. It's been two days since our last conversation. My guess is that you're not leaving anytime soon. Whenever I come down in the morning, here you are, sleeping."
I process this slowly, wondering at the possibility of such a notion, that a part of me is choosing to stay in this garden so I am close to him, and then another part of me wanders off in the strange dreams of my deeper sleep.
"Oh," I say, feeling stupid, and revealed in some personal way. Too personal.
"And thanks to you, half my council thinks I'm crazy."
"They do?"
"Oh, yes. All sorts of rumors are scurrying about the castle like mice, including rumors about my—" He leans in close to me with a hand guarding his mouth as if to keep anybody else from seeing or hearing what he's about to say, and then whispers, "Garden conversations with imaginary beings."
He's being playful, and I'm grateful he doesn't seem to be angry with me. "Ah," I say. "Well you may tell them that I don't think you're crazy."
He scoffs at the idea. "I don't think I'll be telling anyone about you. I'm not even sure I believe you're really here."
This hurts even more than his comment about my parents. Can't he see me? And hear me? Isn't that proof enough?
"I know what will cheer you up," he says. "In a short while I'll be meeting with my council." He is teasing me, smiling undoubtedly about my behavior in the last meetings.
Briefly I remember our discussion about war, and how my kingdom blames him for my curse and withholds support for revenge. "I don't think I want to go to your council meeting."
"I'll let you play with Covington's moustache," he entices. He must see that I don't want to come, and I think he must really want me there because now he looks solemn. "I'll be in this meeting for most of the day. I'd be honored if you joined me. I may not be at liberty to acknowledge your presence, but I will listen to any thoughts you may have." He avoids my eyes now, and stares down to the roses still resting on the ground. "And I would love to have your company."
Suddenly I'm five years old again, and feel as though Father has invited me on one of his sea voyages. I can't help smiling now, despite the prospect of war. "I'd be honored as well. Thank you for the invitation."
He picks up the bouquet of roses and leads me inside, where he hands the flowers off to Marie, instructing her to put them in a vase and bring them up to the council chamber. He ignores her questioning stare.
We climb the tower stairs and I marvel at how the main level below gets smaller and smaller as we climb. I follow him, eased by his confidence as we reach the chamber to find men are already arriving. Duke waits outside the door and Henry asks him if Duncan will be attending. Duke shakes his head in answer.
"Who's Duncan?" I ask.
He leans close to me and makes sure nobody is watching him. Even Duke is distracted by the maids arranging the cart outside. "He's my brother."
A vague memory comes to mind, voices outside the castle the night I'd come by carriage. Prince Duncan. I let the name roll off my tongue a time or two. It feels familiar, safe. I like him already even though we've never met.
"Gentlemen, if you'll be seated, I'd like to get started immediately." Henry takes his place at the center of the far, long side of the table, directly across from the sea painting. Marie enters with a cart full of food, tea, and the vase of deep purple roses which she places at one end of the table.
A few of the men whisper. One comments on how lovely the flowers look, clearly amused by the idea of flowers in a council meeting. Henry ignores them.
"I trust you've all had the opportunity to read the letter and brainstorm possible solutions. I would like to hear any ideas you have. We'll start to my right."
The stout man who always sits next to Henry gives his opinion. "We must ask for support form Cray."
I am standing in front of the painting. Henry looks at me and we exchange a glance before he turns back to his council member.
"What do you mean?"
"I am under the impression that without help from Cray, we do not stand a chance in a war against Tern. Their armies are too large. And it may be a trick. Perhaps they have actually enlisted the help of the barbarians to fight against us. They may seek help from Cray eventually anyway. It would be better for us to restore them as allies before Tern gets to them."
Henry leans back in his chair and rubs his chin. Can he see the terror on my face? I do not want Cray fighting in any war.
"They can give us the advantage in many ways," another voice adds. A man I'd never seen before, his dark eyes and tight jacket catch my attention, as does his unusually long hair. "They can give us sea cover, and if they allow us to cut through their lands, we will not have to go through the barbarians to get to Tern."
"Form an alliance," Henry says, musing. "Or, restore one, that is." He looks at me again.
I shake
my head at him. As much as I would love the alliance to be restored, I do not want Father fighting in any war, and I know he will not allow his people to fight unless he is at the lead.
He looks around the room, seemingly at each individual face of his council men, and then always back to me. Is he hoping I'll express my opinion?
"Well, I vote no!"
A smile forms on his lips.
"Do you find this amusing, Prince Henry?" one of the men asks.
Henry clears his throat and sits up taller in his chair, scooting it closer to the table as well. "No. Just puzzling. I am thinking on it. I hadn't considered asking Cray for help, assuming of course that they are still at odds with us because of the sleeping curse placed on Princess Eglantine."
A few of the men begin to laugh. "Does Prince Henry still believe in fairy stories?" one of them asks, still chuckling.
I glare at him.
Henry looks at me for a reaction. Is he concerned for my feelings? Well, if he is, he will keep Cray out of his war.
"Are there any other ideas?" Henry asks.
Growing more frightened with each moment of silence following, I start to breathe heavily, terrified of the prospect. I think of Father and almost as soon as I do I think I hear his voice. Could it be time for them to visit me again? It doesn't seem like enough time has passed.
I am not ready to go back. "Say something," I say to Henry.
"What would you like me to say?"
It takes a moment before he realizes he's said it out loud and now all the council men look at him expectantly.
"Say you'll ask for support from the king of Cray," one of them answers.
No, anything but that. "Say something," I repeat. "There must be another solution."
Henry tries to pretend he can't hear me and clears his throat before investigating further. "What does our army look like?"
Everyone looks to the end of the table closest to the door, the one opposite my roses. "Commander?" Henry asks. "What does our army look like?"
The commander leans forward, thoughtful. "Well, they train regularly, practice fighting techniques, and learn war strategies, but they've never had real experience."
A quiet murmur spreads throughout the room. "And they're young. Average age is twenty-one."
"You see, Prince Henry," the stout man on Henry's right says. "It is foolish to go into this war alone. We have no other allies."
"Is it really that hopeless? Is that really all you have?" Henry asks, throwing his arms up in the air. I am equally disappointed at their lack of creativity. "I'll be writing a correspondence to the king of Tern later today. Please tell me we can come up with at least one more alternative plan."
Some of the men exchange glances.
"No?" Henry questions once more. "Fine. Then you will sit here until you come up with something else."
A common groan sounds now.
"We'll take a recess for a few minutes. Please help yourselves to some nourishment. You're going to need it."
I hear Mother's voice now. She is laughing. Curious, I try to listen in without losing my hold on the sight of Henry, nor the sound of his voice.
"If you'll excuse me," Henry says, standing up and walking toward the door.
Stella laughs now. "I knew it would happen." Her voice is faint, so distant I wonder if I'm slipping into another layer of dreaming rather than hearing her for real.
I feel a kiss on my cheek, and the wet warmth of hot tears. Startled that I will lose Henry if I do not stay with him, I follow him out the door.
He paces back and forth, running his hands through his hair until it is quite messy.
"You need a comb now," I tell him.
"What?" He looks at me.
"Your hair." I nod toward the stacked mess on his head.
"Oh, right." He settles it back down with his fingers. "What am I going to do?" He had asked the ground, as if the ground would tell him, but I take it as a sign that he wants to know what I think.
"I think you'll do the right thing."
"Eglantine," Father says. "Eglantine, can you hear me?"
I turn away from Henry for a moment, looking up to my right. I want to tell him that yes, I do hear him, but that I can't listen to him right now. "It's your mother," he says.
Henry says something but it isn't until he's finished that I realize I hadn't been listening. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" I ask.
"Eglantine, your mother is going to have a baby." He starts to cry. I've never seen Father cry, but I can hear him now, practically sobbing.
Henry repeats himself, but again I do not hear it. I lean my ear toward Father, or at least, toward where I believe him to be, sitting by my right side. Instinctively, I lie down.
"Eglantine, what are you doing?" Henry asks.
"Something's happened. My mother's expecting a baby."
"Eglantine, you're not leaving, are you? Please stay here," Henry says.
"The spell, Eglantine. The spell will be broken," Father continues. He grabs my hand and leans forward to kiss me, his cheeks gruff and scratchy. I jerk as several of his tears fall onto my face.
"Eglantine, please don't go." Henry sounds urgent now. I am torn between whether to celebrate with my family, or stay with the one person that will give me any interaction.
"Darling, it's true." Aunt Cornelia isn't crying. She sounds ecstatic, overjoyed. "You'll be awake again. And we'll do all the things we've missed out on all these years."
"Shhhh," Stella whispers. "You're disturbing her. She's beginning to shake. Stand back, I'm going to administer some tonic."
"No!" I say.
"No, you won't stay?" Henry asks.
Henry, I'd forgotten all about Henry. But I know he can't help me. It's too late. Stella will give me the tonic and I'll be dreaming that I'm in a dream...in a dream...in a dream.
"Eglantine, wait." It is the last I hear of Henry's voice.
"Redelia, hold her other hand," Stella says. The liquid runs down my throat and nearly gags me. I cough and sputter, turning onto my side. Mother lets go of my hand as I pull it away so I can lie on my stomach.
"Oh, I hate to see her like this," Mother says, and I imagine her putting her hands over her eyes. "I can't stand it." She begins to cry. I wonder if she realizes how much those words hurt me, how much I wish she would bear it with a little more courage, a little more acceptance.
Suddenly it's black as night, and I'm standing in a thick forest filled with panic, terrified that I will see her shortly—the witch who cursed me—and she will chase me through the woods until I realize the woods have no end.
1
Sleeping Beauty and the Beast
8
Beast
Duncan stared through the prison bars at the girl in the corner. If nothing else, at least she was eating, even if it was a strip of raw fish. Duncan hadn't yet discovered what it was that she loved, what would open her up a bit. She'd ripped the dress to shreds and pulled every single flower off its stem, not to mention shattered the vase then licked the water off the ground.
He watched her as she knelt there, holding the fish to her mouth and violently tearing the meat apart with her teeth. She seemed to enjoy it as much as the deer and pheasant she'd been given previously.
Today, Duncan had brought some paper, quills and an inkwell. He reached his hands through the bars, holding onto the gifts he offered her. She looked up from her meal, jerking back at his forward motions.
"It's all right," Duncan said. "I'm not going to hurt you. Do you like to draw? Or maybe write some poetry?"
He thought it sounded so foolish coming out of his mouth. How could such a creature love such things? Had she ever even seen anything like them before?
"I'm just going to set them down here, and then you can use them if you'd like."
She continued to twitch, dropping the fish and backing away.
"Please don't be frightened. I only want to help you."
The girl began breathing heavily, huffing
and growling. Duncan released the treasures and pulled his hands out of the bars. She rolled back onto her feet, crouched low and swaying back and forth.
Duncan knew he'd done it now. Something had set her off. He quickly reached his arm in again to retrieve the offensive items and she came after him, staying low to the ground and yelling incoherently. Duncan pulled his arm out just in time to prevent the tragedy of having it torn off by the wild beast. She reached the bars and let out a loud, animalistic roar, following which she tore up all the paper and threw the inkwell, hitting Duncan directly on the chest. Ink spilled out and ran down his shirt and breeches. He thought it ironic that now he actually wore normal clothing when going outside the castle, it should get destroyed.
He turned toward the guard and said, "That went well."
Met with nothing but laughter, Duncan walked toward the exit. "I think I'll go and get cleaned up a bit." Glancing back at her, the prince saw her inspecting the quills, as if she knew not to destroy a feather, but could not figure out what the use of this particular feather was.
The guard stopped laughing momentarily. "Perhaps you should bring someone to sing to her, a minstrel. Or a jester. Everyone loves to laugh."
"I highly doubt its entertainment that she wants."
"What then?" the prison guard asked.
"I don't know." Duncan walked away, and determined not to be discouraged, he thought of more ideas. Perhaps she did like to be sung to, or to listen to an instrument being played. Duncan had yet to try animals as well. She was wild after all. A dog or a bunny might be just the thing to begin earning her trust. Or she might snap its neck and sink her teeth into it.
On his way back to the castle, Duncan thought of nothing else. He knew there had to be a way. Could Marie have been wrong, and all these attempts at finding something the woman was interested in merely a waste of precious time?
Once in his bedroom, Duncan changed his clothing, selecting a similar outfit to the ink-stained one. He buttoned it while standing in front of a mirror hanging on his wall. Then he noticed something sitting on the writing desk behind him, a reflection of something he knew hadn't been there before. Turning around, Duncan walked toward the desk by the window, still buttoning the front of his shirt. A brush lay atop the desk. The prince couldn't remember ever using a brush. His hair wasn't long enough to need one. Had Marie brought it?
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