by Laura Kenyon
“A closet pureblood fairy?” Rapunzel rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I haven’t forgotten. Maybe you should threaten to reveal that secret if Donner doesn’t ease up.”
“It wouldn’t change his mind. He wants his kid. It’s the one honorable thing I know about him. And Hazel’s retired to Avalon anyway. No one would bother extraditing her for a slap on the wrist.”
Rapunzel bit her lip, and Belle could see the wheels turning in her head. She could also see the frustration—and the fear.
“This is what we’re gonna do,” she said, taking both of Belle’s hands in hers. “But first, promise me that you won’t go back to Donner for any other reason than that you’re absolutely, one hundred billion percent sure that doing otherwise will destroy that baby.” She glanced at Belle’s stomach, as if the baby in question needed clarification. “And I do mean destroy, not just inconvenience for a while.”
“Well, sure.” Belle shrugged. “My baby … or Dawn and Snow and every other person who’s ever escaped a curse.”
“One thing at a time. The rest of the realm can fend for itself.”
Belle opened her mouth to argue, but then realized that if evil curses surged back up all over the world, everyone’s life would be destroyed—including her child’s. “Fine,” she said. “I promise.”
“Good. Because if you go back to him for any other reason—any reason at all—I’ll have no choice but to walk away from the Phoenix.”
“What?” Her voice hit supersonic levels. Beast, who’d finally settled down in that warm box of sunlight, got up from the floor and pitter-pattered quickly from the room. “How could you say that? How could you possibly put another weight on my shoulders? Do this, and I’m screwed. Do that, and I’m screwed too. What kind of friend—”
“Now hear me out. If you go back to him purely out of fear, you’re going to lose everything you’ve become over the past few months.”
Belle shook her head emphatically. “No I’m not! I —”
“You’re going to slip back into the person you think you have to be to survive in his world, Belle. I know you. But it doesn’t matter, because you just promised you won’t go back to him unless it’s absolutely necessary. So our first step is breaking this prenup—or at least the part that divvies up people like property. Step two is making this business skyrocket so there’s no reason you shouldn’t get full custody of that baby.”
Belle’s head was spinning. Talk about seeing the trees but ignoring the forest. “But what if that’s not enough? What about the curse?”
“One thing at a time, okay?” She patted Belle on the knee and hopped to her feet. “Now, I’ve got investors to woo and you need to send your lawyer a copy of that contract. Might as well ask Penny too, assuming she hasn’t forgotten everything she learned in law school. Let them work on finding a loophole. Then rest up, keep that baby healthy—because that’s the most important thing—and find someone to fill that cabin.” Belle began to murmur a protest, but Rapunzel cut her off. “Fifty-fifty stake, remember? If you don’t do it, I will.” She tossed her raspberry curls up into a bun, then paused as if struck by revelation. “And I get final approval on the hire. Capiche?”
Belle grumbled in reluctant agreement.
“Good girl,” Rapunzel said before flipping her purse over her shoulder, knocking the door open with her hip, and flashing one last look of encouragement. “Loophole. Rest. Cabin. We’ll sort this mess out in no time.”
Chapter Four
PENELOPEA
Penny was juggling four bottles of nail polish and an oversize purse that kept slipping off her shoulder, when the woman at the front desk waved her over. A flush of heat filled her face. They’d said ten minutes and it had only been—she glanced down at her watch. Crap. Fifteen minutes. Had she really spent that much time choosing shades for her bridezilla-mandated mani-pedi? How had this become her life?
“Penelopea?” the woman called again. “We’re ready for you now.”
Penny put on her brightest smile, gave her cutest shrug, and held up one finger to indicate that she hadn’t quite finished deciding. She was there on a wedding assignment for her mother-in-law, the illustrious Queen Letitia of Riverfell. Letitia had ordered her (in her sweetest, I’m-being-perfectly-reasonable-because-my-son-is-watching voice) to have each limb done up in a different shade of red so she could pick a color to compliment the dress she hadn’t yet chosen. That’s what Penny got for having a similar olive skin tone. This was her third time at the salon in five days.
“Same deal as before?” a young woman asked as Penny fell into the pedicure chair and removed her sandals.
“Yep. These two for toes, those two for fingers,” she said, lining up four rectangular bottles: Raspberry Awakening, Dragon’s Blood, Spicy Siren, and Wine You Up. “Yesterday’s weren’t bold enough, apparently.”
“You’re a good daughter-in-law.”
Penny closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the padding. “No, I’m a pushover. But at least these wild goose chases get me out of the palace for a little while.”
The woman murmured words of encouragement as she massaged Penny’s feet—first with a grainy substance that somehow tickled up her bones and echoed between her legs, and then with a jasmine oil that coaxed her mind away from the stress of life in Riverfell.
Inhaling this rare moment of calm for all its worth, she tried to imagine a future not living with her mother-in-law. She pictured a real neighborhood—the kind people back home only heard stories about, where kids rode bicycles through wide, flat streets; husbands restored cars in the driveway; housewives exchanged baskets of muffins and recipes on personalized stationary. She pictured white picket fences and flawless rose gardens and mailboxes with pictures of cardinals or blue jays or more flawless roses. Penny’s muffins would be from the store, of course. And her baskets would come with some human rights literature. But the general idea sounded perfect.
This was the Marestam she’d journeyed across the world to find. “The Marestam Dream,” her fellow Vashians called it—at least for women. Men in Penny’s homeland did just fine with the status quo—provided they weren’t poor, or free-thinking, or under the delusion that their female counterparts were worth more than cattle. So as much as she complained about her in-laws and her husband’s inability to cut the cord, deep down she knew her life now was heaven compared to the oppression she’d left behind. She thanked the universe every day for her escape—right after she cursed it for being less than perfect.
The sound of her phone vibrating yanked away her reverie. What did Letitia want now? A younger groom? She could wait.
When her toes were finished, it was clear neither color would win Letitia’s favor. Raspberry Awakening was too cute, and Spicy Siren was too ordinary. Trying to remain hopeful, she shuffled over to a manicure station on the other side of the salon. The woman waiting there was unlike Penny in every way—pale, blond, and bland as the gray tunic that swooped across her bony shoulders.
“So, you want one color on one hand and one on another?” she asked, the concept clearly overwhelming. “Is that right?”
“Please,” Penny answered. “I’m testing them for someone.”
The woman stared at one bottle. Then she stared at the other. Then she looked at Penny’s exceptionally non-bland outfit—pumpkin orange leggings under a bright violet top, cinched between her curves with a lime green belt—and gave an excruciatingly slow nod. “Ohhh. I gotcha.” She winked. “And would that someone like an extra topcoat?”
Penny stared back, unsure what to say. Did this woman seriously not believe her? Or recognize her? She understood that a princess famous for feeling three magical peas under twenty mattresses (or so the public still believed) wasn’t nearly as interesting as a rags-to-riches queen. But people usually recognized Penny because of her spirited (or more often called “jarring”) sense of style.
“Really,” she said. “I’m testing them for my mother-in-law. She’s getting married next
month and doesn’t have time to come here herself.”
“Okey-dokey,” the woman chirped and wrapped a hot towel around her client’s hands.
Penny bit her lip and stared at the ceiling. She couldn’t care less about not being recognized—she’d actually prefer it. But she did not appreciate being judged (and disregarded) because of how she looked. She loved her curvy figure; it gave her a healthy glow. And why not mix orange and purple, or plaid and floral, or paint every single nail a different color if she wanted to? People back in Vashia didn’t have that ability. Why shouldn’t she embrace it?
“Honestly,” she said, tensing as the woman started plucking her cuticles, “if this was for me, I wouldn’t choose red. Too ordinary. I’m thinking electric orange for my brother-in-law’s coronation.” Penny flinched as the first glob of dead skin tore off.
“Oh, duh! That’s why you look familiar.” The girl gave a cutesy head bob and continued plucking. “So Prince Carter’s gonna be Riverfell’s next King, huh? How’s your husband feel about that? Or you? To think, one sibling away from being Queen.”
Penny clenched her toes since her fists were otherwise occupied. In truth, she’d never wanted to be Queen anyway. Her plan had been to escape Vashia, become a top law scholar in Marestam, get a job in global human rights, and somehow make life better for women in her homeland from afar. She’d never intended on marrying a Marestam prince, moving in with his regal tyrant of a mother, missing the all-important bar exam (all Letitia’s fault, in her mind), and settling for volunteer advocacy work instead.
So while she felt for Logan, she was selfishly thrilled when Letitia chose his brother to be her successor instead. For one brief, shining moment, she’d felt the future crack wide open. A choir struck up in her head. She and Logan would finally be free to move away from Riverfell Palace and start their own lives. But then she realized her mother-in-law’s master plan. She hadn’t chosen Carter in spite of his disinterest in the throne. She’d chosen him because of it—because she knew ever-responsible Logan would stick around to help his less capable big brother every step of the way. And that’s how Letitia would keep her sons at her bosom forever.
“Carter will be a great king,” Penny lied as the girl began shaking the polish. Her entire body was bouncing in her seat, but not a single inch jiggled. “I couldn’t be happier.”
As if calling out her fib, Penny’s phone immediately began vibrating again. She pulled up her hands and pasted on her sweetest smile. “Actually, do you mind if I just see who this is? Before I can’t use my fingers?”
The girl shrugged and continued shaking. Penny dove into her purse.
“Hi,” she said, assuming it was Letitia. “I’m almost done here and then I’ll stop by the florist again to make sure they’re dyeing the flowers the exact shade you—”
“Penny?” The voice on the other end didn’t belong to Letitia. It was far less bossy.
“Belle?” She pulled the phone from her ear and inspected the screen. Then she motioned to the blonde and ducked into the corner. “How are you? I called a dozen times since Saturday.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Things have just been a little … crazy. Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“How much of your law stuff do you remember?”
Penny’s head instinctively fell to the side. “Well, I glance at my books once in a while, but that’s about it. Why?”
Belle immediately launched into a five-minute rant about Donner, Ruby, her unborn child, a pre-nuptial contract, and how her entire world was on the verge of collapse. “Would that sort of thing hold water in court? Could there be a loophole? Do you think you could find one?”
“Umm.” Penny’s head spun. To say her legal expertise was rusty would be an understatement. If anything at all remained, it was probably lodged between frivolous facts like smoky eyes go great with dark chocolate hair, and wrap dresses compliment an hourglass shape. “I mean, I could try. But I’m not actually a lawyer. I have a degree, but I never took the bar. You’d be much better off talking to a real attorney who knows this stuff.”
“Please, Pen, please,” Belle begged, her voice starting to shred. “I sent it to my lawyer. But I don’t trust him like I trust you. Donner could get to him or he could overlook something. I’d feel so much better if you had a look at it too.” She paused. “I need you.”
Penny stared at her unpainted nails and the clientless blonde on the other side of the room. Belle needed her. A good woman, struggling to keep her independence and her child, needed her help to escape the clutches of an almighty, domineering man. “Okay. Send me the contract and I’ll see what I can do. Top secret, I assume?”
“Top secret,” Belle confirmed after proclaiming her thanks a million times over. “Story of my life now.”
THE MARESTAM MIRROR
Diamond Ropes and Velvet Cake
By Perrin Hildebrand, King of Gossip
AH, September! Summer’s redheaded stepchild. The month that screams “autumn!” while the calendar informs us otherwise, and the trees remain stubbornly green. In a few weeks, the temperatures will drop, the apples will ripen, the pumpkins will roll out, and a shower of color will begin cascading from the trees.
But for now, I’ll have to settle for a shower of something else: Gossip. And it’s dropping at my feet in piles! So listen up, my lovelies, and consider this a sneak peak at Marestam’s fall lineup!
EVERY estrogen-maker in the realm is atwitter over rumors that Liam Devereaux, billionaire head of Perdemi-Divan distilleries, has been house hunting in our very own United Kingdoms of Marestam. Gorgeous, mysterious, loaded (no wonder my salon has been booked up for days), it’s about time he realized this was the only place for a bachelor of his caliber to be!
So far, the young lion’s publicist is keeping a tight cap on any real information. Quoth the middleman: “Even if my client had wanted to buy a house through a trust—which I’m not saying he did—the very nature of this infers that he values his privacy and wants to stay out of gossip rags like yours!” Ouch.
But they don’t call me the King of Gossip for nothing. A trust? A love of privacy? A house, not an apartment? Guess who’ll be spending the evening examining property transfers!
WHILE my earlier prediction that Snow White was cooking up a baby never quite grew legs, I can now reveal that the Tantalise Queen might be getting a little one after all! Just not biologically.
According to sources at three of Marestam’s top adoption agencies, she and her equally awkward husband have submitted applications throughout the realm. But before you roll your eyes and assume their social status will immediately propel them to the front of the line, here’s some food for thought: It’s SNOW WHITE and GRIFFIN.
Rather than a palace, they live in a cottage in the woods. They take tree hugging to a whole new extreme. They exist on a diet I can only describe as twigs and berries. They probably don’t even know what the word “trendy” means. And there are an awful lot of suspicious-looking plants lining the western edge of their property. Plus, again, they live in Tantalise—that poor, isolated kingdom you can only get to by ferry. I might call that child abuse.
THE World History Society has named Queen Dawn of Regian its “Most Interesting Person of the Century.” It’s about time something good happened to our sleeping beauty, whose fiery hair needs no introduction and whose archaic mannerisms still fit this world like a doily fits chrome. But for those crying foul that the 328-year-old royal shouldn’t qualify for the title, allow me to pull out a rarely used soapbox and say give her a break. While it’s true Dawn was born in neither this century nor the last, it only matters that she lives NOW. Cue the recap:
Long ago, the King and Queen of a waterlocked kingdom called Selladóre held a meet-the-baby bash … but left one reclusive old fairy off the guest list. Not a bright idea, apparently. In retaliation, said fairy crashed the party and cursed infant Dawn to die on her seventeenth birthday from the stab of a spinning
wheel needle. (Personally, I would have stuck her then and there rather than lock up my powers for the next seventeen years, but I guess she was going for suspense.) While unable to fully reverse the spell, a second fairy managed to change “die” to “fall asleep for three hundred years along with the rest of her kingdom.” Bravo. So when Dawn woke up in modern Marestam eleven years ago, Selladóre was an overgrown rock fortress in the middle of the East River, she was buried under an inch of dust, and a strange man’s tongue was forcing its way into her mouth. On the bright side, he turned out to be a king. On the dark side, his mother tried to kill her a little while later. In the gray area, she gave birth to twins exactly nine months after waking so … you do the math.
Conclusion: Why not name Dawn the Most Interesting Person of the Century? Her Great Sleep gave us hope that nothing is ever truly lost, provided direct insight into life in the 1700s, and turned an East River dump into a cash cow tourist attraction. Plus, thanks to her parents’ fatal refusal to listen to our doctors, it reminded us just how lucky we are to have modern medicine. I say “Huzzah!” to the WHS for granting Dawn this title. Maybe we’ll get to see a convincing smile for a second or two.
Chapter Five
DAWN
The hardest part about Dr. Donovan Darling’s job was biting his tongue when a client’s marriage was doomed to either persist in loveless denial or violently combust on the front page of the Marestam Mirror. If anyone knew that Marestam’s preeminent couples therapist believed some romances were beyond even his golden touch, the entire system of damsels in distress, dashing heroes, and happily-ever-afters would sink into the realm of distant memory. It would exist only in hardcover histories designed to imprint the young with brilliant but venomous flashes of hope.
It wasn’t for the paychecks that Dr. Darling kept this diagnosis to himself. Nor was it for the wives who rushed to him each time their husbands so much as twitched atop their metaphorical white horses. Truth is, Dr. Darling wouldn’t admit some relationships were unfixable because he didn’t want to believe it either. After twenty years watching his clients struggle with the bliss and torture of love, he still hoped to experience it for himself one day. To suggest it was all just a gamble would be as devastating as a preacher deciding his prayers were heard by nothing more profound than the walls surrounding his brain.
