Letters to Zell

by Camille Griep

  “I should think,” says Figgy, lowering her voice, “your friends have been good examples of what happens when Fairy Tales act rashly.”

  The wind picks up now so that the rain splatters on the windows. Figgy moves toward the center of the room.

  “So let me get this straight. You lie to me to keep me from going Outside to find my father. Meanwhile, you and Solace bicker over when to tell me for such a duration you’ve now lost track of him.”

  She folds her wings in on herself as the gusts howl through the chimney. “He is now as Human as any Human.”

  “Then I’ll have to find him myself.”

  “That sort of hasty thoughtlessness is exactly why we didn’t give you the information in the first place!”

  “Fat lot of good it did. If you had told me in the first place, he wouldn’t be lost.”

  “He isn’t lost. He made his own decision, Snow White. Not mine, not yours. The road back for him is forever closed. If you aren’t careful, you’ll make the same mistake.”

  “What if it isn’t a mistake? What if I want to live Outside? What if I don’t want any part of this Realm where you divvy out essential information at your convenience?”

  “I cannot stop you. But I can make you wait. You must fulfill your Pages before I allow you to leave permanently.”

  “I’ll go whenever I want.” White light splits the room, and we are momentarily deaf from the sound.

  “It’ll be the end of everything we know.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Look at what you’re causing right now.” She gestures toward the door, where, through the panes of glass, the boughs are stretched taut. “If you refuse your Pages, the whole book falls apart. You’ll destroy Rory and CeCi and William and Edmund and Solace and Hansel and Gretel and me—everyone in our Realm.”

  “Write me new Pages, then. You did it for Rory. Why not me?”

  Hail starts to pelt the roof, violent and distracting. “You don’t understand what you’re saying.” Figgy drew very close. “The destruction will happen if you abandon your Pages. You can do whatever you want once you’re married and Valborg has been executed—but you cannot change what has already been written. You couldn’t be that self-centered.”

  “I couldn’t because I don’t know when you’re telling the truth. Half the time you deal in destruction and misery and fear and the other half you’re doling out fake Happily Ever Afters. Look at what you’ve done to Rory!”

  “Briar Rose lost everything, and she will continue to lose everything. Fred’s interference didn’t change her fate, it simply prolonged it. His deed was hardly a kindness.”

  “What are you talking about? She has her life. She has her parents. She has us. She has . . . Snoozer.”

  “Even if she’s still alive, she’s lost what was real to her,” Figgy tuts. “I’m only trying to give her purpose again.”

  “You’re wrong, Figgy. Maybe Rory lost whatever life she had before—but she still has hope. Can’t you see her fighting for it? If things are so bleak then why even give her new Pages?”

  Figgy blinks. “Because without purpose, there is not even room for hope. If you’d simply stop filling her head with all this dream nonsense and Outside expectations, she might find herself content where she is, instead of measuring herself against you and Cecilia.”

  “Oh, I get it. It’s our fault, then. Fucking great. Fuck this. Fuck you, Figgy.”

  I stand, upending the chair. Tea, canaries, incense everywhere. The house shakes with the storm. With my footfalls. Candles fall from their holders. It’s a miracle I don’t burn the whole place down.

  So I guess that’s it, Zell. I just sit around on my hands for a while so I don’t ruin our world. I let my father slip farther and farther away. And Rachel, too. This isn’t fair. I don’t want to do this anymore. And just as soon as I don’t have to, I won’t. That’s a fucking promise.

  B

  From the Desk of Cecilia Cinder Charming

  Crystal Palace

  North Road, Grimmland

  Dear Zell,

  Edmund has been home the last couple of weeks, organizing groups to salvage the downed limbs from the big storm and donate them to the needy for firewood. Despite how busy he’s been, it’s become increasingly difficult to get to classes without him asking questions. Today was the worst yet.

  It was a simple enough question. “Where are you off to now?”

  But maybe his emphasis rested too heavily on now or off or you. Maybe I was just tired of being vague. So I was cruel instead. He put his hand on my shoulder, and I stepped away. “Is there something you need?”

  “Am I not allowed to care where you’re going, CeCi? You’re my wife, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “So what, you need to keep tabs on your property now?”

  I could see him weighing whether to try to start over again. “Just stop. I’m sorry I asked.” And I’m sorry I answered. But I don’t know how to apologize. I just sink deeper and deeper into this chasm, and I let us grow apart.

  My classes have been a respite from the drama here in Grimmland. My pastry instructor says I have a knack for understanding texture. I like butchering a lot, too, but my lab partner is much better at it than I am. We’ve reached a sort of peaceful tolerance, Phil and I. As long as I keep my questions limited to cooking, he doesn’t look at me like his eyes are going to pop out anymore. In fact, he laughs a lot now. One day during a break, he made us tinfoil hats to keep us safe from the “Humans.” It was a charming gesture. Almost like we’re friends.

  Speaking of friends, even though Rory, Bianca, and I are bickering more often than not, I am very thankful that Bianca deemed me worthy of becoming her project. She could have devoted her time to fund-raising for your unicorns or making collars for Snoozer and his friends, but instead she devoted her time to launching my cooking career. She can do those other things or not. Hell, I think at this point she’s proven she can do almost anything she wants.

  Almost, I guess, except find some sort of peace with the news about her father. I can’t help but be angry on her behalf. Solace and Figgy always say they have our best interests in mind, but it rarely turns out that way. It seems we constantly end up with more heartbreak than we start with.

  Bianca has been so busy convincing everyone else that her father was simply too preoccupied with traveling to RSVP for the wedding that the truth was nearly unbearable. When she did say something to us during the weekly fitting with Five this morning, she more spat than spoke. Then she announced that everyone in the wedding would wear black.

  Rory showed up clearly having consumed several coffee beverages, fairly buzzing around the room. When she finally alit, she handed us each boxes of matching unicorn lingerie. Something about someone’s secret. I’d be very surprised if a similar shipment does not arrive at your door quite soon. She was still very excited about her makeover and began begging Bianca and me to get our own cosmetic updates.

  Surprisingly, Bianca, looking up from the sinister-looking bridal train behind her, agreed. “Sure. Whatever. When are we going?”

  “Tomorrow?” Rory suggested.

  “Great,” said Bianca. Her voice was as flat as a lily pad.

  “I have class tomorrow,” I said.

  “You can meet us afterward.” Bianca stood before a three-way mirror, but seemed to be looking everywhere but at the striking figure she made.

  “Fun!” squealed Rory, clapping her hands like an over-sugared child. Hansel says there’s something called decaf we may need to slip Rory’s kitchen staff. Phil can help me procure it, I’m sure.

  I suspected Bianca was about as interested in a makeover as Rory would be in a bourbon tasting, but I kept my suspicions to myself. Honestly, I kind of wish I could go Outside this once by myself—just to hear myself think—but I can’t bear to disappoint either
of them. Right now it’s hard to say whose emotional crisis is more immediate.

  Rory excused herself from our post-fitting lunch, saying she had a big night planned and that she didn’t want to ruin anything by eating too many fries. Bianca didn’t feel like lunch, either, but I dragged her to Shambles anyway and pushed her onto a bar stool.

  I sat down beside her and took her limp hand. “What did William say when you told him about your father?”

  I expected her to pull away, but she didn’t move. Her voice had lost its flatness, and was heavy with grief instead. “He said he was sorry my father wouldn’t be at our wedding. Sorry that he was gone for good. He had no idea my father had visited my little glass box. Then he gave me a hug and offered me a drink.”

  “Well,” I said. “That’s something, I guess.”

  “Maybe. But he doesn’t get it. He told me I might have suspected.”

  I was silent for a beat longer than I should have been.

  “You, too? Fantastic, I’m the only idiot in the village. Why didn’t you say anything, Sherlock? Thanks for leaving me hanging.”

  I put my remaining hand on top of our clenched ones. “I think we’re all pretty scared of talking to you about your father. What happened to you is, at least in part, his fault. And we’re angry with him. It would make more sense if you were just a little bit angry with him, as well. Being angry with someone doesn’t invalidate all the rest of your feelings for a person. You know that. But you’re so defensive.”

  “Valborg was mostly normal when they met. How could he know she’d resort to homicide as soon as he started traveling again?”

  “He should have been there for you. Whether or not she was bad, or good, or murderous. He should have been around more—at least should have spent more days here than gone. He shouldn’t have assumed.”

  “In hindsight, sure. But people need to do what makes them happy. He would have been miserable staying around just to make sure my nursemaids were doing their jobs. He was back and forth my entire childhood—even before my mother died. I think he probably thought Valborg and I would take care of each other. He’s a good man, CeCi.”

  “I’m not saying he isn’t,” I said, which was a small fib. “But it’s like you keep telling me about my own father. He should have protected his child.”

  “That’s different. Your father knew what Lucinda was. He participated in making you the family’s servant.”

  “The fact remains that your father doesn’t want to be found. And even if you could find him Outside—in time, because you won’t destroy Grimmland, though I can certainly understand the temptation at times—it isn’t as if he can come back with you.”

  “Yeah,” she said. She put her face in her hands. “I know.”

  “On your wedding day, it’ll be me and Rory and William standing by you. Same as always. We’ll be the ones standing by you afterward. No matter what sort of queen you decide to be, even if it’s the queen of your own private rowboat. That’s not going to change.”

  She didn’t say much more for the rest of lunch. She didn’t finish her cider, just picked it up and plunked it down, making wet rings on the table. She didn’t tell me to shut up when I complained my plate of fries was going to require Five to let out my bridesmaid dress. She didn’t even laugh when I drew her a sunshine smiley face with a squeeze bottle of ketchup. She shoved the plate back at me and told me she was late. She didn’t say for what, and I let her go.

  It appeared I was the only one without a mysterious afternoon appointment. I tried staying at Shambles, making idle conversation with a couple of the dwarves coming in for their lunch break from the mine, but I didn’t get very far.

  “What do you mine, anyway?” I asked Tripp, realizing Bianca had never really said.

  “Well, darlin’,” he said in his rich brogue, “we dig up the luck for all the charms those Humans scarf down at breakfast.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” said Max. “We ship our loads of twinkle up to the stars. Damned things would be dull as rock if it weren’t for us.”

  “Helpful, thanks,” I said, swallowing the dregs of my cider as they clapped each other on the arms and laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t want to keep you from your important tasks.”

  When I got home, I collapsed on my bed, cursing myself for wondering about stars. I expected Lucinda to descend, barking about something or other, but instead I heard Darling and Sweetie shuffling around my door.

  “Can I help you?” It came out sharper than I meant.

  “We just were checking to see if you were okay,” said Darling, in a voice so low I could barely hear her.

  Sweetie felt for the edge of the doorway and poked her head around. “We tried to visit the library, but Edmund seems to be sleeping in there.”

  “We’re not trying to be nosy,” Darling added.

  “Can we get you some tea?” asked Sweetie. I could hear the clatter of the saucer already in her hand, so I said yes. We drank our tea in silence, but I found myself oddly grateful for their nervous, yet sincere company.

  Lucinda had them believing we were all one marital confrontation away from homelessness, so I tried to reassure them—and myself. Honestly I haven’t gotten past how painful Edmund’s loss of faith in me is. Or how this is all completely my fault. We’ll work things out. Or we won’t. I have to try and fix this. I’m just not sure how to fix anything anymore.

  Have you tried the instructions for the soup I sent you? Really, if you just keep it on a low heat and move the pot holders away from the flame, there’s very little chance anything else will start on fire.

  Love,

  CeCi

  Princess Briar R. Rose

  Somnolent Tower Castle

  South Road, Grimmland

  Dearest Zell,

  I’m sure you know by now that Bianca is inconsolable about her father, though it is certainly understandable in this case. Could he have known how much Bianca would love Outside? Or that she’d become the kind of person who’d spend the rest of her life searching for him? That is one laudable thing about our Bianca, no matter how vexing she can be: She never gives up.

  I wish I could claim such tenacity. On my own battlefront, my efforts have once more proven useless. I’m trying to keep myself in good spirits, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult.

  Last night, I marched into Henry’s bedroom with my new hairstyle and makeup and dressed in my new lingerie. I’d envisioned rendering him speechless. He’d drop whatever he was doing and stare, enraptured. Instead, he lowered the scroll he was puzzling over and said, “What are you supposed to be?”

  “I’m your fantasy!” I spun around, nearly losing my balance on my new heels. To my credit, his mouth did hang a bit agape. “I’m just trying to become what you want.”

  He began to laugh, harder than necessary. “Did you happen to bring a sandwich, then?”

  I drew a hand across my eyes to catch the welling tears. My fingers came away black and sparkling.

  “Come here,” he said. I tripped toward him, my heel sticking in the grout between the stones.

  “You’re a good person, Rosie,” he said. “I appreciate the effort.”

  “But?”

  “Hey. Don’t cry, babe. I’m sorry that things aren’t exactly the way you want them to be with us.”

  “Not as sorry as I am,” I said. I tried to make my way to the door, but I felt warm all of a sudden. And dizzy. I tottered over to a sturdy chair and sat down. “Is it so ridiculous that I need the attention of my husband? I want to start our family, Henry. You can settle down. Stop sowing your oats or whatever you’re doing. My father can start including you at court. You won’t have go on all those beastly hunts anymore. You can spend more time with my friends—”

  “Rosie, wait.” He paused, taking a big slug of whatever was in his pewter mug. “I adore you, you know that
, right? But we’re in two different places right now.”

  “We’re both sitting here in this very room. You aren’t making sense.”

  “Okay. How about this: I don’t want to debate social justice with William or design Rodent Roundabouts with Edmund. I want to be on hunts. I want to find the next big adventure. Rescue the princess. Slay the dragon. Outwit the ogre. That’s who I am. I don’t want to be in court, listening to old people debate property lines and knighting bears. I’m still young. So are you. Sort of.”

  “But everyone grows up eventually, don’t they?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “We rushed into things, Rosie. We don’t have much chemistry. Besides, you must want something other than . . . this.” He made a wide sweep of his hands. I looked around his room—a place as foreign to me as someone else’s castle.

  “I’m not sure what you mean. This”—I mirrored his motion—“is exactly what I want. You are exactly what I want.”

  “How can that be? I’m not ready for the kind of life you clearly want to live.”

  “But when will you be ready? Don’t you want a baby?”

  “Well, I don’t not want a baby.”

  “Tell me what you mean.” I tried to look him in the eyes, but they were everywhere but on me. It was almost as if he were embarrassed.

  “It means that I don’t know yet. And I don’t want to hurt you any more than I already have. Look, let’s just be honest with one another. Lots of Fairy Tale couples make their marriages work for their circumstances. Look at William and Bianca, they—”

  “They aren’t even married yet!”

  “That’s not the point. Listen, you don’t have to turn yourself into something you’re not for my sake,” he said, gesturing up and down at my new black lingerie. “Don’t get me wrong. You look great. But I know who you are, and it’s not . . . whatever this is.”

  I snuggled up to him like Star did to Sabian in The Cake and the Damned. “I can be whoever you want me to be.”

  He jumped up, moving away from me. “You’re creeping me out. Stop.”