by Jack Heckel
These thoughts and doubts were not new. They were yet another version of what Will had been wrestling with since the King’s man had returned to Prosper and summoned him to the court. Initially, he had consoled himself that his little omissions were not real lies, were not really hurting anybody, but now he realized that he had hurt someone—Charming. The Prince might be a conceited, vain, insufferable fellow, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have feelings. In fact, sometimes it seemed to Will that Charming had enough feelings for three men. Regardless, seeing the way the Prince looked at Gwendolyn, Will knew the only right thing to do was to tell him the truth. Charming had to know that he might still be her true love, whatever it cost Will personally—even if it lost him the Princess.
Will squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. “Charming, I’d like to talk to you about how the dragon died. You see, it was impaled by my pitchfork bu—”
Charming raised his hand, stopping Will in midsentence. The Prince looked suddenly ill, like he might vomit. He was shaking slightly and kept pursing his lips. “Will, a true hero does not speak of his victories or his glories. He has others do that. I know that you wish to share the story of your triumph, but you must master the desire. Never, no, never talk about yourself or your deeds, instead let the bards tell the tale for you.”
“But, Charming, they don’t have the story right.”
“Now, now, Will . . .” Charming paused and took a deep breath, then exhaled and continued. “That is something called artistic license. The legend may differ in parts from what really happened, but you should let them recount the tale as they choose. I do appreciate your desire to share your adventures with a man equal to your . . . heroic bearing. Trust me, I know how hard it is to find an equal, but I would hate for you to appear vain. We will not speak of it again. Understood”—the Prince coughed slightly—“my friend?”
Will didn’t really understand, and he didn’t really think the Prince understood, but he could tell the man was not feeling his best, so he said, “Yes.” Nobles are very peculiar.
The Prince took a moment, and seemed to physically gather himself. “Now is the time for our entrance,” announced the Prince and, without further preamble, strode grandly to the top of the ballroom stair, gesturing impatiently with his trailing hand for Will to join him.
The Prince struck his most regal pose as he looked down the sweep of the stair to the ballroom floor. With Will standing beside him, the contrast between their qualities could not have been more striking. While the Royal Tailor had, admittedly, worked a wonder on Will with a dramatic white-and-red costume, the lout was clearly out of his depth. He stood shuffling his feet, and, well, he was biting his thumb. It was shameful.
Charming reflected that this should be a moment of triumph, but he could not enjoy the moment. He felt such a flutter in his chest, and the lump in his throat, that he feared the entire assembly could see his distress. He was distracted. No, it was more than that. He was bewitched by Lady Elizabeth.
Will tried to say something again, but Charming would not shut up about the damned dragon and chose to ignore him, which was easy—because, for the Prince, all the spectacle in the grand ballroom had shrunk to a single point atop the throne platform where the Princess and Lady Elizabeth stood flanking his father, the King.
Lady Elizabeth was a vision. She wore an almost ethereal blue gown of such magnificence that he wondered if it had not been spun by fairy magic. She outclassed every other woman in the room, including Princess Gwendolyn; and from the glares the women of the court were giving her, and the frantic pace of their fluttering fans, it was clear that they knew it also.
He tried to convince himself that it was an enchantment spun by magics dark and nefarious, but his mind would no longer allow the self-deception. The truth was that ever since these peasant siblings had arrived, events had twisted around them in a way that defied the natural order. He steadied himself. Tonight he would—he must—reestablish his position. Once Lady Elizabeth, and of course the Princess, had seen his mastery of all the courtly arts, they would be helplessly drawn to him. He smiled. Then, with a start, Charming realized that a hush had fallen over the multitude. Will had already begun descending the stairs. A crowd of luminaries rushed to greet him below. Charming had been left behind. The evening was beginning badly.
One of the heralds, a man of much size and volume, proclaimed in a booming voice easily heard over the music, “Lords and ladies, we are now in the presence of the Lord Protector, the Slayer of the Dragon, Champion of the Realm, William Pickett and”—the cheering and applause nearly drowned out the mighty herald, and the Prince barely heard—“Prince Charming.”
The Prince strode regally, if a bit stiffly, down the stair. A throng of ladies was swarming Will, and Charming was left outside their fluttering circle. He could feel the color rising in his cheeks. These outrages were unthinkable—nay, unimaginable. As the dread specter of another social defeat loomed, Charming’s breath came quicker, his head began to spin, and he realized that he was on the verge of fainting. He had just begun to sway when a rough hand grabbed his arm and pulled him to a quiet spot beneath the stairs. It was his squire. Why the squire had been allowed anywhere near the party was beyond Charming. His outfit was tragic. The man wore a gaudy red doublet that could barely contain his gut. Charming was about to upbraid him for pulling him away from the revelry when the grizzled fellow interjected, “Sorry to disturb you, Your Highness, but you look like you could use a glass of wine.”
Charming took the goblet but did not drink. He could hear the ladies tittering and flirtatiously competing to dance with Will. He, Prince Charming, had always been the center of attention, yet now he was an afterthought. A deep emptiness filled him. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Why would they want to suffer injury and embarrassment with that village idiot when they could dazzle the court with me?”
For once, his squire didn’t have a sharp retort. “Perhaps you should sit out the first dance, Your Highness. You did suffer a terrible fall a few days ago.”
The man tugged at Charming’s sleeve and gestured to an antechamber. Charming looked at him and saw . . . pity? That one of his servants might pity him made Charming resent the squire even more, and he pulled his arm away. “Nonsense! I will not run from Pickett. If the court wishes to measure us, then let us be measured. I will show them the difference in our quality!”
He handed the untouched glass back, stretched his arms, and tested his jaw, opening and closing it to make certain that he was ready to achieve couplet. Now he was prepared to save the ladies of the king’s court from a night spent in the company of William Pickett.
He had barely recomposed himself when the herald’s voice once again rang out from the balcony above. “Lords and ladies, we have an announcement from His Royal Majesty, the King!”
The Prince blinked in shock. During his few moments of respite, the scene, which before had only been aggravating, had been transformed into something from a nightmare. Everyone had turned to look at the far end of the ballroom, where stood the high throne and, as if by some accursed conjuration, Will. He had been transported atop the throne dais and was standing to the right of the King, his father. To the left of his father, the King, stood Princess Gwendolyn with a strange, almost mournful, expression on her face.
The King cleared his royal throat and the room fell silent. “My lords and ladies, rejoice! The dragon is dead! Princess Gwendolyn is saved!” Exuberant cries of huzzah filled the ballroom. Charming ground his teeth in frustration. The King continued. “And here we have the man, the hero, responsible for delivering us from our oppressor, the Lord Protector of the Realm and Dragon Slayer, William Pickett!”
An even louder cheer echoed off the walls and ceiling of the Great Hall. Charming noted that Will looked pale as a ghost, and seemed nervous to the point of being ill. At least he was suffering for his ill-deserved
fame. The King raised his hands for silence, and the gathering was once again quieted.
“As reward for his valor, I hereby grant Lord William Pickett the land of his home, the Southern Valley, and all that lies therein as his and his progeny’s in perpetuity.”
There was a hushed murmur among the landed gentry; many of them would be dispossessed by this act. But if the King heard any of this disturbance, he showed no sign and pressed on.
“What is more, I have decided that the time has come to name an heir to my throne. So, in my wisdom, I decree that my throne shall go to either my son, Prince Charming, or to the Lord Protector, who has become like a son to me and is a hero to us all, whichever of these two fine men shall marry first!”
Cheers filled the air and squeals of delight came from the ladies who surged forward to be close to the now clearly terrified Lord William. Charming stood cold with shock. Is this what his father, the King, had been trying to warn him about? He looked toward the throne where the King, his father, stood. “But I am your son,” the Prince whispered to himself. “How could you?”
The world he knew was gone. Pickett had stolen his quest, his glory, and now his father. Charming’s breath came quickly. He grasped at the cool marble of the wall behind him for support. He found the wall but no stability.
The world had gone mad.
Chapter 6
Tripping the Glass Fantastic
LIZ STOOD IN the royal ballroom listening to the blood pound in her ears, the words of the King still reverberating through the hall. She needed time to think and air to breathe. Damn this corset. The King was considering giving his throne to Will? No, she corrected herself. He wasn’t considering, he had offered the throne to Will. All her brother had to do was convince one of these foolish, simpering women to marry him. This had gone too far. Will hadn’t killed the dragon; the stupid beast had landed on his pitchfork. If someone found out the truth . . .
She could imagine being thrown into the deepest dungeon in the castle. She would spend the rest of her days imprisoned with her brother, making friends with rats and being thankful for extra crumbs of stale bread. Although, instead, they could be executed—for conspiring to steal the crown! As she weighed her chances of receiving the headsman’s ax, being drawn and quartered, or burned at the stake, she swayed on her feet.
A firm hand gripped her elbow. It was the King. His kindly voice, soft in her ear, made her heart sink. “Dear Lady Elizabeth, you look unwell.”
He guided her to a low settee positioned strategically in a quiet alcove to the right of the dais. A snap of his royal fingers summoned one of the servants with miraculous alacrity. “The lady needs attending. Bring her refreshment and repast at once.” With the orders complete, he turned back to her. “Please forgive me for making you stand on that beastly stage for so long. I have a habit of being overly windy when I have an audience. Sadly, a trait my son has inherited.”
His eyes laughed and his smile was contagious, but the deep lines of his face spoke of a man that had been burdened by a long sadness. She should tell him now, but her thoughts turned again to the dungeons. All she could muster was a weak, “Thank you, Your Royal Majesty, you are too kind. I—I am not used to balls. I’m afraid I am not quite up to the class of the ladies of your court.”
The King’s smile changed to something both more kindly and more serious. “My dear lady—because that is what you are, Lady Elizabeth—Princess Gwendolyn and the Lord Protector may well be the center of attention, but take it from someone who was once a young man at a ball much like this one, you are most certainly a lady and you are most certainly in the right place.”
The servant returned with a chilled decanter of wine and matching crystal glass, and what looked to be a sampling of every delicacy the kingdom had to offer. He set them down next to her. The King had started to wave him away with the back of his hand when a cunning expression passed over his face. He stopped and gestured for the man to lean closer. Whispered words were exchanged, and the servant’s eyebrows rose so high in surprise that they nearly disappeared beneath his powdered wig. The servant bowed before sprinting from the room. The King seemed to measure her with his eyes. “What you need, my dear, is a good-luck charm, and I have just the thing.”
Liz protested. “Please, Your Majesty, you have been too kind already. What you have done for me and my brother is too generous. You see we didn’t mean—”
“Nonsense! Your brother, the Lord Protector, saved me from a lifetime of humiliation and this kingdom from the dragon’s terror. He has returned the woman who was my love to this court, where she can once again beguile a generation of men. There is nothing, nothing, that I can deny him.” There may have been a quaver in his voice when he mentioned the Princess, but it never touched that gentle smile. Placing her hands in his, he carried on. “I have never spoken truer words than when I said that Lord William has become like a son to me. In turn, you have become like a daughter, if you would forgive the familiarity.”
There was a movement behind them. The footman had returned. He carried before him a small silver chest, which he held with reverence.
“Excellent! Now, Lady Elizabeth, while the Royal Tailor has done us proud with the construction of your gown, the ensemble, if I may be so bold, is incomplete. You see, what makes a lady confident is not the dress, not even the jewelry, but the right pair of shoes.”
He made a quick gesture, and the servant raised the lid of the chest to reveal a pair of dancing slippers so exquisite that they made Liz’s breath catch in her throat. In fact, they were so beautiful that it took her a moment to realize what they were made of. “Your Majesty, are those made of—of—?”
“Yes, my dear, they are glass slippers!” He lifted each of the remarkable shoes from their velvet cradle and, bending, placed them on her feet. She expected the slippers not to fit, or to be hard and uncomfortable, but their cool smoothness fitted perfectly. “I knew they would fit you. I just knew it!”
The King’s eyes were glassy—the man was on the verge of tears! Liz looked away to give him time to compose himself, and when she turned back, he had risen and was staring at her feet. “I hope you can forgive an old man the vice of sentimentality. You see these shoes were to be a wedding gift to my first love.”
Terror gripped Elizabeth when she grasped the import of his words. These shoes, the shoes on her feet, had been originally made for his bride to be! “Your Highness, I cannot accept these! They belong to Princess Gwendolyn, not me!”
“I will hear nothing of the sort. I have always wanted to see these slippers worn at a grand ball by a beautiful young woman. We are at the grandest of balls, and you are young and undeniably beautiful. Just as you were meant to be here, the slippers are exactly where they were meant to be. Besides, I am quite certain that Princess Gwendolyn would not wish to wear them as she was not my first love.”
There was that sadness in his voice again, and Liz recalled that it was Rosslyn, Gwendolyn’s older sister, who had been the first lady pledged to the King’s heart. But she had little time to think on this history as the King continued his speech. “If you will indulge me for just a moment, let me look at you in them.”
She stood and carefully turned in place. The slippers drew and reflected the light from the hundreds of candles in the ballroom so that they appeared to glow with the light of a thousand fireflies. That remarkable, laughing smile returned to the King’s face. “Beautiful, simply beautiful. I think that you are now ready for the ball. Please try not to break too many hearts this evening. Now, if you will excuse me.” He gave her a shallow bow, and she watched as the old man ascended the stairs of the dais to sit once again on his throne.
Elizabeth Pickett had never felt smaller. This charade had gone too far. They hadn’t been planning to deceive the entire kingdom; they had just hoped for enough gold to rebuild the farm. And they—she—certainly never intended to betray th
e trust of such a kindly old man. Now she was wearing the shoes he had meant for his first true love, because he considered her his daughter. She had to do something, but it had to make sense and not get her and Will killed. She felt the need to move, to take action, to find someone in this noble madhouse that could help. She tried to take a step and nearly lost her balance. The glass slippers may have been the most extraordinary shoes she’d ever seen, but walking in them on the polished marble floors of the ballroom was like trying to ice skate. She was also quietly terrified that she would break them.
As Liz struggled to relearn the art of walking, the music changed. She looked up to see the Princess gliding with an otherworldly grace down to the center of the ballroom, arm in arm with Will. Though he was paler than he’d been in years, Liz was amazed to see that he moved with little hesitation, and without slouching or chewing on his thumb. She bit her bottom lip and twisted her hands in the folds of her billowing dress. He was enjoying himself. He looked truly happy. He was living his fairy tale. He was gazing deeply into the eyes of the Princess. Her heart sank again. If he fell in love with the Princess . . .
She didn’t dare complete the thought.
MOVING WITH A long-unused elegance, Princess Gwendolyn surveyed the nobility swirling about her as she twirled in time to the music. The men gazed appraisingly, and the courtly women cast critical gazes over their fans and whispered catty comments beneath them.
She sighed sadly.
She had hoped the courtly intrigue would fill her with the same thrill it had in days past, but it seemed so meaningless. Nothing was right. Nothing was as she thought it would be. She had spent the weeks since her rescue not dressing in fine cloths and eating fine food, seeing and being seen by fine people, but locked in her room, terrified that the castle and the servants and the silks might dissolve around her, that this was just another dream planted by the fairy to torment her with what had been. Even now she was half convinced that she was still asleep in that tower—the dragon whispering confidences into her mute ear. And she had reason. It was not as though there had been a moment when she felt her curse finally and irrevocably lift. It was more as if she had been in deep water, drowning, and had now drifted closer to the surface, but the waters still swirled around, dragging and pulling her downward. The world itself seemed unreal; sometimes it blurred and stuttered. And then there were the visions. She felt them, right at the edge of her sight: leering faces half remembered from her long, dark dreams, which seemed to be peering from between the swirling dresses of the ladies at the edge of the floor; voices, in the air around her; distant tolling bells no one else could hear; and a rushing wind that did not touch the glowing candles.
