Letters to Zell

by Camille Griep

  “Are you quite finished?” Figgy’s voice held an edge that hadn’t been there before.

  “Why won’t you help me?”

  “I cannot help you. It’s a completely different thing.”

  “But why?”

  “As I told your friends, no good could come of this.”

  “You said that before!” My hands turned cold, and my heart began to pound in my ears. “Why would CeCi and Bianca be consulting with you about my marriage?”

  “They came wanting a . . . to help your problems . . . never you mind. This is what comes of you three traipsing around Outside, getting all these ideas.”

  “This has nothing to do with Outside.”

  She stood up and fluffed herself again. “So you say. You wouldn’t be filled with half these notions if Solace didn’t allow your little capers. You read the books and you eat the food and you hear the music, but you don’t have any context. I know what you’re looking for out there, but he’s gone. And he’s been gone a long time.”

  “Don’t you think I know that, Figgy? Don’t you think I feel that every day? At least Solace isn’t trying to hide everything from us. She’s the only one who lets us see things as they could be,” I said. “You only let us see tiny pieces. I followed your damned rules and still I have nothing. It isn’t fair.” I drained the rest of my scalding tea and exited without saying good-bye.

  Sometimes, if I weren’t living it, I’d scarcely believe my life was my own. When I arrived home, there was an urgent note from CeCi asking if I’d accompany her to her first day of cooking classes, as she and Bianca were at a temporary impasse. Though I wanted to inform her that all three of us were at a temporary impasse, I decided to acquiesce.

  I felt miserable after that nasty business with Figgy, and I tried to remain civil but cool, so that CeCi would understand where we stood. In truth, Zell, the trip ended up being quite cheering. While there, Snoozer and I met some other pet owners and I discovered a most delicious substance called coffee. You have to try it. Its effects are what you might feel if you took ten naps all in a row. Snoozer had to miss his obedience class at Pets & Boots, but if I’m honest, he wasn’t destined to be a star pupil anyway.

  Love,

  Rory

  From the Desk of Cecilia Cinder Charming

  Crystal Palace

  North Road, Grimmland

  Dear Zell,

  I apologized to Bianca even though she’s the one who slapped me, but she still seems to be out of sorts, even refusing to go Outside for my first day of classes. She said she had things to attend to. I told her I wasn’t going to beg.

  I did, however, beg Rory. She wasn’t particularly eager, either, but I gave her the plastic money card and promised to set her (and Snoozer) loose in a place called PetSmart. She was crabby at first, but three steps into the door and she got completely lost in conversation with a man wearing a bow tie leading a rabbit on a leash and a girl with a fat, spotted rodent she kept calling a pig. Humans are baffling, but I’m delighted Rory finally found some companions.

  My classes for the next three Outside months are Food Safety, Culinary Foundations, and Intro to Baking and Pastry. Today was Food Safety for an hour, Foundations for an hour, then Baking Lab for two hours.

  First, we met the teacher of Food Safety: a tiny woman with a long grey braid, who reminded me a bit of Solace, espousing practicality but with a slightly mischievous bent. She talked about keeping food the correct temperature using refrigeration. Instead of cold pantries like we have, Outside has fridges cooled by electricity. Electricity is not magic like our magic, but it’s just as useful. Light and amplification and heating and cooling depend upon it, just like in the Realm. I asked the guy sitting next to me where the electricity came from exactly, but then he asked me what planet I was from and I wasn’t quite sure how to answer. “Ours?” I ventured. He asked if I was sure.

  She talked about what needs to be cold and what needs to be hot. She talked about cleaning food and storing it. She talked about cleaning our personage, our tools, and our kitchens. She talked about what to cook to what temperature. She talked about when to serve it. She talked about what to do with it after it’s been cooked and after it’s been served. She talked about freezing and refreezing. She talked and talked and talked. Then we took a quiz. Some of us even passed the quiz. Apparently next week, we learn about illnesses. I can’t wait, but a few of my fellow classmates looked a bit queasy at the prospect.

  Culinary Foundations is taught by the Food Safety woman’s antithesis: a big, thick, olive-skinned man with hands like pork chops—like Hook but, you know, without the actual hook. He yells a lot, especially when he calls on people. We were given a tour of the kitchens and then returned to our seats for a long lecture, which I really tried to pay attention to, even though there was so much to look at everywhere and I was tired of sitting. There were so many tools I didn’t know the names for hanging in a kitchen twice the size of any I’ve ever seen. Way better than Disneyland.

  I know I’m going to excel in the baking department. Because of all the cookies and scones and bread I made when I was young, it’s the thing that’s most intuitive. I feel like a fish out of water the rest of the time, but pastry is where I’m at home. I know what dough is supposed to feel like and how long to work it and how to treat batter carefully. Today we made cakes and when I pulled mine out of the oven, I set it in front of the guy next to me and asked him what he thought. He said that I made better cakes than questions, which must be one of those compliments that doesn’t sound quite like one. The teacher then told us that the people next to us would be our lab partners going forward.

  It’s possible that Phil (a princely name at that) and I got off on the wrong foot. I tried to explain to him how delighted I was to make his acquaintance. Then I told him how much I liked his crocodile shoes and he informed me that they were just Crocs, not crocodiles, which will no doubt disappoint Bianca. I told him how much I looked forward to our next class.

  “It’s not that you aren’t a lot of fun, my new friend,” he said. “But maybe try to keep it all in here.” He drew a circle in the air in front of his chest.

  “I’m sorry, Phil. It’s nerves. I just can’t believe I have this chance, and I really want Humans to like me.” I clapped my hand over my mouth, realizing my error.

  “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.” When I said good-bye, he suggested I attend the next class sober or bring enough to share.

  Afterward, I collected Rory, who I found surrounded by a gaggle of pet-toting friends at a café between the school and PetSmart. She was very animated and insisted on my trying coffee, which is her new favorite beverage. I thought it tasted a great deal like the bottom of the frog pond. But, as vile as it is, perhaps that’s the cure to her sleeping issue—she told me she’d be skipping her afternoon nap.

  All in all, it was a good day. A productive day. A day I bested my fears. A day I took one more step.

  A day you took one more step toward something, too, I’d imagine. Like cooking. I know you don’t eat lettuce, Zell, but salads can be made of other things. I’ve included some recipes for tomato salad with mozzarella and roasted vegetable salad with onions. Don’t be scared. Just cut slowly and keep your fingers out of the way of the knife.

  Love,

  CeCi

  Important Fucking Correspondence from Snow B. White

  Onyx Manor

  West Road, Grimmland

  Z,

  For Grimm’s sake, Zell, not everyone can be CeCi. How in the hell did you cut your finger? You bled on my letter. Here’s my advice: Stop ingesting anything that you can’t tear or nibble into small pieces. Eat berries or something.

  I should have gone Outside with CeCi, but I told her I had important things to attend to, and she took Rory instead. Of course, those important things ended up being a colossal waste of time, and n
ow I’m in a correspondingly foul mood. Another bunch of Fairy Godmother bullshit.

  Remember all that cryptic crap Solace and Figgy have been slinging about my dad? All the half sentences and internal musings and inferences. It got me thinking: They must know something they aren’t telling me.

  Since Figgy’s been of even less help than usual lately, I decide to start with Solace. She intercepts me at the door. “How do you always know when we’re coming?” I ask, dispensing with formality. “Don’t tell me you have one of those damned mirrors, too.”

  “I know what you’re here for,” she says. The clocks in the shop bing and bong behind her, and she pulls the door closed with the paw behind her back.

  “I knew you were magical, but not prescient,” I say.

  Her nose twitches. “I need to speak with Figueroa.”

  “You can’t even tell me where my father is without asking Figgy for permission? What the hell does she have on you broads, anyway?”

  “The quarrel between Malice, Figueroa, and me is an old one and a private one. I need you to trust that I think it would be best if I spoke to her first.”

  “Please, Solace. Just tell me. Don’t make me wait like this. Did he go to some new sort of Realm? A place I need to reach him with a fish instead of a bird? I just want to send him a wedding invite. I don’t understand why you’re making this so hard.”

  “I can tell you where he went, Snow, but I fear it won’t make much sense without Figueroa’s explanation of his motivations.”

  “You’re not making any sense.”

  “Give me one day, Snow. Please.”

  “Is he safe? Can’t you tell me that much?”

  Solace loops her long scarf around her neck and locks the shop with a key she fishes from her apron with her paw. I follow her to Figgy’s house in silence and watch her walk up the stairs. I hear raised voices but the wind picks up and I can’t make out what they’re saying. The fat robin sentinels descend to the lowest stair, stating Figgy will not be accepting visitors until the morning. Like I couldn’t have figured that out myself.

  Still standing at the bottom of Figgy’s tree, I decide to swallow my pride (or at least attempt to) and head over to CeCi’s to see how her classes went. I’ll give the Godmothers their goddamned day and then they’re going to answer me.

  Before I can even place a foot on the lane, who should happen along but Rory.

  “How was CeCi’s first day?” I ask, feeling strangely awkward not having spoken to her since the dress fitting. Instead of answering, Rory keeps walking as if she hasn’t heard.

  “Wait!” I say. Rory (Rory!) holds up her middle finger at me. I trot along behind Snoozer, trying to figure out why she’d be ignoring me.

  “Rory. Please? Slow down.”

  She turns and looks at me, her eyes bluer than I’d seen them in a while. “Do you have something to tell me, Bianca? Something I need to know?”

  My heart fills my chest with an uneven rhythm. I can feel my throat flush. Could she have found out about Maro? “No,” I say. “What? Maybe. I’m not sure what you mean. Could you be more specific?” Not my most articulate response ever, but I am totally unprepared for a confrontation from the least confrontational among us.

  “I gather from Figgy that you and CeCi have been to see her about me, though I have no idea why. Is that where you’re coming from just now? Why, Bianca? Why? Why doesn’t anyone talk to me? It’s always ‘tiptoe around Rory’ and I’m weary of it. I’m weary of you. I’m weary of CeCi. I’m weary of both of you thinking that you know what’s best for me. You don’t know what’s best for me. You have no idea what it’s like to be me.” She’s yelling at this point, a crescendo of pissed off I’ve never witnessed from her before.

  “Okay,” I say. I try to take a few steps closer and put my hands on her shoulders. “You’re right. We don’t—”

  “Stop,” she says. “Stop agreeing with me. And stop touching me. What were you doing here, Bianca?”

  “I was here for me,” I said, another gust of wind tearing across the meadow. “About my father.”

  “So you say,” Rory says.

  “I’m not denying we came for you, Rory. We did—a while ago—and I’m sorry,” I say. “We didn’t do it to hurt you. We just wanted to try to find a way to make you happier. That’s all.”

  “Talk to me! Talk to me next time you want to make me happy. How do you think it made me feel, you two sneaking around behind my back?”

  “We . . . I, I didn’t think. You know me, I almost never do. I’m sorry. We won’t help you, won’t go behind your back again.”

  “I certainly hope not,” she says and turns to resume her homeward trajectory.

  “Do you forgive us?” I call to her (and the dog’s) rear.

  She waves, this time with all of her fingers.

  Truthfully, Zell—even when Figgy asked us—I didn’t understand how Rory would have felt about seeking help on her behalf. In hindsight, I never thought she would see anything but good intentions.

  This new anger of Rory’s, though, makes the whole Maro situation a lot more urgent. If she’s this upset about us going to Figgy to help her, I can’t even imagine her reaction to us hiding something that will hurt her. We have to do something and soon, because she will find out. I’ve read enough Cosmo to know the jilted woman always finds out.

  We’ve all messed up. I declare a truce. A clean slate. A let bygones be by-fucking-gone. Right?

  I think I’ll go see if William is up for some bourbon.

  Zell, I know that I made fun of you and Jason for removing the negative forces from your life and finding a space to clear your heads, but it was a good idea. I look at all the advice flying around here, all the help we try and fail to give one another—I think the biggest Fairy Tale of all is that any of us know what the hell we’re doing.

  Love,

  B

  Princess Briar R. Rose

  Somnolent Tower Castle

  South Road, Grimmland

  Dearest Zell,

  As the last weeks have rushed past, I feel less and less cross with CeCi and Bianca. I know they meant well. I don’t want you to worry about us. There’s hardly any time to fight anymore, anyway.

  There’s so much to do with Maro staying here and trying to explain the subtleties of Bach to Bianca’s wedding cellist. And fittings and tastings and obedience classes. And of course trading off with Bianca to accompany CeCi Outside.

  Forgiving Figgy has not been as easy. I simply can’t believe she won’t help me find a way to get closer to Henry. But one morning last week, I began thinking again about my romance novels. The characters always find some magnificent way to use the circumstances around them to their advantage. So I thought I might try to do the same.

  Yesterday, it was my turn to go Outside with CeCi, so she and I agreed where and when to meet after she finished class—at six at the Starbucks—and then she said, “Traveling used to make you so nervous. You’re as adventurous as Bianca these days.”

  “I’m nothing at all like Bianca,” I said. But even though I was trying to appear indignant, I suppose CeCi’s right. And I’d be lying if I didn’t feel a tiny bit of pride in her declaration. You would be proud of me, Zell. I feel much braver these days. Bravery is exhausting, though, so I do have to drink a good deal of coffee.

  “Take it easy on Bianca,” CeCi said. “She loves you, you know. We both do.”

  “I was equally mad at both of you,” I said. “But I’m willing to overlook it. Besides, you might think I came out here solely for your benefit, but I have my own business to attend to. Everything isn’t always about you, CeCi.”

  Her eyes went big, and I feared I might have taken things too far when I realized she was trying not to laugh. “I’m sorry. That was a good try, Rory. Really. But mean isn’t exactly your core competency.”


  “I understand you and Bianca were trying to help me,” I said. “But I don’t want to be anyone’s charity case.”

  CeCi stood there, looking so professional in her chef’s coat. She doffed her fluffy little toque and said, “Of course. We are sorry.”

  Sometimes, though, I just can’t relate to CeCi, especially the deeper she gets into this cooking business. If I had her fortune—a man who loved and understood me and wanted to be with me and hoped for my happiness, I wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize it. Perhaps I sound jealous, but that’s not it at all. A career will never be what I want, just like being a mother will never be what she wants. I don’t know why it makes me angry that we don’t want the same things.

  I headed straight for the coffee shop after I left CeCi. Just as I’d hoped, my new acquaintance Patricia was holding court at one of the sidewalk tables at my favorite Starbucks (yes, there are many, and the beauty of it is, they’re all almost exactly the same). She and I met a visit or two ago at the PetSmart next door. Several of us pet owners had continued our conversation over coffee, and she mentioned she was some sort of therapist—that’s a Human who helps others with their problems. She carried a satchel practically bursting with files to prove it. She also carried a Pekingese named Jethro. I wasn’t sure how Snoozer felt about Jethro, but they seemed content enough to ignore one another.

  I asked her if she remembered me and had some time to talk. “This isn’t how people normally make appointments.” She looked at me from over the rims of her very large sunglasses.

  “Well, to whom might I write so that I can make one?”

  She laughed and moved her tote bags from the extra chair so I could sit. “What’s up?”

  “Have you ever had problems attracting the full attention of a man?” I asked. Patricia was shaded by the green umbrella overhead, but with her long black-stockinged legs and red lipstick, I was sure the answer would be no.