Awakened and Other Enchanted Tales

by Pamela Sherwood

  Suppressing a shiver, she manages to smile at her companions. “There is nothing to forgive. I am sorry for your friend’s disappointment, and shall take care not to injure her feelings further during her stay here.”

  “That’s very decent of you, Princess,” Gert observes, after a moment. “In fact, you’re being quite the trump.”

  Rosemonde has no idea what a trump is, but it seems to be a compliment, so she smiles and responds politely. “Thank you. And now, will you tell me something of your world, please? For clearly I have much to learn of it.”

  Daisy smiles back and lights another cigare. “This could take a while.”

  “Indeed, it could,” Gert agrees, taking a cigare herself and passing one to the princess.

  The world they describe is as astonishing to Rosemonde as hers was to them. Try as she might, she cannot quite picture it: huge caravans that run on narrow metal rails, carrying people from city to city; lights that flicker on and off at the slightest touch; and, in Paris, an iron tower more than a thousand feet tall.

  She is trying to envision the last, squinting through a haze of tobacco smoke and wondering if she will ever have the chance to see it, when a shadow falls over her.

  “What the devil do you think you’re doing?” Charles demands furiously.

  Rosemonde starts, the cigare dropping from her fingers and extinguishing itself in the damp grass. But the reprimand is not directed at her: it is Gert at whom Charles is glaring.

  Gert, for her part, is unperturbed. “Having a nice talk with your intended, cousin. What does it look like we’re doing?”

  His nostrils flare. “Smoking, for one. Do you mean to introduce her to liquor next?”

  “The princess is a Frenchwoman,” she retorts. “I’m sure she is already familiar with wine and other spirits.”

  Rosemonde lowers her head, suddenly wishing herself leagues away. Charles’s anger might be reserved for Gert, but she can feel his disappointment in her like a blow across the face.

  “I would appreciate it, cousin, if you’d refrain from corrupting my betrothed,” he says stiffly.

  Gert rolls her eyes. “Really, Charles, must you be such a prig?”

  Ignoring her, he turns to Rosemonde and holds out his hand. “Princess, will you walk with me?”

  His voice is gentle but aggrieved. Feeling guilty, she takes his hand and lets him raise her to her feet. She manages to murmur a quick thanks to Gert and Daisy before he leads her away.

  The prince, charmed with these words, and much more with the manner in which they were spoken, knew not how to show his joy and gratitude; he assured her that he loved her better than he did himself; their discourse was not well connected, they did weep more than talk—little eloquence, a great deal of love.

  —Perrault, “The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood”

  Part Four

  CHARLES does not speak even after they have left Gert and Daisy far behind them.

  Biting her lip, Rosemonde stares at his set face. “I—I only wished to know your family better,” she ventures at last.

  “I do not blame you for this.” He pauses, then sighs. “Forgive me for losing my temper. Gert and I—are not close. Indeed, we seldom see eye to eye on matters of importance. But I do not wish her to come between us now.” He takes her hand, raises it to his lips. “I want to think only of us, and our wedding, and our future.”

  Rosemonde experiences a faint stirring of hope at his words. “Perhaps we could go away somewhere, after the wedding,” she suggests.

  He gives a decisive nod. “I could not agree more, Princess. And I have the very place in mind.”

  “You do?”

  “My family’s estate, in England. It’s very quiet—secluded, even.” His face takes on a new resolve. “I promise you won’t be subjected to stares or rude inquiries from strangers. I can keep you safe there.”

  “Safe.” The word has a hollow, echoing sound, like the closing of a vault—or a tomb.

  “Oh, it’s not as grand as this château,” Charles continues. “But I am fond of the place, and it is my inheritance, after all. We can come back to visit your parents whenever you like,” he adds, smiling tenderly at her. “You have only to ask.”

  Only to ask…striving against the stream, she makes one more attempt. “Could we perhaps visit Paris then, before we go to your country?”

  “Paris?” He stares at her as if she has lost her wits. “Good Lord, I would sooner take you to an insane asylum!”

  Rosemonde struggles to contain her own temper, and her growing frustration as he warms to his subject. “The Paris you remember is gone forever, Rosebud. Seeing it as it is now—the noise, the chaos, the crowds—would only distress and frighten you.”

  “But you would be with me,” she persists.

  “I cannot countenance subjecting you to such an ordeal, not without more guidance and preparation. Perhaps one day, such a journey might be possible, but for now—” He shakes his head. “You are a princess of the blood royal, your parents’ only heir. And,” his voice gentles again, “if you will forgive the phrase, a mere infant in this world to which you’ve awakened. As your future husband, I have a duty to protect you from danger and preserve you from harm.”

  Preserve—the word makes her think of a flower, pressed dry and flat between the pages of a heavy book. Or an insect caught in amber, as Gert had suggested earlier.

  “Do you really wish to marry ‘a mere infant’? A woman with no experience of the world?” she asks. “Your cousin is so bold, so daring—”

  “Don’t compare yourself to Gert! I never wanted to marry her or anyone like her!” Charles exclaims passionately. “You are perfect as you are, Rosebud. And the perfect woman for me.”

  “How can you be certain?” she murmurs. “We have known each other so briefly.”

  “It is in me to be certain,” he declares. “Since the moment I was old enough to decide, I knew I wanted a—a sweet, old-fashioned girl, but I despaired of ever finding her in this day and age. Until the day I stumbled on to your château.” He takes her hands in his, gazes down into her face. “Princess, I would have you remain, always, the sweet, unspoiled innocent I woke with a kiss. Remember?”

  Remember? Clearly, she is never to forget. But she nods dutifully and accepts his kiss, even as her heart sinks like a stone within her breast.

  She already knows that love can protect and shelter, like a warm cloak. But until that moment, she has not understood that it can also surround—and smother—like a hedge of briars.

  True love comes by fairy-lot…

  —Perrault, “The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood”

  Part Five

  THE Prince and Princess de Belleforest visit their daughter in her chamber on the eve of the wedding.

  The hundred years lie more heavily on them than on her, Rosemonde thinks sorrowfully. They move more slowly than she remembers from the days before the enchantment, as though they are still not yet wholly awake. Perhaps in time, they will regain some of their former vigor—enough at least to find some pleasure in the life that has been restored to them. Certainly, they are grateful to have been awakened, and their courtesy towards Charles cannot be faulted. Not for a moment did they consider denying him their daughter’s hand in marriage.

  Rosemonde’s father kisses her on the brow, bidding her peaceful slumbers. They exchange a wry smile at the irony of his words, then he withdraws, leaving her alone with her mother.

  They speak of trifles at first, the details of the ceremony, the ordering of the feast. Then, unexpectedly, the older princess reaches into the hanging pocket of her gown and takes out a crystal phial, filled with some clear liquid.

  Rosemonde stares at it, mystified. “Maman, what is that?”

  “Something of the utmost importance to your future, ma petite.” She pauses, holding her daughter’s gaze with her own. “My mother—your grandmother—was said to be skilled in the brewing of certain decoctions. Never to harm, of course—only to hel
p. She gave this philtre to me on my wedding morning, and promised it would lose none of its virtue, however long it was kept.” Reaching out, she folds Rosemonde’s hand about the phial. “And now I give it to you.

  “Slip this into the wine before the ceremony,” the princess continues. “And once you and your prince—your Charles—have drunk the wedding toast, you will love each other all your days, with no thought of another to come between you.”

  Rosemonde stares at the phial, which does not appear to have ever been opened. “Maman, why do you still have this?”

  The princess sighs. “Because, ma fille, on my wedding day, I already loved your father.”

  Rosemonde’s gaze drops before the too-knowing one of her mother.

  The princess takes her leave soon after, kissing her daughter in parting. Alone, Rosemonde gazes about her chamber, seeing at once everything and nothing: the flowers on her mantel, the combs and cosmetics laid out upon her dressing-table, and—fitted upon a great dressmaker’s form that seems to dominate the room—her wedding gown, all heavy satin brocade and frothy lace. A gown fit for an enchanted princess.

  She shivers, chilled to the bone in a way no fire can warm. Everything in her and around her seems coated with ice—except for the phial, curiously warm in her hand. Staring at it, she feels a sudden inspiration take hold, like a seed sown in the dark, sending out a single fragile shoot.

  Before doubts can assail her, she hurries from her chamber, heads down the passage until she reaches another wing of the château, where their guests are lodged. The chamber she seeks is at the very end of the corridor, and the door opens at her third knock.

  “Princess!” The fair girl’s blue eyes widen in surprise, then narrow to distrustful slits. “What are you doing here?”

  Rosemonde swallows. It takes a few attempts to get the words out. “Mademoiselle Violet, I am here—to give you your heart’s desire.”

  And then the marriage of the King’s son with Briar-rose was celebrated with all splendour, and they lived contented to the end of their days.

  —The Brothers Grimm, “Little Briar-Rose”

  Epilogue

  THE motorcar jounces along the road. Rosemonde is not wholly sure she cares for this mode of transport but she cannot argue with its speed—faster than any horse can follow.

  “Almost twenty miles an hour,” Gert tells her proudly.

  They are not going at anywhere near that speed now, which Rosemonde finds something of a relief. And at this hour of the morning, just before sunrise, the roads are all but deserted.

  They drive in silence for a time, then Gert observes, “I must say, I admire your nerve. I never imagined an enchanted princess would cut and run, rather than stay to marry the prince. Even if it is Charles.”

  Rosemonde stares at her hands, lying clenched upon her lap. “I slept for a hundred years. If I marry now—not just your cousin but any man—I shall go on sleeping, even though my eyes are wide open.”

  Gert’s brows arch. “I hadn’t thought of it like that,” she says at last. “But there is something to what you say. In your position, I don’t know that I’d be in such a hurry to marry either. Especially someone I hardly knew.” She lapses briefly into silence. “I wonder how things are going, back there.”

  Rosemonde cannot help but wonder herself.

  Once Violet had been convinced of her sincerity, she’d quickly complied with Rosemonde’s plan. Gert and Daisy had also become willing conspirators, the latter choosing to stay behind at the château to help Violet carry off her masquerade. Fortunately, the wedding gown’s train was long enough to conceal the fair girl’s slightly greater height, and Daisy had tightened her friend’s corset laces until she could fit into the bodice.

  Rosemonde only hoped that the long veil and the dim lighting in the chapel would sustain the illusion long enough for the bride to slip the philtre into the wine with which she and the groom would plight their troth.

  “Charles wants—a sweet, old-fashioned girl,” she’d told Violet, whose blue eyes had flashed with a fire Rosemonde had never seen before.

  “I shall be everything he wants me to be,” the fair girl vowed. “And more.”

  Rosemonde had merely nodded, and helped drape the heavy lace veil over Violet’s face, before leaving her to Daisy’s attentions. Then, muffled in a thick coat, with one of Gert’s caps pulled down low over her own face, she had stolen out of the bedchamber and out of the château, where Gert’s motorcar awaited.

  She has left a letter to her parents in Daisy’s keeping, and taken most of her dowry. Gert has promised to help her convert her jewels and antique coins into something easier to use once they reach a bank. She has also promised to help Rosemonde establish herself as an independent woman of means, wherever she chooses to settle.

  How Charles would hate this, Rosemonde thinks with an involuntary stab of guilt: his betrothed turning to his cousin for advice on her future.

  But they are betrothed no longer. And if all goes well, he will have no regrets on that score—now or ever.

  Rosemonde’s own regrets—and she recognizes that she does have them—are tempered with relief. Of a certainty, she owes Charles her life. But does she owe him her liberty too? Her heart? Is it some lack in her that makes her incapable of being or even wishing to be what he so clearly desires her to be?

  Troubling questions, with no easy answers. At least she has tried to give him a bride who loves him—and whom he will love, once the wedding toast is drunk. But it is for Violet to seize the moment and the magic now, and bind Charles to her for the rest of their days. She could only do so much for both of them.

  But Paris lies ahead of her—that once-familiar city in which she can begin again. Where she can gain at last some knowledge of the world, from which she has been shut away so long.

  A new beginning deserves a new identity. Inspiration comes as she gazes upon the lightening streaks of gold in the morning sky.

  Aurore. She will call herself after the dawn—that time of day when all things seem possible.

  Gert laughs when she shares this inspiration. “That’s the spirit,” she says approvingly, her gaze still fixed on the road before them.

  And the newly named Aurore draws the rug more closely around her, to protect against the morning chill. No longer will she look back at the château, her parents, her would-be bridegroom, but only ahead—towards the yet-unwritten future.

  She does not know if she will live happily ever after.

  But, at long last, she will live.

  A Note About Translations

  The fairy tale excerpts are from translations published more than a century ago, and thus are in the public domain. But for readers who are interested, “Little Briar-Rose” was translated by Margaret Hunt for Household Tales by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm (1884); “The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood” by Andrew Lang in The Blue Fairy Book (1889) and S. R. Littlewood in Perrault’s Fairy Tales (1911); and “Sun, Moon, and Talia” by Richard F. Burton from The Pentameron of Giambattista Basile (1893).

  Death and the Harper’s Daughter

  “I know who you are,” said Kylvan. “There’s no place for you here.”

  Death raised an elegant eyebrow. “My dear young…woman, I beg to differ. This is my place.”

  They faced each other across her father’s sickbed, the fair-haired woman in men’s clothes, Death trim and neat in his impeccably cut jerkin and trousers.

  He wore grey, not black, she noticed, and carried neither skull nor scythe. He could pass for a prosperous merchant, or a clerk in a rich lord’s household. The only incongruity was the harp slung over his left shoulder, the harp that might have been carved by the same hand as her father’s beloved instrument.

  Death was explaining now, in eminently reasonable tones. “When Kennon Corrie outplayed me at the siege of Famastra, I made him promise to harp with me again at a time of my choosing.” He shrugged regretfully, spreading wide his long, supple hands. “The time is here. What a pity
that he is in no condition to keep his word.”

  “My father has many songs still left in him.” Kylvan knew the story of old: how her father had kept the hopes of Famastra’s starving, frightened inhabitants alive through his music during the agonizing wait for supplies and reinforcements. How he had harped Death himself from the city walls, and how Famastra’s victory over the invaders was due as much to his art as to its army’s strength. What she hadn’t heard about was this proposed rematch. Trust Father to leave out the interesting part.

  “It’s only a summer fever,” she continued. “The village healer believes him past the crisis, else she would not have left me alone with him. I am certain he will be able to harp with you once he is well.”

  “Ah, but my dear child, you don’t understand. The agreement between us was for a time of my choosing. The terms are irrevocable…and non-negotiable.” Death glanced down at the man slumbering on the narrow bed, flicked his long fingers in a seemingly careless gesture. Kennon Corrie moaned, a sudden flush staining his cheeks. “And as your father prides himself on being a man of his word, you must understand that my taking him now is the only way to honor our contract.”

  Kylvan’s stomach clenched. He even talked like a merchant. She fought down a sickening rush of fear, met Death’s gaze unflinchingly. “There is another way. You could let me harp with you in his stead.”

  Death’s eyes widened in speculation, then he shook his head. “It would not be fair of me to take advantage of your inexperience, young Kylvan.” His tone gentled, but she did not find the change reassuring. “You know, of course, what the forfeit would be, should you lose. Your father and I agreed to the terms long ago. What could you possibly gain by destroying yourself in a vain effort to save him?”