by Jenni James
PRAISE FOR JENNI JAMES
Beauty and the Beast (Faerie Tale Collection)
“Jenni James takes this well loved faerie tale and gives it a paranormal twist. Very well written and hard to put down, even on my cruise vacation where I had plenty to do. Looking forward to others in Jenni’s Faerie Tale series. A great escape!”
—Amazon reviewer, 5-star review
Pride & Popularity (The Jane Austen Diaries)
“This book was unputdownable. I highly recommend it to any fan of Jane Austen, young or old. Impatiently awaiting the rest of the series.”
—Jenny Ellis, Librarian and Jane Austen Society of North America
“Having read several other Young Adult retellings of Pride and Prejudice - I must admit that Pride and Popularity by Jenni James is my top choice and receives my highest recommendation! In my opinion, it is the most plausible, accessible, and well-crafted YA version of Pride and Prejudice I have read! I can hardly wait to read the [next] installment in this series!”
—Meredith, Austenesque Reviews
“I started reading Pride and Popularity and couldn’t put it down! I stayed up until 1:30 in the morning to finish. I’ve never been happier to lose sleep. I was still happy this morning. You can’t help but be happy when reading this feel good book. Thank you Jenni for the fun night!”
—Clean Teen Fiction
Northanger Alibi (The Jane Austen Diaries)
“Twilight obsessed teens (and their moms) will relate to Claire’s longing for the fantastical but will be surprised when they find the hero is even better than a vampire or werewolf. Hilarious, fun and romantic!”
—TwilightMOMS.com
“Stephenie Meyer meets Jane Austen in this humorous, romantic tale of a girl on a mission to find her very own Edward Cullen. I didn’t want it to end!”
—Mandy Hubbard, author of Prada & Prejudice
“We often speak of Jane Austen’s satiric wit, her social commentary, her invention of the domestic novel. But Jenni James, in this delicious retelling of Northanger Abbey, casts new light on Austen’s genius in portraying relationships and the foibles of human nature—in this case, the projection of our literary fantasies onto our daily experience.”
—M.M. Bennetts, author of May 1812
Prince Tennyson
“After reading Prince Tennyson, your heart will be warmed, tears will be shed, and loved ones will be more appreciated. Jenni James has written a story that will make you believe in miracles and tender mercies from above.”
—Sheila Staley, Book Reviewer & Writer
“Divinely inspired, beautifully written—a must read!”
—Gerald D. Benally, author of Premonition (2013)
“Prince Tennyson is a sweet story that will put tears in your eyes and hope in your heart at the same time.”
—Author Shanti Krishnamurty
ALSO BY JENNI JAMES
Jenni James Faerie Tale Collection:
Beauty and the Beast
Sleeping Beauty
Rumplestiltskin
Cinderella
Jack and the Beanstalk
Snow White
Frog Prince
The Jane Austen Diaries:
Pride & Popularity
Northanger Alibi
Persuaded
Emmalee
Mansfield Ranch
Sensible & Sensational
Prince Tennyson
Revitalizing Jane
The Eternal Realm Series:
Eternity
This book is dedicated to Maralyn.
You always did love candy more than anyone.
CHAPTER ONE
THE CHILD’S CRIES WERE loud and strong—strong enough to be heard through the torrential rain and roaring wind. It had been one of the worst summer storms the region had seen in years—breathtakingly horrid. Adale Waithwrite, a simple farmer, hunched down within his thin, saturated coat and wrapped his useless scarf tighter around his head and mouth. Though it was rain and not snow, it was a fierce, biting rain. A rain that was not forgiving or kind.
It brutally pelted his face and hands, stinging them with every slash of the drops as they flew through the air to cut into his covered flesh. The clouds had come so quickly and forcefully that though it was just past four, you would have believed it to be nigh on midnight, so dark and cold it was.
The farmer heard the shriek again and turned in that direction, skirting the old forest.
“Hello?” he shouted into the sleet and rain. “Hello?”
The answering cries were louder this time and the farmer knew he was very close to the child, who was most likely tucked within the rock crevice. Attempting to climb a large boulder, Adale slipped and banged his knee. No doubt there would be a large bruise in the morning. Mumbling a curse under his breath, the man attempted again to scale the sheer rock, and this time managed to grip well enough to haul his wet body up and onto the ledge. Peering over the other side, he flinched as a great strike of lightning lit up the sky, its jagged lines spearing every which way.
The loud crash of thunder that followed immediately after shook the slick rock wall. When another bolt of light enraged the sky, he looked down and saw the shuddering boy about eight feet below him, right within the crevice as he had assumed.
The boy was drenched, his arms wrapped around himself.
“Come here!” he shouted to the child. “Come! And quickly, too! This lightning is getting dangerously close.”
He held out his hand and the boy stood up just as another crash of thunder exploded all around them. “Hurry!” Adale shouted again. “Grab my hand!” Adale’s fingers were slipping from bracing himself in such an awkward position upon the boulder. “Now, boy!”
The trembling child clutched his gloved fingers just as the farmer began to slide back down the sheer boulder between them. Another flash of lightning tore through the rain as it poured all around them, and then the bang of the thunder immediately descended. In a show of superhuman strength, he hauled the boy up and over the rock as he slid down.
He balanced the small child against the boulder and continued to slip to his feet. Once he regained his footing, he quickly glided the child the last yard or so into his arms.
The sky boomed and lit again as the farmer ran as fast as he dared in such a downpour. He clutched the boy to his chest and thankfully made it the fifty yards or so into the waiting cottage without mishap. His son met him at the door and stared in great shock at the whimpering child in his arms.
“How did you hear him over this storm?” he asked.
“The Gods, son. They led me to him. They must have.” Adale shook his head as he set the boy on the table. “Hansel, will you hang up my coat for me?” He removed his overcoat, handing it to his son. He slipped off his gloves and scarf and tossed them into a bucket near the door. They would need to be wrung out later—his clothes were soaked through. One look at the scared, sopping boy and he knew this would be a rough night.
The child was merely dressed in knee breeches and a simple shirt, with an old wool hat atop his head. His shivers alerted the farmer to the great urgency needed to help him. “Hansel, fetch me a blanket for the lad.” His son was quick to place the coat on the peg by the door and run to the bedroom.
Adale pulled the dripping hat off the child and gasped when a long golden braid plopped out, its end tied with a battered green velvet ribbon.
“You are no boy at all, child! You are a girl.”
She nodded and looked away, her arms going tighter around her trembling legs.
“Where did you come from? How are you out in a storm like this?”
“I …” The little girl opened her mouth to speak and then her eyes darted to Hansel as he came back in the room, car
rying a thick blanket.
“Yes?” asked the farmer as he took the blanket from his son and wrapped it tightly around her. “Who are you? How did you come here?”
Her voice stuttered through her shivers, but Adale finally made it out. “My home—it is gone. Th—they took it.”
“Who took it? Who are you? Why was such a small girl left all alone in the woods?”
“Father, let her speak. You ask too many questions at once. Can you not see she is frightened?” Hansel smiled at the girl and asked simply, “Where do you live?”
She took a deep breath and tried again, this time not so unsteadily. “I do not know where it is from here, or I would point it out to you. I became lost.” Her voice had a distinct accent.
The farmer hissed and stepped back. “You are from the Larkein kingdom?”
“Yes.” She smiled, most likely not realizing what danger she put herself in by uttering such words in this house. “Yes. My father was the king.”
“Your father was the—” Hansel gasped and looked at his father. “My word! What have we done?”
“If they knew we had the Larkein princess in this cottage, we would be hanged.”
They both looked at the little girl, and her bright blue eyes blinked back at them. She was a very pretty child, and clearly frightened. Hansel asked, “How old are you?”
She put on a brave smile and sat up straighter. “I am six! How are old are you?”
“Ten.” He turned toward Adale. “What should we do, Pa? We cannot toss her out, surely. She is too young.”
His father stumbled back a few more steps and then slammed his palm forcefully upon the rocking chair. “We cannot keep her here! We cannot! Not with the king’s men invading her home this very day. If they knew … if they knew she was with us—”
“What if they never found out?”
His father nearly fell to the wooden floor. “What? Never found out? Are you mad? How can we keep a child—a female child—with a distinct Larkein voice in our home without anyone being the wiser? Hansel, no. I must take her back into the night and allow the Gods to decide what is best to do with her.”
“Pa, please! I know they are a wicked kingdom, but please! That does not mean the girl will be too. We can hide her—we can. And she can learn how to speak properly. We will say that she is my cousin, an orphan from your sister Claudine. Everyone knows she has just passed on and left a score of children—they will not think anything of it. Please, Father. You cannot send her out there. She will die.”
“It is better that she die than us!” Adale pointed at the girl and she began to cry. “Take her outside this instant.”
“No, I will not, for it is not right. She is a child, Father. She can be trained to be good. Let us keep her, please.”
Adale walked around and collapsed upon the rocking chair. “My heart is too soft,” he muttered into his hand. “It is too soft by far. Now what have we gotten ourselves into?”
“I promise I will take full responsibility for her. I will see that she is safe and teach her our ways. Just do not make her go back out to meet her fate. Perhaps she was meant to come to us. You yourself said it was the Gods who led you to her. It can only be good that she brings.”
His father groaned and hunched over in his chair. “I hope you are right, my son. I hope you are right.” He threw out his arms. “Fine. She may stay. Though it is with great trepidation I agree to this.”
“Thank you, Father.” Hansel walked up to the little girl. He peered into her bright eyes and asked, “What is your name? What do they call you in the castle?”
She smiled big then, showing a missing top tooth. “Gretel. My name is Gretel.”
CHAPTER TWO
HANSEL WHACKED AT THE tree for about the hundredth time in the past twenty minutes or so. Stubborn tree. It should have fallen ages ago, yet still it remained tall and proud, giving him the biggest challenge he had faced for months. He took another wide swing and gave a shout to accompany the jab as the metal axe struck the strong trunk.
“Hansel, do not go about killing yourself over a little tree,” commented Gretel as she approached him with a tall jug of fresh milk. “Here. Drink. Enjoy. Be calm. ‘Tis good for you.” She smiled at his rolling eyes as she handed over the pitcher.
He leaned the axe against the trunk. Gratefully, he took the proffered drink and gulped down rather large mouthfuls of the perfect stuff. Wiping his mouth and then his hand on his shirt, he said, “Why must women be so interfering? Why can you not come out to enjoy the day and hand me a drink without the silliness of believing a little tree like this is causing me commotion?”
She raised an eyebrow and grinned that annoying, superior grin of hers. “I might have believed you had I not come out here just as you shouted down the rafters.”
“The rafters? The rafters? My word, woman.” He shooed her with his sweaty arm. “Be gone with you. Go fetch some chickens and find yourself in the kitchen where you were meant to be.” There, he thought. That ought to get her riled up.
“The kitchen?” Gretel placed her hands on her hips. “ As if that is the only place I was bred to be.”
Yes, she was riled up all right. Hansel grinned. “What? I thought all women preferred to be one with the fire and to build up the grand feasts for us men. You know, ‘tis true it is us who do the dirty work anyway.”
Gretel gasped.
He chuckled. “You cannot tell me that what you do in the kitchen is dirtier than what I do out here.”
The girl walked toward him, her golden braids glimmering in the sunlight. She had been with them ten years and had grown from a darling child to a very pretty young woman, though Hansel would rather chop off his right arm than tell her so. Her sharp eyes were usually sparkly and bright sky blue when she was happy—now, though, they were crisp and cold.
“Take it back, swine,” she hissed at him.
Hansel had been teasing her too much lately, mostly because he liked to see her irritated. It reminded him that they were nearly brother and sister. He needed that reminder sometimes, like the other day when he became angry for no apparent reason as Fidel took her out onto the floor to dance the Sassamer Trot. It was the same dance Hansel had taught her when she was eight years old and they had danced it together every festival since. Until Fidel. He grimaced. There was no basis for his reaction—she should dance with whomever she pleased. And she should look at any of the other men in the village and laugh with them and speak with them and bat her long blonde lashes at them. Those same lashes barely concealed the irate gaze behind them as she glared at him now. He had almost forgotten what he said this time to get her in such a mood. Then he remembered. Kitchens, chickens, and dirt.
Hansel knew as well as she did that nothing was dirtier than plucking and gutting a chicken. Nothing. But he refused to take back his words. No, she should be kept well out of reach so he would not worry who happened to like her that day and who did not. It should be no concern of his whom she chose to dally with.
“No.” He smirked. “I will never take it back. You are a woman. You are the lesser sex. It is time you remembered your place around here.”
He did not see the movement, it came so quickly, but he definitely felt the tug of the pitcher as it left his hand and the feel of creamy milk being dumped all over his head.
“That, Hansel, is to help you remember that women will always be smarter than men. And you will forever be a foolish boar!” She spun upon her heel and marched back into the cottage.
Hansel grinned through the filmy white substance. He would endlessly pay for her feistiness, but there was something so very satisfying about the fact that she never let him dominate her and continuously put him in his place. If only the other girls in the village would do the same. Then perhaps, maybe, just maybe, one of them would capture his notice.
He sighed and shook out his hair, brushing it this way and that—streams of milk flying everywhere. Picking up his axe, he continued the laborious chore of chopping, t
his time really putting his back into it. She would forever plague him if he did not get this tree down quickly and begin chopping it into firewood to dry.
His father had chosen this tree so close to the house because he was afraid the next storm would beat it into the attics. Good grief—as if this tough thing could fall at all. The irony made him chuckle as he stopped and wiped the sweat from his brow. He thought of the past ten years with complacency. He had done so well hiding the fact that Gretel was truly a princess—albeit the enemy. There were days, weeks, months when she would forget as well. This truly was the only life she could remember now.
But there was a fire in her—a spark bred into her that spoke of royalty, of enchantments, of wealth. He could not quite put his finger on what, but anyone who spent as much time with her as he had this past decade would have known she was of royal blood. Perhaps that was what drew him to her—the knowledge that she was royalty.
Nay, it was more than that. There was something about her that made him fiercely protective. Now that she had grown older and become so much more beautiful, he found it quite distracting as well. She possessed something none of the other maidens did—an awareness, a vitality, a loyalty.
He would die for her. Though he would never let her know that, it was true. It was as true now as it had been ten years before when he was just a lad, a strong lad who thought he knew all he could possibly know. His pa always said he had an old soul. Mayhap he was right. All Hansel knew was that if any of the guards had gotten wind that Gretel was who she was, he would have faced them—anyone who tried to take her away. He would have faced them until the death.
Still to this day, when someone spoke of the greatness it was to have that enemy kingdom burned to the ground and the royal family hanged, he would choke and imagine his Gretel hanging there beside her parents and siblings. No one knew she existed. No one had tried to claim her back—at least, as far as he could tell.
Gretel used to speak of a family sorceress, and that woman was the only one who would have recognized the girl. She was a witch who claimed to be good, but clearly brought that family to ruin. Gretel spoke of her quite frequently, and Hansel and his father even wondered if the witch had been part of raising the child, perhaps as a nurse or some such. But it would seem she was lost in the fire or hung with the rest of them. She must have been, for she never did come claiming the child for her own.
