"And how did she end up here?"
"The men who she had lived with, they traveled too far into the southern woods one day, and seeing them, Ovinia took their lives into her hands, tormented by all those years they'd robbed her of her innocence and childhood."
"She killed them both?"
"Yes, but the witnesses only saw the one. She has only been sentenced for one."
"And you saw all of it?"
"Foresaw. I knew about all of it before I cursed Eglantine."
"What do you plan to do now?"
"If I'd known I was planting an impossible curse, I never would have bothered. The queen of Cray has been barren all these years, until recently I've heard. But by the time a son would come of age, Ovinia will be gone. The curse that ties her to Eglantine's freedom will be void. Only a brother can wake her by setting a terrible beast free. Ovinia was the beast I was speaking of. But you are her only hope now. Otherwise it will be too late."
"Why me?"
She stopped, turning and lifting her head to the prince—the slight wrinkles and crevices in her face barely visible in the moonlight. "Because you care."
"But what can be done now?"
"What are you willing to do?"
She started to walk again, but Duncan got the feeling she was walking away, that she didn't mean for him to come with her this time.
He called after her. "What about Eglantine?"
Holding up a hand in the air, as if waving him off, her back still toward him, she called back, "The sleeping princess is no concern of mine." Then she stopped, turning to face him. "I am sorry for what I've done to Eglantine. But I'm afraid she is trapped in her sleeping curse." She hesitated a moment. "Forever."
After watching her walk out of sight, her black cloak barely visible in the dark, Duncan made his way down the prison steps, pondering her last question. What was he willing to do? And Eglantine? Henry would be heart broken.
Thomas lay on the guard's bed, sleeping in silence. Rather than wake him, Duncan untied his keys from the rope around his waste, wondering what, if anything, he could actually do. What had the aging woman meant? Did she want Duncan to ease her last days? Or was she so foolishly hopeful to assume he would try to help her avoid punishment. Princes had little influence over trials in the court, and he was almost positive Henry would be no help. He'd probably give him a lecture about the importance of upholding laws.
He unlocked the first door, shuddering as it creaked open, then stepped quietly down the hall and waited, although he couldn't say what he waited for. His knock on the door split open the silence surrounding the prison walls, and he paused once more, waiting for a reaction—for better or worse.
Seconds went by, until those seconds became minutes. Duncan knocked again, three separate knocks, even and soft. Almost instantly, three similar knocks came back to him, as if mimicked.
"Are you in there?"
One knock sounded in the quiet, followed by another.
Duncan swallowed, a sudden nervousness infringing on the courage it had taken to come in the middle of the night. Dare he ask? "May I come in?"
A duo of knocks again penetrated the stillness of the dark hallway, the only light a mere sliver coming from underneath the door he'd closed behind him to prevent waking Thomas.
Trying to ward off the fear from gripping his heart, Duncan stuck the key into the lock and turned.
An intense darkness greeted him, and nothing else. He could not see her, nor anything, even his own fingers which he held directly in front of his eyes for a time. If she planned to kill him, it would most likely be easy in the darkness, and he would not fight back. He could never hurt her, although again, he could not say why. What was it about this girl that had called him back time and again?
"Are you sure you're in—"
"I'm over here."
Her voice had come from his left, where he guessed she sat in the corner. He remembered how she'd crouched or curled up in a ball in the far left corner of the outer prison cell.
Duncan knew solitary imprisonment came with no light, but he found himself wishing he'd brought a torch now.
"I've been hoping you'd come."
"Have you?" Duncan asked, surprised. Somehow he'd thought he'd be making all the conversation. "May I stay for a while?"
"Do I have a choice?" He could hear the despair in her voice, the fate she'd already accepted.
"As far as I'm concerned, yes. You will always have a choice with me."
Taking her silence as an affirmative, or if nothing else, a statement that she did not protest, Duncan closed the door slightly and took a few steps toward her in the darkness, using his hands to feel his way just in case some barrier stood between them.
Upon feeling a wall beneath his fingers, cold and coarse, he lowered his body and sat against it.
"Do you understand what is happening to you?"
"I am to be executed for murder. Hanged." She'd spoken it with almost no feeling, at least not that Duncan could hear. "Do you happen to know how long it is going to be?"
"Not exactly," Duncan answered. "Soon, I think. A few days, maybe."
"Oh."
"Are you frightened?"
"What is there to be afraid of? A cord around my neck? Losing my breath? Having nothing beneath my feet to catch and hold me in my moment of need? It seems to me dying can't be any worse than living. I have experienced all of those sensations before. The difference is I won't have to wake up and remember."
Duncan didn't know what to say, nor what to ask next. After learning about her past, he knew better than to ask her if she had any happy memories she would rather dwell on in her last hours. So he waited for her to speak again.
"Will you be there?" she asked. "When I die?"
This question forced Duncan to face what he'd been trying so desperately, yet so subtly, to avoid. A picture came to his mind, of her dangling from a rope tied to a wooden post, her hair wild again, because nobody had thought to brush it recently. "Why do you ask?" He shook the image from his head.
"I don't want you to be there. I don't want you to see me like that. If I have a choice with you, as you said a minute ago, I choose to have you somewhere else on the day I die."
All this talk of her death stirred something to life, a thought at first, a simple idea. What if he could set her free? What if he could defy all the laws and even the condemnation of his brother and everyone in the castle? But to what end? Could she survive in this world? Would she go back to the barbarians, or would she live out the rest of her life alone?
"Do you have a name?" Duncan asked.
"The barbarians called me Shackle, because they said I came with shackles on my mind. I still don't know exactly what they meant."
"May I call you something else?"
"Like what?"
"Ovinia?"
She tried the name on her own lips, softly at first, then a little louder. "Hmmm," she said. "What does it mean?"
"I have no idea," Prince Duncan admitted.
Then a miracle happened. For the first time since he encountered her all those weeks ago, bloody and wild and being beaten out in the alley, she laughed. It rang and echoed in the darkness, sounding to Duncan much like the song of a contented bird: unassuming, pleasant, and gladly received. In that moment, Duncan discovered something within, a sense of purpose as he had never felt before. All those years he had spent escaping the castle early in the morning, avoiding his brother by skipping meals and refusing to go to council meetings, hiding the fact that he was a prince, seemed a waste now. All along he'd not really known why he hated it so badly, the prospect of being a prince, the destiny to rule. He knew now, listening to her laugh, what it felt like to have a purpose. Fearing she would stop, he began to laugh with her, a forced chuckle at first, then an uncontrollable laughter, heavy in his chest, tightening the muscles in his stomach, bringing a tear to his eye he was grateful she would never see.
"Why do you want to give me this name when you don't eve
n know its meaning?" She asked through her lingering laughter.
Duncan shrugged. "I just heard it recently for the first time, and it made me think of you." For a brief moment, he thought of telling her she had a mother who cared about her very much, but a warning went of in his gut, gnawing and insuppressible. It would not be ignored, and Duncan knew better than to challenge it.
The laughter was gone now, just in time for them to hear a knock at the door. "Is someone in there?" It was Thomas.
A thick tension hung in the air now, and Duncan worried she would try to attack him if he came in. "It's all right," he whispered. "I'll talk to him."
Duncan rose and walked blindly to the door, hands spread out before him. Thomas opened it a crack, which let in more light than Duncan expected. He must have had the entrance to the isolation hall propped open. "It's me, Prince Duncan."
"What on earth are you doing in there?" He asked it as if he thought Duncan crazy.
"I'm only speaking with her. She's calm, or was, until you came."
"You'll have to leave, your highness, or be locked in with her. I cannot leave this door open. I hope you'll understand."
"Of course I understand." He reached the keys out to him. "Let me know when the sun's been up an hour. I should go and help Henry with cleaning the castle."
"What happened to the castle?" Thomas asked.
"A fire. Nothing to worry about."
"I'm sorry Prince Duncan. Let me know if I can do anything to help."
"I will, Thomas. Thank you. You may leave us now."
The thought of his original purpose for coming out tonight brushed against Duncan's thoughts. He'd questioned the woman, discovered her guilt, and then let her go. He'd have to face Henry knowing the truth of that, but he could work that out later. He felt the keys being received and pulled from the grips of his palm. Then the light was gone again, and the lock clicked, the sound echoing softly.
"You're staying with me?"
"For a few hours at least."
Returning to his spot, or as close to it as he could get in the dark, Henry sat down again, instantly observing that he was nearer to her than he had been before, although he couldn't say exactly how he knew. Was her breathing a little louder? Or the essence of her skin a little closer? "Will you tell me what it was like living with the barbarians?"
"It's a way of life. Nothing more."
"Were you with them always? Are you one of them by birth?" Even though he knew the answer to these questions (as long as the witch had been telling the truth) he wanted to hear it from her own mouth, as much as she would tell.
"No." Duncan could hear something in her voice, some emotion. Disappointment? Shame? Fear?
"Where were you born then?"
"I don't know. I never had a father or mother, not that I can remember."
Thinking she would not want to tell him about her early life, if it was in fact true, Duncan began forming other questions, seeking to change the topic, but did not have the chance to speak any of them.
"I lived with others before the barbarians, two brothers, and one of them was married." It sounded as though she bowed her head now, the words coming softer, obstructed somehow by either the position of her head, or her unwillingness to share. "An awful woman."
"What were they like?"
"Barbarians with a roof over their head, cooked food, and no principles whatsoever. Even barbarians do not hurt the people they live with."
"These men, and this woman, did they hurt you?"
"Yes, badly."
"And so you left them?"
"Yes. Never to return. I was glad to be rid of them."
Duncan waited for it, but she never spoke of the murders. Perhaps she felt the regret of it now, the burden of having killed them, or the shame of not carrying it as a burden, the shame of feeling no remorse over something so severe.
"Tell me about your life," she said. Will you? Please?"
Duncan thought to select his words carefully at first, fearing to cause her further pain at the contrast between their situations, but decided being honest with her—completely honest—was the only way to continue building her trust.
"I had a marvelous childhood. Loving parents, a brother the exact same age to be my playmate, more food than I could ever eat, clean clothing, a castle."
"But something happened? Something bad?"
He marveled at her questions. Was he so easy to read? Could his despair be recognized in his voice, even as he spoke of such pleasant things? Or was she remembering their first encounter? When he'd shared that truth. "Yes, something bad happened."
"What was it?"
"My parents drowned at sea." She did not respond to this revelation, and Duncan hesitated, tortured by the silence, standing on the precipice of all those emotions he'd been denying and trying not to feel for so long, afraid to plunge into them, afraid she might push him over the edge.
Then a soft pressure fell on his left shoulder. Her fingertips. All this time, Duncan had been afraid to touch anything more than her hair, but he saw this as his chance, maybe his one and only chance, for a physical connection. Reaching across his chest, he felt for her hand, and when he found it—cold, dry and stiff—he hugged it beneath his own, squeezing softly. The sound of her moving against the floor came next, followed by the touch of her side next to his, the pulling away of her hand, and in its place, her head resting against his arm. Surprised albeit delighted, Duncan wrapped one arm around her shoulders, and situated his opposite hand gently on her cheek.
Henry and the castle could wait. Duncan did not ever want to leave her side again.
1
Sleeping Beauty and the Beast
15
Beauty
The sun burns bright, lighting up the scene before me, glinting through the glass of windows throughout the buildings along the corridors I can see from Henry's room. He's been asleep for hours, having nearly collapsed from exhaustion and been carried to his room by Duke and another servant whose name I never learned. The work continues on the main level, I imagine, and Duncan has never returned from going out to find her.
Henry stirs and I spin around, anxious to see him and have his full attention. It feels as though days have passed since we last spoke.
He murmurs something.
"Shhhhh," I say.
"What time is it?"
"It doesn't matter. Not today. Just rest." I stand beside his bed, caught up in the image of him. He turns onto his back and looks up at me, resting one arm underneath his head, staring into my eyes, lost in some thought he keeps to himself. Still in the soot covered shirt from the night before, he looks older, though his wild hair and the dirt all over his pillowcase remind me of a boy who tires himself playing outside, only to crash into bed before having a bath.
"What are you thinking about?" I ask, not able to bare the silent stare any longer. It makes me nervous, the way he studies me.
He does not answer right away, as if he is daydreaming or he didn't quite hear me.
"Nothing," he says. "Any sign of Duncan?"
"Not that I've heard or seen."
Reaching for the bell, he cries out in pain.
"I'll get that," I say, but I stop before I realize that I can't get it. All my fears and apprehension return in an instant and it angers me, how helpless I feel. How helpless I am.
"Don't fret, Eglantine. It's only a sore muscle." Holding onto a shoulder with one hand, he reaches for the bell again.
"Eglantine, I am going to have Duke come and prepare a bath. Will you please excuse me for an hour or so?"
"Of course."
"See if you can find out anything about Duncan, or the woman who started the fire."
Feeling a little like a servant, I hesitate, resenting his words the way I always resented my parents telling me what to do as a child.
"Will you? Please?" His soft, genuine plea calls me back from the willfulness that had been brewing inside. "For me?"
Softening his command into
a polite request stills my resentment. Happy to do as he asks, I nod at him, smiling at the way his hair sticks out all round his head, like a porcupine after getting entangled in a briar bush.
"Oh, and Eglantine?"
Having nearly reached the door, I turn back to him.
"When I am cleaned and dressed, there is something I would like to talk to you about. Will you please meet me in the garden?"
Duke enters the room, and rather than keep Henry's attention anymore, I nod at him and abandon the vicinity.
Since I cannot ask anyone about Duncan, I stop near every group of servants or men still working in the kitchen and listen. A giant hole reveals the outside from the kitchen wall, and all the wooden fixtures in the room have burned, but the damage has been localized, thankfully. For the most part, they work in silence, I guess feeling the weight of such an occurrence and the laborious aftermath.
After a time, I decide Henry and I are the only ones aware of Duncan's absence. It was not unusual after all, for him to be away from the castle for so long.
I wait in the garden until Henry returns, imagining I can smell the roses, but with every sniff a whisper of mint spreads through me instead. Rounding a hedge and looking toward the castle, I see Henry standing there, his arms behind his back, tucked in and dressed as formal as he had been the night before, hair sitting in its normal downward position. How long has he been watching me? I smile at him, but it is a cautious smile. What is it he wants to talk to me about? Perhaps he's had the chance to think about my suggestion that I go home. Perhaps he finally agrees with me. But as much as I had meant what I said in the moment, I did not want to leave him, and the thought of doing so causes a squeezing pressure in my heart. I can scarcely breath.
"Hello," he says, his lips in a straight line as they are most often.
I smile, feeling foolish as I had the night before, standing before him in my white nightgown with rumpled hair while he's dressed like a king.
"Will you sit with me?"
I nod and we both move toward the bench from opposite sides until we are sitting next to one another.
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