Letters to Zell

by Camille Griep

  “Sit down,” I said, gesturing to a yellow divan. “Please.”

  “Sounds ominous.” He flopped instead into an armchair draped in painter’s cloth. We’ve been parrying with small gestures, refusals, deferrals to keep each other at a distance. It’s become uncomfortable, at best.

  “Edmund, let’s not fight.”

  “I’m not fighting,” he said. “I’m sitting, just as you asked.”

  “I had a bad day,” I said.

  He patted his knee, half in jest, half in desperate attempt to get back to the time before we’d messed things up so badly. It was tempting. I could have, as had become habit, regaled him with some generic tale of Bianca’s whims or Rory’s laments. He would have, as had become habit, told me that I was a good friend, and that I needed to relax and take care of myself. Maybe we’d have spent the night together or let the moment pass. We could have kissed chastely, telling ourselves that things were still okay when they clearly weren’t. But this time I was brave.

  “No, Edmund. I need to tell you something, and I need for you to hear me. I need you not to argue with me or kiss me or placate me. Just promise to listen to me very carefully.”

  “Okay.” He sat back with a good-natured smirk. “I promise.”

  “I’ve been lying to you.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I knew it. You abhor yellow, don’t you?”

  “Don’t,” I said. “I love you. I love you more than anything, and I never knew I wanted anyone this much or anything this much and this is hard.”

  “Fine, CeCi. I’m listening.”

  “I haven’t been volunteering to remove oil from ugly ducklings or taking chess lessons. I haven’t been bacheloretting in Wonderland or Neverland or Fantasia. I’ve been taking cooking classes Outside for the last couple of months. I’m going to the Cordon Bleu school in Los Angeles to learn to be a chef.”

  He blinked, working his way through my confession. “I don’t even know how to make sense of any of that. Why, in Grimm’s name?”

  “Do you remember back when I told you I wanted to cook and you told me that I couldn’t because it would embarrass you?”

  “Yes, but that’s not what I meant—”

  “Wait. Listen. You promised.” His eyebrows pinched together like they do when he’s solving a problem, but he nodded. “When I was young, cooking was the one thing I was good at. Proud of. No matter what horrible things a day might hold, I would be able to make something from nothing. When I myself suddenly became something from nothing, I found I didn’t feel like myself without being able to practice my art. Creating food makes me feel powerful, whole, useful. Not being able to do it made me sad. But I knew it wasn’t as simple as declaring my intentions to the palace—we have appearances to keep.”

  “So your solution was to lie to me?” He leaned forward to put his elbows on his knees.

  “I tried to tell you. But you made me feel so ungrateful.”

  “I was only trying to protect you from, well, everyone. You do understand that, don’t you?”

  “And I was trying to protect you.”

  “Nonsense, CeCi. Do you think I care what the staff says or Lucinda says or even my parents say?”

  “If you can’t tell your parents we don’t want a baby, how are you going to tell them that I want to wear an apron instead of a tiara?”

  “That’s completely different.” He put his head in his hands.

  “I need your support, Edmund. I want you back in my corner, by my side. Whatever. I hate not sharing this with you.”

  “I can’t even . . . ,” he started.

  “I want to do this as a career. For myself. For the kingdom. At some point, I’ll have to tell everyone, and I’ll need you to back me up.”

  “How can I back you up when I can’t trust you to clue me in?” He balled his hands into fists. “Damn, CeCi.”

  “I’m sorry. I just felt like I couldn’t. Or I shouldn’t.”

  “Can you imagine how this feels, how I feel to be so unworthy of your secrets? All this time, I’ve only looked for you on my horizon. I don’t even seem to be a part of yours.”

  I sat down on the arm of the chair. Zell, in all the scenarios I played in my head, in all the reactions I imagined Edmund would have—anger, resentment, disbelief, disdain—hurt was never among them. In all my days, I’ve never felt guiltier.

  “It was never a question of your worth.” He looked at me like I was a stranger. “I was so, so wrong. I was wrong to keep it from you. I assumed your judgment instead of giving you a chance. I was scared, and I didn’t think it through.”

  He didn’t reach for me, but he didn’t pull away, either. The rift I’ve caused will take time to heal, if it heals at all. “You’re right. We do need to be careful about how we tell my parents.”

  His concession was a small one, but I grabbed on to it like a drowning woman. “Thank you, Edmund.”

  “Who else knows?”

  “Just Bianca and Rory. Oh, and Maro.”

  Edmund’s face contorted from displeased to dyspeptic. “Maro Green? I’m surprised the whole kingdom doesn’t know by now. That woman is trouble.”

  “So we’ve discovered.” Leave it to Maro to be the topic to temporarily save me from myself.

  He looked at me, volume dropping. “Does Rory know yet?”

  That’s when I realized it was only a matter of time. And that Edmund had had the decency to keep the rumors to himself so that I wouldn’t have to decide how to tell her.

  That’s what kind of friend I should have been to Bianca. And you. And Rory. And Edmund. Things will work out, though, won’t they? We can forgive and move on. There’s only one final lie to expose. Now to figure out how and when.

  I miss you immensely. I’m sorry no one liked your meat loaf. Even though it’s supposed to be foolproof, there are a number of surprising ways one can botch things up. I know Bianca keeps telling you that there’s no such thing as too much ketchup, but I assure you, there is.

  Love,

  CeCi

  Princess Briar R. Rose

  Somnolent Tower Castle

  South Road, Grimmland

  Dear Zell,

  At dinner tonight, I asked the attendant what time it was. Henry said, from the other end of the table, that we should put a clock in the dining room. And I said I’d ask Solace to craft something suitable. And then he said that was fine as long as it wasn’t as ugly as the thing in the tower.

  I put my fork down. I asked him exactly when he’d been in the tower. And he said, oh, it was a while ago. When he rescued me. Maybe since. He couldn’t remember.

  I began to feel dizzy. My thoughts swirled, and my blood started to zing through my veins, almost painfully. I felt like I had been pulled out of my own body.

  I watched myself get out of my chair and ask him, again, exactly when he’d been in my tower and why. The red blush on his neck crawled into his ears, and as it did, everything fell into place. Maro here, Maro in my tower, Henry in my tower, Maro happy, Henry happy, Rory deeply unhappy. This must have been the big secret. CeCi knew, Bianca knew, I assume you knew, and not one of you had the decency to tell me.

  He said he was sorry. He said it wasn’t his fault. Then he said it wasn’t me, it was him. And still then he said it was me because I was too timid, because I didn’t act like I wanted him, because I acted like I wanted him too much. Because he doesn’t know me. Because he deserved something, didn’t he? What did I want from him, anyway?

  I took a walk to clear my head and made a lap around the pond to see if the Frog Prince was playing ball. But he was gone. I sat there for a long time, wondering if the lily pad in the middle of the pond was as lonely as I am. Everyone else has taken charge of her own rowboat, but here I am being pulled along by the current. I’m sleepwalking through my days.

  When the Frog Prince re-en
tered the glade, there was a shining maiden at his side. I told her to be careful she didn’t catch the kissing sickness.

  I suppose I don’t blame you for keeping the secret, Zell. I wouldn’t expect you to have written me with the news when you weren’t here to verify it. CeCi and Bianca should have told me as soon as they found out instead of creeping on eggshells to avoid Maro. Everything is so much clearer now.

  The humorous thing is, Zell, in my grand plot, I wasn’t wrong to ask a Fairy Godmother for help. I simply chose the wrong one. After all these years, it’s time I paid Malice a visit.

  Rory

  Her Feet Burned as She Danced

  Important Fucking Correspondence from Snow B. White

  Onyx Manor

  West Road, Grimmland

  Z,

  You’re wrong. I am not going to change my mind. As soon as I said it to Rory, I knew it was what I wanted, what I’ve always wanted. I can’t imagine life any other way anymore. Surely you, of all people, understand. When I picture staying in this stagnant cesspool, I’m flooded with the same sort of misery that CeCi must have felt before she began cooking school. We lacked more than purpose, Zell; we lacked a direction. My direction is Outside.

  CeCi might not see the change in herself, but I certainly do. I’m proud to have been a part of her transformation. I wish she’d grant me the same courtesy. I wish Rory would, too, but first she has to stand up for herself—with or without the knowledge of Maro and Henry.

  My first order of business is sharing my decision with William. I pour our conversational bourbons and jump right in. “You know how we’re getting married next week?”

  “Saw something about that on my calendar . . . No joke, I got my big shiny suit and everything.” He pumps his fist in mock excitement.

  “And you know the conversation we had before about being partners and everything?”

  “Of course.”

  “You’re one of my best friends, right?”

  “I hope so. Though I might have to reconsider if you don’t get to your point soon.”

  My skin is crawling with nerves. “I need to do something. Something you might not understand. Or like, even.”

  “Hit me.”

  “After we get married, I need to leave.”

  “We talked about this, didn’t we? Traveling’s no problem. You want to travel. I want to travel. We’ll figure it out. For how long?”

  “Forever.”

  “Is this a joke?” He stands up, looking injured. “It’s not very funny.” His reaction dents my bubble of elation. But I charge ahead.

  “I want to go Outside. For good.”

  He pauses a moment, swallows the rest of his drink, then puts his glass down. “What are you talking about? You can’t just renege, B. We had a deal. Plans. Remember? Ruling as a team. Exploring. Together. Separately. No strings. Why now?”

  “Well, a lot of reasons. First, there’s my father.”

  He spools up his usual speech, replete with well-timed pacing. “Bianca, he doesn’t want to see you. He left. On purpose.”

  “I know, but it’s because he blames himself. I can’t live forever knowing that he’s dying on the other side with all that guilt.”

  He practically throws fresh ice into his empty glass. “He should be dying with guilt, Bianca. Hell, it’s been, what, two years? Who knows? He could be anywhere. Or he could be nowhere. Outside’s a dangerous place. He could be sick or even—”

  “Don’t, Will. Don’t say things you can’t unsay.”

  He goes on anyway. “You’re always the first one to champion everyone else’s injustices. You can hardly stand it when bad things happen to Rory and CeCi. But you can’t see the knife poised in front of your own damned heart. Are you broken or something?”

  Tears smart in my eyes. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

  “I am on your side,” he says, slumping with his back to the wall. “Or at least I’m trying to be. But you’ve packed your fucking side into a suitcase bound for a place the rest of us can’t go. Are you too obtuse to see that?”

  “Obtuse?”

  “Stubborn. Inconsistent. Inconsiderate. How am I supposed to feel? I pretend to marry you. Then I lose my friend. I lose my partner. I start over again? Am I not getting the short end of this stick?”

  “We have to get married, William. My Pages.”

  “Fuck your Pages. I thought you were my best friend.”

  “I am. But I’m not in love with you. You’re not in love with me.”

  “We already discussed this. I don’t care about romance. I care about regretting your decision, not being able to come back. I care about you dying out there and me never getting to see you again. Remember when Rapunzel took off? This is a thousand times worse.”

  He’s right, of course. But I have to tell him everything. “I know that you’re okay not being in love. But I’m not sure I was being honest when I said I was okay with it.”

  He pours us both a couple more fingers of whiskey. “So you lied?”

  “I didn’t lie to you, William. I lied to me. I’m not in love with you. But that doesn’t mean I’m not in love.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so? You’re free to love whoever you want. Go, then.” He’s flustered. I have to stop letting him interrupt me.

  “No, William. With someone Outside.”

  “How is that even possible?” He laughs at himself. “Never mind. Nice work, Bianca. It’s not often a guy gets cuckolded before he’s even married.”

  “It’s not like that. Nothing worse than the flirting you do over at Shambles.” I’d elbow him if he’d come near me, but he’s wedged himself into a corner, as if I’ve grown a particularly twisty pair of horns. “She’s just different. I want to spend the rest of my life knowing her, getting to know her. No matter how long that may be. And it’s not like you’ll never see me again.”

  He takes several moments to collect himself. He drains his glass, fills it, and drains it again.

  “Fuck, Bianca. What am I supposed to say? I’m not sure how to be your friend here.”

  “I’m sorry. I am.”

  He lets out a long sigh. “I know you are. But still.”

  “I want to leave everything to you. My castle, the money, the maps. You’re going to be a great king. I already know it.”

  We both cry for a little while, backs to one another. Then we laugh for a long time at each other, with each other, and cry a bit more. I don’t want to screw Will over. I think he knows that—at least I hope so.

  We’d both regret our original plan if we went through with it. If he ever finds that person, that True Love, for himself, he’ll understand. I think maybe he already does, deep down, even though it must feel as if I’ve hit him in the windpipe. Like we all felt when you left.

  But now, it’s as if I’m the sky after a rainstorm, you know? Like when all the dust is washed clean. I wouldn’t ever want to have a conversation like it again, but I’m glad we had it. I’m making my apologies so that I can start over again. Honestly. Like I always meant to.

  I am, Zell, apologizing to you, too. I’m sorry for so very many things. I’m sorry for doubting you and your choice. Can you please forgive me? And support mine in return?

  Love,

  B

  PS. I know your mother-in-law succeeded with the temporary ban, but I’m sure I could pull some strings. We could sneak you into the wedding if we put you inside the cake.

  From the Desk of Cecilia Cinder Charming

  Crystal Palace

  North Road, Grimmland

  Dear Zell,

  Not ten breaths after Edmund left our chambers this morning, Darling and Sweetie stumbled in, slamming the door behind them. Darling kept her back to the door as Sweetie began to call for me. “CeCi? Quick, help.”

  I hopped up and out o
f bed and took her outstretched hand. They still look so young—skin untouched by sun and eyes that healed from the bird attack into a pale, eerie blue. It’s been an adjustment, seeing myself as their friend instead of their rival, but every once in a while they surprise me with a gratitude that’s almost overwhelming.

  Sweetie folded my hands in hers. “We overheard something terrible.”

  “Horrible,” whispered Darling, her back still at the door.

  “That Maro woman,” Sweetie said. “She’s here right now. She told Mother that she has a secret about you.”

  “Of course Mother took her into her chambers, but our ears are extra good since, well, our eyes, you know,” said Darling, head bowed.

  “Maro told Mother that you were taking some sort of cooking classes, like a common peasant. She said she trusted that Mother would know what to do with the information.” Sweetie was shaking. “Mother’s going to tell Edmund that you’ve been sneaking away, and he’ll forbid you from going Outside again. We told him the grooms weren’t sure which horse to saddle today and sent him to the barns before she could get to him. But she will find him, eventually. You know she will. Hurry, CeCi, we have to do something before he comes home this evening.”

  “It’s okay,” I said, switching our grip so that I was holding both of Sweetie’s hands. “He already knows. I told him two nights ago.”

  “Oh, thank goodness. We were so worried,” said Darling, sliding down to the floor.

  Sweetie exhaled and tilted her head at me. “Was he very mad at you?”

  I pulled her back a few steps to sit on the edge of the bed. “He was angry that I lied to him. As he should have been. But we’re talking more, now. We’re trying to find a place where we can both be more honest with one another. With the other people in our lives. It’s a process, you know. I can’t fix what I did overnight. I shouldn’t have kept things from him in the first place.”

  “Is being a chef really what you want to do?” asked Darling.

  “Yes,” I said. “I know it doesn’t make any sense, but yes.”