Letters to Zell

by Camille Griep

  Rory took her frustration with Bianca out on Five. She fussed and fidgeted. She frowned and fumed. The neck was too high, too low, too hot, too indecent, too prissy. And then she began to stamp. “Get me out of this infernal creation right now!” Hands full of pins and scissors, Five fell over trying to help Rory extricate herself.

  “Take a deep breath,” I said. In hindsight, I suppose it was stupid to even bother trying to defuse the situation—like trying to mop up a swamp with a toad.

  “You two enjoy yourselves,” Rory said. I could count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen her smirk, but she was smirking, Zell. “I’ve had my fill of zebra-striped dresses for one lifetime. Besides, we’ll no doubt be doing this again next week.”

  “Where are you going?” Bianca asked, waving the tiny doggy bow tie in her hand. She looked genuinely disappointed as Rory marched toward the door.

  “It’s none of your business. Either of you. Don’t follow me.” She clipped Snoozer’s rhinestone leash onto his collar and marched out.

  Bianca put her hands up in confusion. “What the fucking fuck?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe she skipped her morning nap for breakfast with Maro.”

  Bianca shook her head in disbelief, then tossed a sparkling veil at me. “Breakfast with that woman would make anyone a pain in the ass.”

  “You have to stop tormenting her.” I held my zebra skirt up as evidence. “What’s all this about, anyway?”

  “Oh, come on, it’s my wedding. You can’t deny they’ll look great with my new red wedding dress!” She held up a short, crimson, fluffy A-line for inspection. “Why can’t this be fun for me? When will you two lighten up?”

  I flopped down, aiming for the loveseat and landing on an unseen pincushion. “Ouch. Bianca. Stop. Seriously.”

  Bianca waved Five out of the room. She sat, batting the pincushion to the middle of the couch, and picked up my hand. “Will you please tell me what the hell is going on? And let’s skip the part where you do the valiant secret-keeping thing and I beg you to tell me what’s wrong and you start crying. Oh, splendid, you’re already crying.”

  I did cry. For a long time. Not just about Rory, but about classes starting next week. How our friendships suddenly seem so tempestuous. How I don’t want Edmund’s parents to get back and ask questions about the nursery. How I don’t want to take care of Darling and Sweetie and fight with Lucinda anymore. How afraid I am to ask for what I want. And, most important, about the secret, the horrible image I carried, the terrible mess of Henry and Maro. I blurted it all out.

  Bianca’s face began to flush a full range of reds. “Maro? And Henry! Are you sure? It was bad enough when . . . But right under her nose. In her own palace. We told Rory to be nice to her. And now she’s staying there? I can’t even—” She stood up and began to wander in concentric circles.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I said. “What are we going to do?”

  She stopped pacing and glared at me. “Damn it, CeCi. Why did you tell me?”

  “You asked what was wrong!”

  “I had to ask, didn’t I?” She threw her hands up and flopped onto the couch again. “No wonder you’re so upset. No one wants to know this.”

  I felt my stomach turn. “I told Zell, too.”

  “Oh, great. So now all of us are keeping it from her.”

  “What now?” I asked.

  “We have to tell her.”

  “If we tell her, she’ll know we kept it from her.”

  Bianca looked at me as if I’d been quacking instead of speaking. “Hello? We are keeping it from her.”

  “Well, you just found out, and she isn’t here right this very second.”

  “Look, it doesn’t matter, CeCi. We’re screwed either way. The only way out of a situation like this is to not to know about it in the first place.”

  “No one knows we know but us.”

  “Ugh, listen to yourself. Maybe you’re getting a little too comfortable with half-truths these days. Haven’t you had enough subterfuge for one lifetime?”

  “Really, Bianca? That’s pretty rich for a woman who’s planning a fake wedding.”

  “It’s not fake!”

  “Is too. It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “It’s a partnership that fulfills my Pages.”

  “But you don’t love each other.”

  Bianca gave me an exasperated smirk. “Not the same way you love Edmund or Zell does Jason but we do love each other. It’s just that our love is more of a deep respect than a romance. We don’t need the same kind of relationship the rest of you do. That’s not a crime.”

  “It is a crime, Bianca. Against yourself. You clearly need—and want—that kind of relationship. At best, you’re cheating yourself. At worst, you’re delusional.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” She began to stab the pincushion with a pearl-headed pin.

  I figured I might as well say it all. “It means you do require companionship, romance, love. You’ve managed to find some version of it Outside with Rachel. You’re denying your true self because you don’t think you can have the kind of relationship that you want.”

  She delivered another withering glare. “Rachel can’t become the queen of Onyx Manor, CeCi. You already know that.”

  “With Rachel, you found someone you wanted to learn about life with. Don’t tell me that doesn’t mean anything to you. Tell William you’re sorry. Tell him you’ll still consult on all of his little castle projects. Tell him you’ll still have whiskey night. Then go out and find the right person. We’ll put you back in your glass box, and whoever it is can come rescue you instead. I’ll give Figgy another batch of worms. She’ll have to agree. Aren’t you the one who always finds the loopholes?”

  Bianca gave me her dangerous smile, the one that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Maybe Rachel is the right person, CeCi. But choosing her is, well, it’s impossible. And if I try again here in the Realm, what’s to say I don’t end up with my very own version of Henry? William is the best that I can do here. It doesn’t matter who I love out there. It’s im-fucking-possible.”

  “You’re lying to yourself,” I blurted.

  And that’s when Bianca slapped me. Hard. “Fix your own mess before you go fixing everyone else’s, Cecilia.”

  I sat there blinking at her. At least I was stunned enough to not say anything I’d want to take back. Maybe I deserved it. The strangest part was, I couldn’t figure out whether to keep crying or start laughing.

  I’m sorry that I told her about Maro, which means that I’m sorry that I told you, Zell. I didn’t mean to put either of you in a bad position; I just didn’t want to be the only one. It’s such a big secret to carry alone. I didn’t mean to be selfish.

  What did you mean in your last letter about needing assistance in the kitchen? Don’t you have a cook? I didn’t realize that your staff couldn’t come with you, but if there’s a labor shortage in Oz, you’ll have to learn quite a few new things. Send me a list of what you want to make and I’ll try to help.

  Love,

  CeCi

  Important Fucking Correspondence from Snow B. White

  Onyx Manor

  West Road, Grimmland

  Z,

  I’ve been threatening to slap CeCi for years now, but I don’t think I ever meant to do it until it was happening.

  There we were, not exactly arguing, but talking about, you know, big shit, and all of a sudden she’s calling me a liar and something inside rips open and I slap her.

  Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m just as self-deluded as everyone else. But being called a liar hurts. Honesty is the one and only virtue I claim. Sure, maybe I’m even too honest about things, like how terrible Gretel’s gingerbread tastes and the fact that Puss’s boots do have too much fringe, but it’s better than the alternative, isn’t it? At least y
ou know what you’re getting with me. There aren’t any two-faced sorts of surprises. My honesty is the one thing that keeps me from becoming like Valborg.

  Even though William and I are being honest with one another, CeCi isn’t altogether wrong. Our marriage will be an illusion. A deception like Valborg and my father’s relationship turned out to be. I never meant for that, I just figure that’s how things have to be for us.

  I’ve spent my whole life (since leaving the forest, at any rate) trying to be the antithesis of Valborg. Clearly, I’ve flat-out failed. I’m a liar and, soon, I’ll be a murderer, too.

  It’s not that I want to save her, but I don’t want to be the cause of her suffering. I want to be better than she is. And even though I don’t want to kill her, I don’t want to think about her anymore, either. I want to start all over again.

  I know that’s how Rory sees the completion of her Pages, as a new beginning, one she’s desperately trying to embrace, but I don’t think I’ll be able to dismiss my past as easily as she does. She almost never brings up Fred or the way things used to be. She made peace with her Pages, embracing some ideal life she’s supposed to eventually have.

  But that’s not me. I want our lives to be brilliant right now, not later, not Ever After. How am I supposed to forget that my wedding will include an execution? No amount of sleep will erase that for me, ever.

  But Figgy and the rest of the Council say that’s the way it has to be. At least how it happens is still under my control.

  First, I considered the whole boulder idea from the theme park—a cake made of stone and frosting strategically placed atop a staircase. But it seems so messy. And I don’t want the guests panicking or, Grimm forbid, getting in the way. Plus I’m afraid I’d merely cripple her.

  I’ve considered a poisoned apple. There, you have some real poetic justice on a genuine silver platter. She could go down feeling the same oh-shit feeling I did, when I realized my mistake a few seconds too late. I could watch her eyes get big and her clutch at her throat and cry as she registers her impending doom. But it’s a little cliché.

  So here’s how it will go down: We’ll place her in the heated iron shoes as the dancing begins. I’ll slip her some herbs, and instead of feeling angry and frightened, she feels the joy of music and movement and rhythm and freedom. And her heart will warm in pace with the shoes on her feet and she’ll dance her way to her death, feeling nothing but euphoria. I’ll fulfill my Pages and grant her a kindness. I’ll be the better woman.

  I’ve tried to explain that I want her death to be merciful a thousand times. But the Council never listens. All they want to know is how I felt then, how I feel now, how I might feel in the future. Tiresome morons. I felt bad. I feel bad. I’ll probably continue to feel bad. It is unpleasant, to say the least, when anyone—let alone your stepmother—doesn’t just want you gone, but dead.

  I missed my own mother so badly after she died. When Valborg came into our lives, I wanted her to love me, to fill in that missing space, more than anything in the world. You understand, don’t you? Didn’t you find yourself wanting your mother all those long days in the tower? Wasn’t there an emptiness where she should have been? A part of you that never belonged because she wasn’t there? A part of you that would have traded anything at all to have her back? Wasn’t there a sound or a scent or memory that made you think of her and need her with your entire being?

  In the absence of my own mother, I wanted a stepmother who was gracious and kind. I wanted someone who would love and cherish her time with me. The truth is, I would have wanted any mother of any sort, as long as she wanted me back. I would have loved her just for loving me in return. Valborg was those things for a while. To my face. Before my father began traveling again.

  I loved Valborg for the simple act of being there. I believed the things she said. I took her criticism and her corrections. I listened when she heaped on the rants about my absent father.

  But then everything changed with that horrible mirror. She just crawled deeper and deeper inside of herself until she couldn’t see anything else.

  I want Valborg to see something else about life before she dies. And she will, if I have anything to say about it. She’ll feel joy, even if she doesn’t mean to. I know my father will approve. He’ll tell me I’m doing the right thing.

  I know how it is—he’s a busy guy. Never in one place too long. It’s proving impossible to track him down. But he has to have heard about my wedding. He wouldn’t miss it, would he, Zell? Maybe he’s keeping quiet so he can surprise me.

  William says I should stop caring—as if loving my father were voluntary or something. He loved me unconditionally. That part I remember. I want to thank him. I want to tell him I know he made a mistake marrying Valborg, but that he’s my family. My only family. If he doesn’t show, I don’t know what I’ll do.

  Maybe I’ll come live with you and Jason and the brats and defer this whole mess—you can be my family. See how you like that. I’ll have Jason loving the country in no time. With enough bourbon, anything is possible.

  B

  Princess Briar R. Rose

  Somnolent Tower Castle

  South Road, Grimmland

  Dearest Zell,

  I should have written off the entire day after the dress fitting went so badly, all the low-cut ruffled, jungle print nonsense and that horrible Five woman sticking me with pins. I should have gone back to bed and tried again the next day. That’s what a smart person would have done. Instead, I made my way out of one mess and right into another.

  After divesting myself of Bianca’s buffoonery, I dropped Snoozer with his nursemaid. I don’t know whether Figgy likes dogs or not; however, it was not the day I planned to find out.

  Figgy was pleasant at first, niceties and chitchat. And then I said, “I was wondering if you would tell me what a love potion might cost?” She ruffled her feathers and spun her head around as if I’d spilled black tea all over her white chair.

  “Whatever do you mean, Briar Rose? I thought I . . . wait, now did Cecilia and Snow send you?”

  “Heavens, why would they have sent me?”

  “Oh, me and my old age. I simply meant, well, you girls might have discussed it together, as girls do. You know because of those magazines. Never you mind.”

  I was confused, to be honest, but I went ahead with my request. “I’m simply a woman trying to fulfill the Pages you gave me, Figgy. You said Henry was supposed to be my True Love, and so I foolishly thought you might be able to help me. You may think I’m too naïve to come up with ideas on my own, but I assure you I am self-sufficient.” I heard my voice rising, so I wasn’t surprised when she called in her little canaries with tea and hankies.

  The birds circling my head made me feel as pent up as the little teapot whistling away in Figgy’s kitchen. Meanwhile, she wandered the room, muttering, “A love potion? Now, now. Why’s that, dear?”

  I tried to calm the wavering of my voice. “To make Henry love me.”

  “How can you be so sure that he doesn’t love you now?”

  “He doesn’t want to spend time with me.”

  “But he’s young and has a great many hobbies. Many young men suffer from such things.”

  Fred didn’t suffer from such things. Perhaps he suffered from the opposite—so much passion that he didn’t bother to weigh the consequences of his actions. But that sounds ungracious, doesn’t it? Anyway, I tried to be more specific without being indelicate. “Henry doesn’t want to, well, you know.”

  “What, dear?”

  “You know! Except for our scheduled relations, he’s just not—”

  “Oh! Oh, I see. That’s enough, dear. I understand perfectly.” Figgy flapped her wings upward. “Well, perhaps he drinks a bit too much?”

  “I don’t think that’s it.”

  “Maybe there’s something wrong. With his, well, you kno
w, equipment.”

  “No. It isn’t that, either, Figgy. He simply doesn’t seem to enjoy my company. He doesn’t seem to want me. You know, as a companion. As a lover. As a chess partner. Not at all.”

  Figgy began to pace faster. “Perhaps you need to give things more time. It’s not as if you had a drawn-out courtship. His parents insisted upon an immediate wedding.”

  “It’s been five years, Figgy. He’s still not ready to settle down. The only thing I can think to focus his attention is a child. He’ll realize that he has the perfect family and he’ll settle down. But I can’t have his child if he won’t sleep with me.”

  “A child, Briar Rose? I’m not sure that’s wise at this juncture. With your relationship so, well, immature?”

  “He’ll be mature once he has a son to be responsible for.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because that’s the way it works!” I found myself standing and stomping, the canaries fluttering around my head. “Haven’t you read any books?”

  “My dear, perhaps you’ve read too many.”

  “There’s no such thing!”

  She stopped pacing and unfurled a wing across my shoulders. I wanted to shrug it off, so instead I kept very still. “Now, now, Briar Rose. You’ve had a very hard time of it. What I am saying is, fiction isn’t always reflective of reality. Particularly that brand of Outside nonsense you girls obsess over. Perhaps you’ve just had a long day. Are you sure you’re resting enough?”

  “I rest all the damned time. If I rest any more, I might as well go back to sleep. My dog sleeps less than I do. I want something different. I want the life I dreamed of before my sixteenth birthday. What Fred did wasn’t my fault. It was a silly mistake made by a child in love. You said I had to compensate for his actions. I gave you one hundred years and five more after it. Haven’t I paid enough? It’s my turn. I want my family and my baby and my Happily Ever After. Where are they, Figgy?”

  Unfortunately, the tentative grasp I’d held on my temper now eluded me completely. Figgy started lighting incense and brewing another calming tisane. The canaries settled on the back of my chair and blinked drowsily. I sank down below the birds. My hot tears fell into my hot tea.