First Light (Forever After Series)

by Michele Paige Holmes

  “Wouldn’t put it past you. As I said— wicked.”

  Cristian shook his head. “It’s bored I am.”

  “Then go play with your princess.” Henrie stood up, looking ruefully at a tear in his breeches.

  Cristian reached over and ripped off the flap. “There. Now you can quit fussing over your clothes and concentrate on having fun.”

  “Cow tipping no longer qualifies. Let’s get cleaned up and go back to the castle.” Henrie reached up, brushing straw from his dark hair. “Surely Princess Cecilia has a cousin or someone who can entertain me while the two of you get acquainted.”

  “I’m acquainted enough,” Cristian grumbled. He’d realized that within the first few hours of his arrival. He and Princess Cecilia had nothing in common— other than a betrothal contract. He pushed off the side of the barn. “If I have to sit in that stuffy old castle and converse with those old people any longer—”

  “The princess doesn’t look old.” Henrie followed Cristian across the yard. “In fact, I’d say she looks great for being over thirty. Are you sure all that nonsense about fairies and charms is true?”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s not true. But who knows?” Cristian shrugged. “Strange tales seem to flourish around here.”

  “It’s a cursed business,” Henrie said.

  “You’re terribly funny,” Cristian said without laughing. “Somehow I don’t think you’d find the situation so amusing if you were the one being forced to marry.”

  “Well, you can’t blame Cecilia’s parents for not wanting her to marry ol’ Nadamaris’s crippled son.” Henrie sidestepped a pile of manure as they left the barnyard. “Or into that family, period.”

  “I don’t,” Cristian agreed. “But being betrothed at the age of two is ridiculous— this whole thing is ridiculous. To base the remainder of our lives on a stupid curse and fairies— magical beings I’ve yet to see,” he added, sarcastically. “And that everyone expects me to believe these fairies advanced Cecilia’s age to eighteen, nearly eighteen years ago, and kept her at that age to protect her from the Queen…”

  “How romantic,” Henrie teased. “If it’s true, then for almost eighteen years she’s been patiently waiting for her prince to grow up.”

  “I wish she hadn’t bothered.” Cristian’s brow furrowed. “And don’t tell me you believe all that drivel any more than I do. Besides, just because she looks eighteen doesn’t mean she’s any fun. She acts all of thirty and older.”

  “Perhaps you would, too,” Henrie said, “if you’d been shut up in a castle, afraid for your life all these years.”

  “I wouldn’t have stayed shut up, cowering like a frightened bird. I would have done something about it— fought back.” Cristian punched the air with his fist.

  “What would you have done?” Henrie asked. “Run over to Baldwinidad and tipped over Queen Nadamaris’s cattle?”

  “I’m starting to find you about as amusing as the princess.”

  “I can go home,” Henrie reminded him. “After all, the ladies of Rincoln are likely beside themselves for want of entertainment in my absence.”

  “Likely so,” Cristian agreed. “Nevertheless, you’re staying. If I’ve got to be here— be married in six weeks— the least you can do is keep me company in the meantime.”

  Henrie shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  “I can’t, and that’s exactly the problem.” Cristian’s steps grew slow and heavy as they neared the castle. “The last thing I want to do is marry a woman who is supposedly years older than me, who never wants to leave the castle, who does nothing but sit and stitch samplers all day. But what choice do I have?”

  “None. If you want someday to be king over…” Henrie paused, his arm swept out in front of him. “The not-so-lovely Canelia.”

  “I’ve no desire to be king over this miserable land, and you well know it,” Cristian said. “But if I don’t, if I refuse to do my duty— as my father so succinctly puts it— Nadamaris’s curse on the land will worsen, and I’ll be responsible for the demise of thousands, the ruin of the entire wretched kingdom.”

  “Inconvenient,” Henrie said.

  “Just a little.” Cristian brought a hand to his head, rubbing his temples.

  “At least the bride is beautiful,” Henrie said.

  Cristian glared at him. “I couldn’t care less.”

  “I know. But you will on your—”

  “Stop.” Cristian held his hand up as he turned toward Henrie. “Not another word about my wedding night— or any other time after I enter into matrimony. I don’t want to think or talk of it anymore. Let’s try to have as bearable a time as possible these next few weeks.”

  “Whatever you say— prince.” Henrie sidestepped away from Cristian’s outstretched fist and kept walking. They continued in silence, meandering around the various outbuildings surrounding the castle.

  Henrie stopped suddenly, lifting his face and sniffing the air. “Where’s that wonderful smell coming from?”

  “Probably the kitchens,” Cristian said. “I’ll say one thing— the Canelian royals have a fabulous baker.”

  “Let’s drop in for samples,” Henrie suggested. “All that running made me hungry.”

  “Sure,” Cristian said, unenthused.

  “Ouch!” Slamming the pan of cinnamon rolls down on the table, I pulled my hand back quickly and stuck my finger in my mouth. Yet again, I’d forgotten about the hole in the cloth I’d used to take the pan from the oven. Furious, I flung the offending rag across the kitchen, where it landed in a heap of laundry. Still nursing my burnt finger, I began separating the buns so I could move them to a fancier tray for serving.

  The knife slipped on the second roll, ruining the perfect spiral. I bit my tongue to keep from cursing aloud and continued my work, all the while tired and cross about it— about everything.

  A full week had passed since I’d revealed my non-elf existence to Maggie. In that time, my situation had not improved. Though hearing Merry Anne’s name had been enough to pacify Maggie into allowing me to work here— to do much of her work— she hadn’t allowed me to join the other girls in the servants’ quarters. It was best, she said, if we kept our arrangement between us.

  Best for whom? I wondered angrily. I felt tired and grumpy, as any normal person would, after sleeping on bricks for two weeks straight. How I longed for a bed, a pillow… a real bath. Only desperation to be clean had finally driven me to bathe in the chilled pond at the far edge of the orchard. And now I was paying for it. Since yesterday afternoon’s wash, my head had ached, my nose had run, and I felt so tired. I didn’t care that I’d promised Maggie I’d work in the garden today. As soon as these buns were in the oven, I intended to find a soft place to curl up and go to sleep.

  I glanced at the sky through the open doorway. It was high time the milk was delivered, but I’d yet to see it— or Mason— this morning. Probably he was sulking somewhere, after the scolding I’d given him and his friends yesterday. I hadn’t minded sharing the morning’s fare with Mason. And it was all right when he brought one friend along. But the five boys he’d shown up with the morning past had put me in a temper. Between them they’d devoured an entire pan of scones while I was busy mixing honey butter.

  “Do you still believe I’m an elf?” I’d shouted. “I’m not, and this food doesn’t magically appear, you know. I’ve been up half the night preparing it, and now I’ve got to make more dough or we’ll be short for breakfast.”

  Of course I felt bad after the boys left. I felt especially sorry to have shouted at Mason. He was the only friend I’d made here— the only one I could talk to about Merry Anne and Cecilia and my hope of finding them.

  And after two weeks, I wasn’t any closer to finding either— especially Cecilia, considering I couldn’t even mention her name. After Mason had warned me by badly bruising my shin that first non-elf day in the kitchen, he’d explained that anyone outside the royal family who even mentioned Princess Cecilia’s name was ca
rted off to the dungeons— or worse.

  “No one really knows where they go,” Mason had whispered. “But they never come back.”

  It appeared this whole princess-curse business was taken pretty seriously around here.

  My rotten luck, I thought, that the princess’s name turned out to be Cecilia, too. Princess Cecilia of Canelia… good grief.

  “What were her parents thinking?” I muttered under my breath as I continued separating the rolls. Until now I’d always been a little envious of my older sisters’ names. They all sounded soft and pretty and somehow the same— Cecilia, Cassandra, Brianna, Melissa, Emma, Belinda, Claudia, Rebecca, Maura. And then… Adrielle. After nine girls, who could blame my parents for choosing a name that began with an A instead of ending with one. I’d always imagined they were all out of options by then. I was probably fortunate they hadn’t given me a boy’s name.

  But my name was different. I was different— from my sisters. All except Cecilia, perhaps. If I could ever find her. And that didn’t seem likely. Getting inside the castle seemed impossible— none of the guards near the doors had responded positively when I’d mentioned Merry Anne’s name— and with all the tasks set before me each day, I had precious little time to explore other places.

  I sighed heavily as the sound of footsteps and laughter drifted past the open doorway. Stirring the icing with my uninjured hand, I glanced at the cinnamon rolls spread across the table. Those boys wouldn’t dare come back, would they? I started to set the bowl aside, intending to close and bolt the door, when a hand was suddenly beside me, snatching a roll from the table.

  I reacted, but not quite fast enough, missing the first boy and smacking the hand of the second offender as he, too, reached for a roll.

  “How dare you!” I shouted. Sticky icing splattered across the table as the wooden spoon rapped his knuckles.

  “How dare you,” a man’s voice said. The spoon was yanked from my hand, pulling me forward. My hip struck the table, dislodging the bowl from the crook of my arm. I watched, horrified, as the bowl sailed forward, hitting one of the intruders square in his chest and splattering the icing all over him and the area where he stood.

  I sucked in my breath and looked up into the shocked faces of two young men— not a gaggle of little boys, as I’d expected— standing just inside the kitchen.

  The taller of the two, the one holding my spoon and without icing dripping down his shirt, advanced on me.

  “Don’t.” His companion placed a restraining hand on his friend’s arm. “It’s all right, Henrie. We had no right to barge in here and take food from her kitchen. Sorry, miss.”

  Technically, it wasn’t my kitchen, but I wasn’t going to argue with his very sound logic. “Apology accepted,” I said. “Now if you’ll please—”

  “But look at you,” the one called Henrie interrupted, making a pinched face as he stared at his friend, covered in icing.

  It wasn’t his frosting-splattered shirt that caught my attention, but the welt forming on his hand where the spoon had struck. Remorse filled me. Only two weeks here, and I’m turning into Maggie. I desperately needed to get out of this kitchen and get some sleep.

  “I’m sorry about your hand,” I said. “I thought you were the boys who ate up all the scones yesterday, and—”

  “No harm.” The young man I’d struck ran his finger down his shirt, collecting a dollop of the sticky substance, which he stuck in his mouth. “Mmm. Buttercream. Say, this is really good.” He gave me a tentative smile, and I found myself smiling back then nearly laughing. It was impossible not to— he made such a ridiculous picture, standing there in his sticky clothes, licking icing from his fingers. On impulse I grabbed a cinnamon roll from the table, stepped forward and swiped it across his shirt. Holding the now-iced roll up to him, I said, “You might as well enjoy it the right way.”

  His grin broadened as he accepted the treat and took a bite. I watched, feeling utterly pleased when his clear, blue eyes closed and he leaned his head back, murmuring something about bliss.

  Henrie, meanwhile, appeared highly agitated.

  I studied the two of them closer and realized they also must be help from the barn— older, though perhaps not much older than myself. Both had hay in their hair, and Henrie had a large hole in his dirt-covered breeches. His friend wore an untucked shirt and appeared more of a mess with the tumble of brown curls on his head. Likely they’ve been up as long as I have, working hard, taking care of the many animals used to support the castle household.

  My earlier annoyance all but disappeared. With a blush of shame, I turned sideways and held out my hand, indicating the table full of rolls. I wouldn’t soon forget what it was to go hungry, and if these fellows suffered that as well, then I could share. “Please, take one.”

  “Thanks.” Henrie leaned forward, grabbing two more rolls in addition to the one he’d already taken. “You gonna share that?” he asked his friend, eyeing the near-empty bowl of icing at his feet.

  “Help yourself.”

  Henrie stepped forward, a roll in each hand, but before he’d reached the bowl, his friend grabbed Henrie in a head lock, smearing frosting across his forehead, shoulder and shirt sleeve.

  “Hey,” Henrie shouted and pushed away, but not before the damage had been done.

  This time I couldn’t keep from laughing.

  Henrie didn’t share my mirth, but his friend did, and in between bouts of laughter, our eyes met. “You want some help cleaning this up?” He looked down at the sticky floor.

  I shook my head and tried, unsuccessfully, to get myself back in control. “You’re— the one who’s— going to— need help.” I imagined him in the barn, hay stuck to the globs on his shirt, a horse trying to lick him clean. For some reason this struck me as particularly amusing. I laughed louder and felt my eyes beginning to water.

  “She definitely needs help,” Henrie said, eyeing me with concern.

  “I’m fine,” I said, meaning it. Just now I felt better— happier— than I had in a very long time. I couldn’t remember when I’d last laughed like this. It was cathartic. Struggling to compose myself, I stood upright, lips pressed together in an amused grin. “In the future, if you’ll be so kind as to announce your presence, you might avoid wearing the pastries.”

  Henrie ignored my not-so-subtle invitation to return, but his friend gave me a formal bow as he left.

  “I’ll remember that.”

  I hoped he would.

  “That’s my girl, pull them up carefully.”

  I paused with my hand on a turnip halfway out of the ground and looked up at the little, round woman standing over me. I had no idea who she was but most certainly I was not her girl. I was not Maggie’s girl— or slave— either, but somehow she’d coerced me into gathering the vegetables for this evening’s stew.

  “Hello, Adrielle.” The woman beamed at me, and something about the glow on her face reminded me of… Merry Anne.

  “Do I know you?” I asked, rising from the ground, brushing dirt from my hands.

  “Well, um— no. Not exactly.” She looked away as if embarrassed, or only just realizing her blunder. “I’m Florence,” she said once her composure returned. You know, like the French word for flower.”

  I knew. I had first tasted that delightful little word, fleur, from my father. French was one of the many languages he’d taught and expected me to be fluent in. I hoped Fleurence would be as lovely as her namesake. But since leaving home I’d learned to be suspicious of most people I ran across.

  “I’ve been eager to meet you,” Florence continued. “Heard all about your talent with herbs and such.”

  The way she looked almost reminded me of a flower. Her cheeks and nose were a rosy red, and her near-white hair puffed out around her face not unlike the petals of a petunia. Her dress was as vibrant a green as the stem of a tulip, but the similarities ended there. Instead of being long and slender, her stalk was short and wide.

  “Who told you of my sk
ill with plants?” My suspicions increased when she fidgeted with her hands for several seconds instead of directly answering the question. “Why— the cook— of course.”

  “Maggie?” Maggie who hasn’t the slightest clue that I can do anything other than bake bread, scrub a floor, and pick vegetables?

  “Yes. That’s the one.” Florence’s smile brightened. “She said you’d be out in the garden today. I’m in charge of all the grounds and gardens here.”

  “Oh.” How odd. I knew help was scarce, but I couldn’t imagine why anyone would choose this older woman as head gardener. Florence herself had a guilty look about her, and I didn’t buy her explanation for one second. “You’re in charge of all the grounds?”

  “Yes.” Her grin was back. “Such a wonderful job.”

  Though you aren’t so wonderful at it. I thought of the rotting orchards. “Why has no one picked the peaches?” I asked. “Most of the apples are ready for harvesting, too. If no one at the castle wants them, there are many outside its gates who would.” I dared not elaborate more, unsure just what, if anything, Maggie had told her about my presence here.

  “About that… You see, I’m not allowed to interfere with—” Florence stopped abruptly, her lips pressed together in a fine line. I followed her gaze to an upper window of the castle but saw nothing. After several seconds she looked at me again. “You may pick the fruit in the orchards if you wish. You can even give it to whomever you like.”

  “But you won’t help.” I knelt again, returning to the task at hand. I can bake the bread, I can pick the peaches. I was starting to feel like the Little Red Hen.

  “I can’t help,” Florence said. “There is a difference.”

  She plopped onto the ground beside me, somehow managing to fit her ample backside between the narrow rows.

  “But I can help with the garden today. I know you’re tired and need a rest, so let’s not dally anymore.” With nimble fingers and a miniature spade, she began digging up turnips— at four times the rate I had. I paused my own work to watch her. In an astonishing amount of time— easily less than a minute— she’d removed at least two dozen from the ground. Perhaps she really was head gardener— and with reason.