Something else rested atop the desk, an envelope with his name on it. Curious, he opened it, finding a letter addressed to him on top of another piece of parchment.
"Master Duncan," it began.
Duncan glanced to the closing of the letter to see who had penned it. Karl's signature was found at the bottom of the page. The short message simply asked him to read the enclosed.
Duncan read the letter, addressed to the king of Fallund, and as he did, an unquenchable anger filled him. How could his brother have been so stupid? What was all this talk of war? He set the letter down and took long strides to his wardrobe, selecting a clean pair of shoes. After going back for the letter, and also picking up the silver handled hairbrush, Duncan stormed out of his room and straight to the council chamber room below.
"Have you seen this?" Duncan asked his brother after bursting through the door.
Henry squinted at him. "What is it?"
"Well, it's not a declaration of war, I can tell you that much."
"What on earth are you talking about?" Henry began reading again which only fueled Duncan's anger.
"I want you to stop that. Stop reading and listen to me."
Henry slammed his book shut. "Very well, Brother. What is it?"
"This is not a declaration of war." Duncan waved the letter in front of him.
Henry stood and walked toward his brother, looking annoyed, perhaps even guilty. Grabbing the letter out of Duncan's hands, he only needed to glance at it before he knew what it was.
"Well if it isn't a declaration of war, then what is it? I am glad you finally decided to share your opinion on this." Henry spat the words, his own anger coming out and it filled Duncan with remorse. Only if he'd gone to one of those council meetings, he may have prevented all of this.
"It is an invitation for peace and alliance."
"How can you be so naive?" Henry yelled. "It clearly threatens war. It's an open invitation."
"No, look." Duncan grabbed the parchment back from him and pointed to the words as he read. "We have no choice but to bring slaughter onto the barbarians. They are spreading innumerably, entering our lands and causing chaos wherever they reach. If you refuse to assist us in this effort, we will not be responsible for any of your countrymen that find themselves in our way."
"I fail to see the invitation for peace."
"Henry you must write to him. Write to him and tell him we will help him fight the barbarians. It will be easily done. They have few weapons, and even those are mostly used for hunting their food. They are uneducated. We will not lose many lives." Duncan pleaded with his brother, hoping to find some success before it was too late.
"Look who's suddenly the expert on Tern, foreign relations, war and barbarians." Henry spoke calmly, his arms folded across his chest.
"I attended lessons same as you. Remember?"
"Of course I remember. I just thought you didn't care." The words were intended to sting. Duncan could see it in his brother's eyes. He had wanted to hurt him with his words.
"Well you were wrong. I do care. And I am opposed to this war. Unequivocally. It is folly."
"It's too late," Henry said. "I already sent correspondence. We are preparing for war. We have to at least defend ourselves. If they make war on the barbarians, then our lands will be overrun."
"Well at least write to Cray for help then."
Just then the door opened and Duke walked in, eyeing both the princes with a look of suspicion. "Is everything all right Master Henry?"
Duncan ran his hand through his hair as he watched his brother perform the same act simultaneously.
"Yes, Duke. Everything is fine," Henry said.
"Why are you doing this?" Duncan asked.
After deducing that Henry was not going to answer him, Duncan turned to leave. He crumpled the letter and threw it over the balcony. Filled with rage, he wanted to throw the hairbrush as well, but restrained himself. How could his brother be so stupid?
Henry and Duke continued the conversation without him and Duncan listened to their words.
"I'm angry that he refuses to attend council meetings, and then has the audacity to come in here and tell me I'm in the wrong. Where was he the night we met to discuss this?" Poor Duke. Now he was getting scolded for Duncan's behavior.
Duncan moved closer to the door, placing his ear near the crack to hear better. "Calm down, Master Henry. I'm sure he means well."
"Why can't he realize that I don't need another council member or aide? All I really need is a brother by my side. Doesn't he have any idea how lonely and taxing this job is without him?"
Duncan peeked through the crack to see Henry sit down at the table. Duke stood beside him. "I imagine not, your highness."
Pulling back, Duncan walked away, steadily picking up his pace until he was running down the tower stairs and out to the garden where the first thing he saw was Worston's face. He couldn't contain it any longer. He felt as thought he would explode.
"Hello, Master Duncan. Just the prince I was looking for. You're a hard fellow to find these days. Oh, what a lovely hairbrush—"
Without warning, and further angered by Worstn's teasing, Duncan threw his fist into the man's face. Worston fell backward at the blow, covered his eye and nose, and then scrambled to his feet.
"What was that for?" he asked.
"Wrong place, wrong time," Duncan answered. "And don't follow me today. That's an order."
Worston backed away to let the prince past, placing his free hand up in a gesture of surrender. Duncan glanced back at him, feeling only a little sorry for what he'd done.
Walking quickly, he allowed Henry's words to sink in. He hadn't wanted another council member or aide? Just a brother?
The prince had to force himself to breathe, in and out, in and out, until he felt calm enough to turn the quick breaths into slower and slower ones. As the anger seeped away some, Duncan allowed the guilt to flood in. This was all his fault. All his refusing to attend meetings and dodging his brother and escaping the castle. It had all added up to a war that didn't really need to happen. And it was all his fault.
Duncan thought of the army, probably on full alert now, training daily. How many of them would die needlessly because of his selfishness, his refusal to step up and be who he'd been born to be. But what about Henry? Even he had refused the title of King, even though he was the rightful heir. All the kingdom still referred to him as Prince Henry. After the king and queen had died, still in mourning and overwhelmed with his new responsibilities, Henry had postponed any coronation, making one excuse after another for over five years now. Was he hoping Duncan would step up and be king, the second born, if only by minutes?
Feeling sluggish now, and overwhelmed by a sense that he'd failed not only his brother and family, but the entire kingdom, Duncan twirled the brush in his hands. Had all of this obsession over the prison girl caused this? Should he stop going to see her?
Looking down, Duncan did not notice someone stood in front of him until he saw two bare feet, covered in part by a long, wide dress of palest yellow, patterned with tiny flowers and draped with a black cloak.
Suddenly frightened, Duncan looked at her face, the woman from his dreams. Despite his fear, Duncan confronted her. "Who are you?" he asked.
"It does not matter who I am," she said.
"Are you following me?"
"Yes," she answered. Wishing he hadn't asked that question (because she'd given the answer he hadn't wanted to hear) Duncan thought of how much better it would be to have Worston tracking him.
"May I see it?" she asked, holding out her hand.
Not wanting to, but afraid of what she might do if he didn't, Duncan held out the brush for her. She took it and caressed it, held it up to her face, ran it through her own hair and afterwards cleaned out the bristles with her long, bony fingers. Finally, she turned it around and kissed the back of it.
After handing it back to Duncan, she walked away, the rear of her cloak trailing behind
her in the dirt.
Rounding the corner of Northeast Alley, Duncan walked straight to the prison, baffled by what he'd just experienced. He stepped down to the prison and greeted the guard who'd been there earlier. "Hello, Ben."
"Good day, Prince Duncan. What have you brought with you this time?"
Duncan smiled at him, then put a finger to his lips, a silent invitation for the man to be quiet. "Will you give me some time alone with her? Please?" he whispered.
Looking confused, and uncertain whether he should give in or not, the man asked "Where shall I go?"
"Just wait outside."
The guard nodded and Duncan thanked him.
"Hello," Duncan called quietly as he approached the bars. "I brought you something." He took slow steps, being cautious not to make too much noise. "I thought you might like to brush your hair. And you may keep it if you'd like."
She looked up at him from the floor, and as she did the sun coming through the window shone on her face. Scratch marks covered her cheeks as well as her arms. What on earth had she done to herself?
As she caught a glimpse of the hairbrush, Duncan saw something in her eyes. A memory? A light? He couldn't quite tell what it meant, but it was something.
"Would you like to hold it?" he asked.
Never making eye contact, she stood up. Duncan waited for her to get closer, not wanting to put his hands through the bars unless she seemed calm and not likely to take a bite out of him.
Her dirt and blood-stained hands gripped the bars, her eyes all the while focusing on the object in Duncan's hands. He held it out for her, still staying almost an arm's reach away from her cell.
Twitching, she looked away, as if checking to see whether they were alone or if someone was sneaking up behind her. Then without warning, she snatched it from the prince's hand, clanging it loudly against the bars. But she did not retreat. Seemingly enthralled, she caressed it much as the old woman had done outside. After a moment, she held it back out to Duncan. He took it from her, pleased with the interaction and not wanting to hurt her feelings or do or say the wrong thing. "Do you like it?"
She stood there, still focusing on the brush, but now she held onto a piece of hair, smoothing it over in one hand followed by the other. Over and over she ran the hair through her fingers.
Henry held the brush back out to her again. "Would you like to try it?"
She took it from him and then handed it right back, pointing it toward Duncan's chest.
"What is it?" Duncan asked. "Do you want me to do it?" His heart skipped a nervous beat at the thought, and his mouth suddenly became dry.
No answer escaped her lips, just the same playing with a piece of her hair.
Duncan considered what to do. On the one hand, if she actually wanted him to come in there and brush her hair, he had done it: found the thing that would win her over. On the other, if he went in there, he might not come out in one piece.
"Just give me a minute," he said, holding it out to her once more. "Here, you hold this and I'll go and get the key."
It took some persuasion, not to mention a lecture about the risks, but Ben handed over the key.
When Duncan reached her again, she was inspecting the silver handle. Upon seeing him, she held it out once more. "Oh, thank you," he said, taking it back from her. "Just let me get a chair." He pulled the guard's chair across the floor and as he did so, she looked startled and began to twitch again. Duncan stopped. "It's all right. I'm going to open the door and bring the chair inside with me. Then, if you'd like, you may sit on the chair and I will brush your hair."
She calmed somewhat, but still looked leery.
"Will you please stand back from the door?" He asked it just in case she meant to escape, and to his surprise, she listened.
With her standing at a distance, Duncan unlocked the door and went inside. After placing the chair inside the bars, he closed the door, reached his hands back out and locked himself inside with her, hoping it wouldn't be his last action. Ben watched from the door as Duncan tossed the keys out of reach.
"Now," he said, placing the chair in the sunlight. "Would you like to sit down?"
Still holding onto a piece of hair, she approached slowly, all the while keeping her eyes either on the hairbrush, or Ben who still watched from outside. She turned just in time to lower herself onto the seat. Amazed, and filled with a giddy excitement, Duncan closed his eyes, breathing a sigh of relief.
Starting at the bottom, Duncan began working his way up through the snarls. Her hair felt greasy, and crusted, but it worked like magic, smoothing it out almost instantly, with no indication that it caused her any pain.
The prince lost himself in the act of providing this service for her, feeling her long hair between the fingers of his free hand, holding a chunk of hair gently and smoothing the part that hung free, protecting her scalp from the pulling and tugging. Had this been the same girl he'd seen earlier? Roaring and ripping up parchment, not to mention chucking an inkwell at his chest.
It took the better part of an hour, but her hair now hung to the middle of her back, long, loose and free. Duncan did not stop, but continued to brush as long as she let him.
"I didn't murder anyone," she said.
The words cut through the silence, shocking the prince into stillness. Still holding a section of hair in one hand, he racked his brain, not knowing what to say.
Before responding, Duncan began brushing again, hoping the continuous motion would keep her calm. "Then why do some say you did?"
"Well, I did kill a man. But it wasn't murder. He got what was coming to him."
What did that mean? She'd killed out of self defense? Had it been part of her way of life with the barbarians? How could he make her understand that either way, it really didn't matter.
Duncan paused again, formulating his words carefully. He spoke softly and slowly, hoping to convey that he was on her side. "Whether you murdered someone or not, most will think your punishment is just."
Waiting for a reaction, Duncan watched her hands in her lap, totally calm, the blood on her arms dry and crusted. "So be it then," she said.
A weight of discouragement fell over him, the discouragement he'd been resisting since morning. It seemed he could do nothing right. Was it all hopeless? The girl? The kingdom? Restoring any sort of relationship with his brother?
"Thank you for letting me brush your hair," he said. Calling to Ben, Duncan prepared to leave, placing the treasure in the girl's lap.
Ben opened the cell and Duncan exited, a relief falling over him once the door had been locked again. There she sat, staring at the gift. A cloud outside rolled over the sun and the light that had once been shining on her vanished. "What happened to her face and arms?" Duncan asked.
"It was the quill, sire. She experimented with it on her skin for a time, then finally threw it through the bars. I'm sorry. I didn't dare go in and stop her."
Duncan placed a hand on his shoulder. "I understand Ben. Send word if there are any changes."
"Sire, the chair," Ben said in a bit of a whine.
He hadn't really done it on purpose, but was now glad that he'd locked it in with her. She deserved a place to sit. "Well if you want it, go in and get it." Prince Duncan smiled at his own joke, though it was clear Ben hadn't found it amusing. "I'll send another. Leave it be."
Braving one last glance, Duncan found that she no longer focused her attention on the hairbrush, but looked directly at him. He smiled at her, not sure if it was the proper reaction, but it felt like the natural thing to do. Did she smile back at him? He couldn't be sure.
Walking up the steps and onto the dusty road, Duncan looked up only to be pelted on the face with fierce drops of rain. Undeterred, he stepped out, beginning a brisk walk back to the castle, feeling all the while as though someone followed.
1
Sleeping Beauty and the Beast
9
Beauty
The memory of the forest lingers in my mind. Incapab
le of escape, and terrified that she will find me, I keep my eyes shut, and pretend I am a caterpillar in a cocoon.
It is dark, but I am safe.
I imagine myself wrapped up, hanging from a leaf that is both obliging and kind. I pretend I am invisible to her. I refuse to open my eyes.
"Eglantine!"
It is a desperate cry, but distant, like listening to the ocean from inside the castle. It is Henry.
I do not dare open my eyes, fearful it is a trick, the witch in disguise, the focal point of all my dark dreams.
"Eglantine, where are you?"
I hug my legs to my chest, squeezing my eyes shut even tighter, wrapping my arms tight around my ankles. I am a caterpillar. I am a caterpillar. I am a caterpillar.
His voice is closer now. "Eglantine, I need to speak with you. Please come back."
I can hear the frustration, the tendency to give up easily, and I imagine him running his hand through his hair, turning from me and walking away. I do not want him to leave.
"Don't go," I yell, still refusing to look.
"Eglantine, are you there?" I imagine him turning toward my voice. Where is he? In the castle? In our meeting spot in the garden? I cannot look. I tuck my head into my chest. She could be there waiting for me if I open my eyes.
"Eglantine, I want to ask you something."
What could Henry have to ask me? I imagine all this eager calling my name is because he simply wants more advice. Should he go to war? It is not worth opening my eyes. He will have to figure it out on his own.
"Eglantine, listen to me." It sounds as though he is sitting down, perhaps on the bench near the row of hedges, or even on the ground, the grass rustling beneath him. Yes, I think he is on the ground. He doesn't want anyone to see him talking to me because I am nothing.
"Eglantine." He's whispering now. He is ashamed of me, and I want to crawl out of my cocoon and into a hole, to be buried alive. What difference would it make now after all these years? I am as good as dead anyway. And the prospect of a baby does not comfort me as it did my parents. Perhaps they cannot admit it, but it might not even be a boy. I will not so foolishly get my hopes up as they have.
Sleeping Beauty and the Beast Page 8
