Regina Rising

by Wendy Toliver

  Copyright © 2017 ABC Studios. All rights reserved.

  Published by Kingswell Teen, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.

  For information address Kingswell Teen, 1101 Flower Street, Glendale, California 91201.

  Editorial Director: Wendy Lefkon

  Executive Editor: Laura Hopper

  Cover designed by Julie Rose

  ISBN 978-1-368-00200-4

  Cover artwork © ABC

  Visit www.disneybooks.com

  www.abc.com

  This book is dedicated to

  believers in magic and happy endings.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Friday, May 5

  The bolt slammed into its brackets with a terrible bang. Cowering against the wall, I clutched my chest as if trying to keep my heart from bursting right out.

  “You will stay in your room until I grant you permission to come out.” My mother’s voice reverberated from the bottom of the staircase to the arched ceiling and vast walls of the hallway. “Do you hear me?”

  Though I couldn’t see her, I pictured her standing on the landing, arms crossed and head tilted, as still as a statue—except for the plumes of residual purple smoke coming from her fingertips.

  I wished she would have tromped up the stairs and locked the door with her own two hands, instead of using magic. However, subtlety was not in her nature.

  “Answer me, Regina.”

  “Yes, Mother,” I said.

  I heard a faint pattering noise, but I couldn’t tell if it was my mother’s high heels tapping on the tiles as she walked away, or the bolt on the outside of my bedroom door trying to settle into place after having suffered such a blow.

  I hung up my riding jacket and peeled off my boots. I had no idea how long I’d be imprisoned in my room, so I figured I might as well be comfortable. Heaving out a gust of air, I slid down the wall until I was seated on the rug. I’d always admired the rug my father had brought home for me from one of his many trips. Not only did it protect me from the hard, chilly floor beneath, but it also kept me amused. Growing up, I’d spent countless hours lying on my belly, letting my imagination run rampant with the adventures I could have with all the trees, flowers, and animals woven into it, as if they were real.

  With the tip of my finger, I traced along the familiar scene, from the pond where frogs floated on lily pads to the stream teeming with fish, pausing when I reached the green snake coiled up on its bank.

  September, ten years earlier

  “Come, child,” my father urged when he spied me peeking into his smoking room. I wiped my eyes on the cuff of my blouse, hoping he hadn’t spotted the tears. My mother and I had gone to town, and a pair of little girls had invited me to play marbles. My mother had scooted me past before I’d even been able to answer, and when I’d begged her to let me play one little game, she’d said, “We have more important things to do.” Only I couldn’t think of a single thing we’d done that afternoon that was important at all.

  My father finished cutting an apple and placed the slices on a plate beside his favorite chair. It was autumn, the best season of the entire year, and the orchard was bursting with beautiful red fruit.

  “I have a story for you.” He patted his knee and I hopped onto his lap. “Once there was an old man,” he began.

  “As old as you, Daddy?” I asked, pulling playfully on his beard. Unlike Mother, he never seemed to mind when I interrupted. He used the break to hand me a slice of apple.

  “Even older, if you can believe it.”

  “Oh, I can believe it if I try really hard,” I teased him as I relished the crispy, sweet fruit.

  “Well, that’s good to know,” he said with a chuckle. I snuggled up to his velvety-soft vest as he continued his story. “The old man loved having his breakfast beside a beautiful gurgling brook. The animals who made their homes near the brook looked forward to his daily visit, for he always had a song to sing and brought plenty of food to share. One morning, a green snake slithered over to the old man’s basket. The birds took to the air, the squirrels and rabbits and foxes scurried off—even the fish swam downstream, safely out of the snake’s reach.

  “‘Why are you still here, old man?’ the snake asked. ‘Are your eyes too old to see I’m a poisonous snake?’

  “‘My bones might creak, my skin might be wrinkled, but there is nothing wrong with my eyes,’ replied the man. He then reached into his basket and held a piece of bread before the deadly serpent.

  “The snake smiled slyly at the old man as his venomous fangs sank through the bread and deep into the man’s palm.

  “As the snake glided away, the man jumped up as best he could on his old legs and soaked his hand in the cool waters of the brook, hoping to get relief from the pain. Soon enough, a fish spotted his wounded hand and, though the man thought it was just the waters lapping at him, sucked and spat the poison out, leaving the man to live another day.

  “The following morning, the old man returned to the brook with his basket of food. As had happened the previous day, the man offered the snake some bread. Again, the snake bit him. The man shuffled to the brook and dipped his throbbing hand into the water, where another fish sucked out the poison and saved his life.

  “On the third morning, the snake said to the old man, ‘I do not know how you’re still alive, but even more perplexing is why you keep feeding me when you know I’ll bite you. I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again. It’s in my nature. It’s what I do.’

  “The man pondered this for a moment before reaching in his basket. ‘Because,’ he said, holding out a piece of bread for the snake, ‘this is what I do.’”

  I waited for my father to continue, but he just sat there, smiling down at me. “Is that it?” I asked.

  “That’s the end of the story,” he confirmed.

  “But I don’t understand it.”

  His smile deepened and his eyes twinkled. “Someday, my child, you will.”

  Friday, May 5

  A knock on the door startled me. It had only been a little over an hour since my mother had locked me in my room. Fearing the worst, I clambered to my feet. Wood scraped against wood. The bolt had been lifted.

  I hated what I’d become, a pitiful creature who cowered when it came to my mother. For once, I wanted to have the courage to stand up to her. Alas, as long as she used her magic, she would always have the upper hand.

  “Come in, Mother. Again, I’m very sorry.”

  To my relief, it was my father. “Actually, it’s me,” he said. He entered, and with him came the sweet, earthy aroma of tobacco. He looked dapper in his scarlet coat, beige breeches, and knee-high riding boots. “Your mother said you may come down for tea now. She also wanted me to tell you your horse is in the stables, and Jesse is seeing to him as we speak.”

  “Thank you, Daddy,” I said as I brushed the wrinkles out of my blouse. I hoped
he would ask what I’d done to deserve being locked in my room, but he did not. To be honest, I wasn’t surprised. He seldom inserted himself between my mother and me, and I oftentimes wondered if he was afraid of her, too. “I’m surprised she’s granting me my freedom so quickly this time.”

  He blotted his forehead with his handkerchief and then tucked it into his breast pocket. “Your mother’s heart is in the right place. She only wants what is best for you, my child.”

  Instead of meeting his gaze, I pulled open the drapes and peered out the window. The spring rains had given the hills a surreal lushness—a shade of green that rivaled the brightest of emeralds. I could only imagine how beautiful the flowers in the royal gardens looked.

  “How was the hunt?” I asked. “You went with Giles this morning, isn’t that correct?” Giles Spencer was our nearest neighbor, as well as the royal doctor.

  “The foxes hoodwinked us again,” my father confessed. “Since today is the final day of the hunting season, I’m afraid we’ll have to wait until November to salvage our reputations.”

  “Giles’s hunting reputation isn’t the one I would worry about, if I were him,” I said, and when my father sighed, I instantly regretted my insensitivity. He was my father’s friend, so I should’ve done better to tolerate him, even if he had been found passed out in some farmer’s chicken coop the previous Saturday night.

  “Since his wife and baby passed away, he isn’t the same man. But when you’ve been friends for as long as we have, well, we stick together through all the ups and downs, the highs and lows, the good and the bad, the thick and thin….”

  I smiled at him as he blathered on, but deep inside I felt a pang of jealousy. Sure, I was sometimes bitter that my father chose to spend his mornings foxhunting with Giles rather than riding horses with me, but that wasn’t it. It was something about the reverence with which he spoke about Giles, the way my father came to his defense without hesitation. It made me yearn for that kind of friendship myself.

  My father cleared his throat, making his Adam’s apple bob against his cravat. “You should hurry and change, child. Your mother is waiting.”

  “Is something wrong with what I’m wearing?” I gave myself a quick once-over in the mirror. The day before I’d shown up for tea with grass stains on my hemline, and with a flick of her wrist, my mother had used her magic to change me into a clean and starched dress, glaring at me as she did so.

  On second thought, perhaps I should quickly swap my riding pants and blouse for a frock straight from the laundress, just to be sure.

  “A guest will be joining you,” he said.

  I turned back around to face him. “Really? Who?”

  He winked at me. “It’s a surprise. Now get ready, and I’ll be waiting to take you down,” he said and backed out of my room, softly closing the door. I heard him whistling a jolly little tune out in the hall.

  I slipped into a simple yet pretty dress and ran a brush through my long black hair. Before leaving my room, I checked my appearance in the mirror once more, wondering again who my mother had invited to tea. I knew better than to get my hopes up that it would be somebody I’d actually want to meet. Knowing my mother, I’d find her sitting across from the most pitiful old maid she could dig up: a threat to show me what would become of me if I didn’t begin taking her quest for me to marry a royal prince or king seriously. She’d even christened me with a name that meant “queen.” I heard her voice in my mind, saying it for the thousandth time: “I named you Regina, for one day, you shall be queen.”

  When I opened the door, my father nodded his approval of my attire. I followed him down the stairs. We passed my parents’ wedding portrait, a life-sized rendering that proved they’d made a striking couple when they were young. I paused to study their faces, something I often found myself doing. When I was a little girl, I’d seen in their eyes the look of true love—something I wished I, too, would find someday. Now that I was sixteen, however, I saw something more hidden deep in their expressions. If the artist had authentically captured what they’d been thinking that day, I’d say as a young prince, my father had appeared dutiful and proud, and as the newly crowned princess, my mother had had a triumphant glimmer in her eye.

  My father had kept walking while I’d paused. Although he was balding and had thickened around his midriff in the seventeen years since he’d posed for his wedding portrait, I still thought him to be a handsome man. I took the stairs as quickly as possible to catch up with him. At the bottom, I accepted his elbow and he dutifully escorted me to the drawing room and then dismissed himself. Before entering, I took a calming breath, hoping my mother’s mood had improved.

  My mother sat at the head of the table, staring at her reflection in a silver spoon. She was impeccably dressed in a white blouse and a fitted midnight-blue skirt. Her ears, chest, wrists, and fingers dripped with some of the finest jewels in the kingdom. “It’s about time you graced us with your attendance, Regina.” She placed the spoon on the lacy tablecloth. “We were about to start without you.”

  I winced, weighing whether it would have pleased her had I been on time, but in my riding clothes. In the conclusion of my brief inner debate, I figured she would not have been satisfied no matter what I had done.

  Our guest, who until then had her back to me, promptly scooted out her chair with a dreadful screech. She stood and gave me a little curtsy as I entered the sunlit room. I was happy to see she was not a pitiful old maid. She appeared to be about my age, only taller and thinner. Her flaxen hair twisted and swirled around the crown of her head, feeding into an off-center bun at the nape of her neck. The style was fashionable enough, yet some tendrils were seemingly too stubborn to remain smoothed in place and instead floated around her head like silken spiderwebs. Her deep-green dress was plain and ill fitting, but I remembered the one I’d chosen to wear left little to boast about, either. When she finally lifted her gaze to mine, I almost gasped; her eyes were as clear and blue as my mother’s best sapphire earrings. I forced myself to blink so she wouldn’t think I was gawking.

  “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” I said, hoping to placate my punctuality-devoted mother. As I settled into my chair, I was pleasantly surprised that my view of my mother was obscured. In place of the usual centerpiece towered an elegant, albeit cumbersome, arrangement of orchids.

  While Rainy, our faithful servant, bustled about, pouring tea and making sure the three of us had everything we could possibly need—including several spoonfuls of honey for our guest—my mother commenced the introductions. “Regina, this is Claire Fairchild. She is Giles’s niece, and she’s come to live with him for the season. It’s a very fortuitous arrangement, as she’s only a year older than you and is eager for companionship. Isn’t that so, Claire?”

  Claire nodded eagerly. “It’s my pleasure to meet you, Regina. Your mother has told me such wonderful things about you.” I’d never known my mother to say anything even vaguely “wonderful” about me to anyone. Well, anyone other than a prospective husband for me, which was always a gentleman with a strong stream of royal blood pumping through his veins.

  I pondered that as I stirred two lumps of sugar into my tea. “I never knew Giles had a niece,” I said, “and Mother has never mentioned you until this very moment.” As soon as the sugar dissolved, I took a quick sip, only to burn my tongue.

  My mother slid the orchids out of the way, leaving the vase teetering on the edge of the table. I held my breath, fearing that at any second, it would topple and smash into bits on the gray floor tiles. She was seemingly too busy shooting me the evil eye—no doubt in response to my less than noble behavior—to notice the foreseeable calamity.

  However, Claire obviously noticed, and she reached across the table to rescue the orchids before they had the chance to fall. When I met Claire’s striking blue gaze, the strangest thing happened. We smiled at each other, at the exact same time.

  “I’m very glad you were able to join us today, Claire,” I added.
Although I needed to say something polite to try and keep my mother from exploding, I actually meant what I’d said. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” To my relief, my mother seemed satiated, and the side of her mouth twitched into an almost-smile.

  “Thank you, Regina. It’s nice to be here,” Claire said. “And thank you, Your Highness,” she said to my mother.

  My mother nodded benevolently. “You may call me Cora.”

  The three of us lifted our teacups and sipped, and as the moments marched along, I found my tea cooling to a more comfortable drinking temperature and my heart warming to my newest neighbor.

  “Cora happened to stop in my ma’s tavern when she was passing through Port Bennett, and when she mentioned her estate was located just beneath King Leopold and Queen Eva’s castle, my ma told her that her brother lived there, too,” Claire said as Rainy poured her more tea. Although my mother had given our guest permission to call her by her first name, it surprised me she was so comfortable doing so. Surprised and intrigued me. “She told my ma it’s a wonderful place for a young, unmarried lady to find a suitable husband. It was music to her ears, as you can only imagine the sort of fellows who’re drawn to a port town.”

  As Claire spoke, I grinned to myself, picturing the rogues who undoubtedly haunted a place like that: bandits with skilled hands and wild eyes; pirates and buccaneers with long hair and tattoos; boisterous and stinking men, unshaven and undignified, full of rum and spine-tingling tales. Maybe, if I was lucky, I would get to go there someday and hear the tales for myself. “Oh, I can only imagine,” I piped up, lifting my upper lip to feign my disgust at the very existence of such men.

  I wondered if the ring Claire wore on a silver chain around her neck—a garish, masculine ring, designed to look like a dragon claw curving possessively around a large dark-red stone—was a token from such a scoundrel. I was dying to know, but I’d have to wait for another time to ask, a rare moment when my mother wasn’t breathing down my neck.