Regina Rising

by Wendy Toliver

  “Cora generously offered to give me a ride,” Claire continued, “and it was decided I would spend the warmer months at my uncle’s estate.”

  “It was no trouble at all,” my mother said. “Imagine my surprise when I realized her uncle was Giles Spencer.”

  I highly doubted Giles would have offered to take in his niece of his own volition. Yet, as my mother was the one behind it, it was no surprise he’d agreed, if only for the sake of getting another feather in his cap, so to speak.

  “Naturally, given Giles’s misfortune with his own family, he was delighted to have the opportunity to get to know his next of kin,” my mother said, filling me with guilt for my previous misgivings.

  Solomon, a servant as cold and stony as a statue, with skin almost as gray as one, appeared at our table. “Your Highness, a messenger came by with this.” He placed a scroll before my mother and rigidly backed away. I was surprised he’d dared interrupt our tea, but a cursory glance at the scroll showed it was of a fine parchment, and the wax seal bore the initial L. L, as in Leopold.

  My mother unrolled the message and read aloud: “‘His Majesty King Leopold and Her Majesty Queen Eva request your presence at a royal ball to celebrate the victorious end to the Ogre Wars.’” She tapped her fingernail on the parchment. “The end of the wars,” she said with a little laugh. “Now, that’s presumptuous.”

  “Don’t be such a pessimist, Mother,” I chided her. “Aren’t you happy? Our first party invitation of the season, and it’s at the royal castle.”

  “Indeed,” she said. “And you two girls will be the belles of the ball, I’m quite certain.”

  “Only because you’re already married, Cora,” Claire said.

  “My, oh my, what a sweet thing to say. I guess all the honey Rainy put in your tea is paying off,” my mother quipped. Humbleness wasn’t her best quality, and whenever someone paid her a compliment, it seemed to always fall a little short of what she wanted to hear.

  “The tea is delicious, I meant to make mention of it sooner. Not bitter in the least, like the sort I’m used to.” Our guest absently fingered the ring she wore on her necklace. “And to think, I, Claire Fairchild, will be going to the royal ball! Oh, I’ve always wanted to meet Queen Eva in person. I’ve heard so many wonderful things about the benevolent ruler. My uncle said she was the portrait of grace.”

  “Interesting you should mention Eva….” My mother shooed Rainy and her teapot away, and I braced myself for her to say something truly blasphemous about the queen. While my mother was dreadful at being humble, she was an expert at being bitter. “You see, if it weren’t for our benevolent ruler,” she said, twisting the emerald and diamond ring on her fourth finger, “I would never have wed Regina’s father.”

  Claire’s eyes widened. “Really?”

  “It’s true,” I said. “Now, Mother, I’m sure you have important matters to tend to.”

  “Oh, but I love a good romantic story,” Claire said. “Please, Cora, continue.”

  I blew a stream of air up my forehead, wishing we could declare teatime over before my mother told her story. Alas, it was too late. Our guest had been successfully enticed, and my mother was more than happy to oblige.

  “Very well,” my mother said, placing her hands one upon the other on the tabletop. “One day, I was delivering flour to King Xavier’s castle for my father, the miller. Eva, who at the time was a princess of the northern kingdom, happened to be there visiting. I was making my way to the kitchen with the bags of flour when she tripped me, and she began complaining that my ‘clumsiness’ had ruined her shoes.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would she trip you?” Claire blinked. “It doesn’t seem like civil, let alone royal, behavior, if you ask me.”

  I wondered if my mother would chastise Claire for having interrupted, but instead, she merely threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, Claire, you little lamb. You’d be surprised the sort of debauchery that goes on within castle walls. And,” she added in a whisper loud enough for Rainy to hear beyond the wall, “I must confess, I’ve contributed my fair share.”

  “Queen Eva actually has a valid reason for despising my mother,” I told Claire, trying to push forward through the embarrassment of my mother’s previous admission.

  “Regina is correct,” my mother said. “If I can trust you with a secret, I will tell you.”

  “Of course,” Claire agreed. “I’m good at keeping secrets.”

  “You see, before that fateful day Eva publicly humiliated me, through no fault of my own, Leopold had fallen in love with me. He wanted to marry me. The problem was, he’d been engaged to Princess Eva since birth.”

  “But they’re married now, so what happened?”

  “Let’s say for time’s sake that it didn’t work out between Leopold and me, and since Eva never left him, even after he’d professed his love for me,” she said, dipping her voice in a way that made it clear she found the woman pathetic, “the two of them picked up where they’d left off.”

  “What did you do after Eva tripped you?” Claire prompted, sitting on the edge of her chair.

  “King Xavier commanded me to kneel and apologize to her.” Consumed with the memory, my mother’s eyes blazed with fury.

  It might have been my mind playing tricks on me, but it felt like the temperature in the room dropped. Claire rubbed her arms as if she’d caught a sudden chill, too.

  “As luck would have it,” my mother continued, “the king was hosting a masquerade ball so his son could choose his bride.”

  “His son is Prince Henry, my father,” I interjected, although everybody in the Enchanted Forest—and I’d wager even those living way out in Port Bennett—knew that.

  “I showed up to the ball uninvited, and when the king threatened me, I told him I could save his kingdom by spinning straw into gold,” my mother said. “Of course, that kind of magic seemed impossible to him, so he put me to the test. He locked me in the tower, and I had to spin a roomful of straw into gold. If I succeeded, I would be married to the prince. If I failed, I would be executed. I’m living proof it is possible, and shortly thereafter, I had the supreme pleasure of looking King Xavier in the eye while I said ‘I do’ to his son.”

  Claire’s blue eyes gleamed as my mother finished. “I’ve never met somebody who can spin straw into gold. That’s a fascinating story.” For a moment or two, she sat in silence, absently dunking a biscuit into her tea. I guessed she was probably picturing my mother’s magical feat in her mind. “Goodness, these biscuits are delectable. Did you bake them yourself, Cora?”

  I shuddered at the thought of my mother cooking anything at all. She wouldn’t be caught dead doing something as banal or beneath her as baking.

  My mother laughed heartily. “Goodness, no. A sweet old lady came by on her way to the castle, peddling her baked goods. I think she called herself Granny Lucas.”

  “Well, then my sincerest compliments to you for having the good sense to buy them,” Claire said.

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about Claire complimenting my mother so often, and the way she hung on to my mother’s every word. Although I would be fooling myself if I claimed I never stroked my mother’s ego. Mostly, I did it to win her approval. It seemed nothing I ever did worked to that end—at least, not for long.

  I reached for the biscuits, but my mother slapped my hand. “You’ve had enough, Regina,” she said, almost sweetly.

  “I’ve only had one. I’d like another.” I sounded like a little girl, and I hated myself for it.

  My mother placed her palm on King Leopold and Queen Eva’s invitation, flattening and smoothing it into the table, as its edges had begun rolling back up. “It’s officially party season, my dear daughter. If you’re to become queen, you’d best stay away from baked goods.”

  I could feel my blood begin to boil. I wished I were able to say I couldn’t believe my mother would say such a thing, but I could. I hated that she’d said it in front of someone with whom I might lik
e to become friends. Under the table, I twisted my hands together until they began to ache.

  “Forgive me, Cora, but your daughter is one of the fairest young ladies I’ve ever seen. Any man—royal or not—would be lucky to have her as his bride.” Claire popped the last bite of her biscuit into her mouth. Though her hands trembled, the girl somehow managed to look my mother straight in the eyes.

  A strange sensation flooded my stomach. On one hand, I wanted to leap up from my chair and hug Claire. On the other, I felt nauseated as I waited to see how my mother would react. Never before had somebody stuck out her neck for me.

  As I held my breath, my mother’s back stiffened and the left side of her mouth rose. “Claire, you’re quite correct.”

  At that very moment, I had a good feeling about the blond girl who sat at my right hand. I finished the last drops of my tea, thinking how fortunate I would be to have Claire Fairchild as a friend.

  Saturday, May 6

  I’d slept well that night, looking forward to the next time Claire and I would get to spend time together. I couldn’t believe she’d stood up to my mother, and the memory of it made me grin as I brushed Rocinante’s shiny brown coat.

  The colt perked his ears and raised his head in the direction of the stable door. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow fall onto the hay-sprinkled ground, and I presumed it was Jesse, the stable boy. But I was delighted to have been mistaken.

  “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re up to some kind of mischief,” Claire said with a hint of a smirk. She wore a frock much like the one from the day before, only it was pale lavender with thick yellow threading. Her cheeks were extra rosy, like she’d run the whole way from her uncle’s place, and her hair fell down her back in a soft straw-colored sheet.

  I dropped the brush into the basket and put my hands on my hips. “What if I am?”

  “Then I want in, of course.”

  I racked my brain trying to come up with something extraordinary to do. I’d hoped to pick the apple I’d discovered the day before, but I doubted Claire would consider that particular plan impressive, let alone “mischievous.”

  “That’s a beautiful horse,” Claire said, reaching out to pet Rocinante.

  He sniffed her hand. I opened my mouth to warn her he wasn’t good with strangers, something he’d proven over and over again since his mother had died. However, to my amazement, he not only allowed Claire to stroke his neck, but he stepped closer so she could better reach him, lowering his head so she could scratch his ears.

  She laughed. “I think he likes me.”

  While she continued to pet him, I picked up where I’d left off brushing him. “This is Rocinante. He lost his mother when he was very young. I hand-fed him for quite a few weeks, and ever since, I’ve had a special spot for him in my heart.”

  “Well, I can certainly see why,” she said. “He’s very special.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Do you ride?”

  “A little.”

  “Then it’s settled.” I stepped outside and called to the stable boy. “Jesse, will you prepare Opal and Rocinante? We are going riding.” Then I smiled at my friend. “Let’s go to my house so you can change clothes.”

  The sweet aroma of apple blossoms filled the air as we walked up the road. Claire reached up with her long, slender arm and touched a branch, which gave me an idea. What if Claire could help me pick the mysterious apple I’d discovered? She was certainly tall enough to give me the boost I needed.

  “I have a favor to ask,” I said, leading her off the road and into the orchard.

  “All right. What is it?” she asked.

  As we meandered through the trees, I took her a little ways off the path to keep her from noticing the trunk in which I’d carved R+J a few weeks before. Once we arrived at the center of the orchard, I pointed at the lone apple among the budding leaves and fragrant blossoms.

  She stared at it, agape. “I don’t know about here, but in Port Bennett, apples aren’t ready until late summer, early autumn.”

  “I think that’s the way it is everywhere. That’s why I want to pick it.”

  “It’s too high. You might get hurt,” she said.

  “Really, Claire.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “You’re beginning to sound like my mother. If you’ll lift me up to that branch, I can climb the rest of the way.”

  She sighed. “Very well. Please be careful.”

  Using the trunk as support, I placed my boot in her cupped hands and she hoisted me up. I missed the branch the first two times, but on our third attempt, I got a firm hold of it. It took some doing, but I was luckily able to pull myself up and climb even higher. Finally, I wrapped my hand around the bright red fruit and gave it a tug. “Got it!”

  “Here, toss it down.”

  Once Claire caught it, I started making my way down. When I finally reached the lowest branch, I held on and swung my legs down, my feet dangling in midair. I gasped. On the way up, it hadn’t seemed quite so high.

  “I’ll catch you. You can do it,” Claire said, obviously sensing my fear. She set the apple down and held up her arms.

  “It’s all right,” I said breathlessly. “I’ll jump.”

  She backed up, giving me room.

  I counted in my mind: three, two, one. Then I closed my eyes, held my breath, and dropped to the ground. My landing was far from graceful, yet I was glad I didn’t twist an ankle or otherwise hurt myself.

  Claire polished the fruit on the sleeve of her dress before handing it over. I turned it in my hands. It was red as blood and completely symmetrical. Though I looked closely, I saw no wormholes, bruises, or even a speckle marring its smooth, gleaming skin. “It’s the most perfect apple I’ve ever seen,” I said.

  Claire and I headed to the stairs, but Claire lingered in the dining hall to admire the enormous family portrait monopolizing the wall. “This painting is exquisite,” she said, focusing on the signature at the bottom right corner. “I haven’t heard of Jasper B. Holding, but surely he is a famous artist in these parts.”

  “Not yet,” I said, swooning as I pictured Jasper’s handsome face—with eyes the color of the sea and a mop of shiny reddish-brown hair—in my mind’s eye. “He’s only eighteen, and it seems the most famous ones are much older.”

  “If not dead,” Claire said.

  “True. I do think Jasper will make a name for himself someday, and well before he’s dead. Anyway, he’s the one who gives me painting lessons. He insists it is enough to keep him happy, but I know his dream is to have steady work painting portraits for the most affluent families in the land.” I didn’t like to think about Jasper working for someone else, even though it would be much better for his career. I guess I wasn’t too keen on sharing him, and I definitely didn’t wish to lose him.

  “Are you blushing?” Claire asked, and under her scrutiny, my cheeks felt even warmer. She put her hands on her hips. “Regina, are you pining for your art teacher?”

  “Don’t be foolish. Of course not,” I said, praying my mother hadn’t heard her. “Now, come,” I said, waving her along.

  “He certainly has talent,” Claire said, giving the portrait one last glance before falling into step with me.

  February, three months earlier

  “Are you certain this is the artist Leopold uses?” hissed my mother through the side of her mouth.

  Neither my father nor I answered. We stood as we’d been arranged, flanking the deep red chair in which my mother sat. Her back straight and her hands in her lap, she drummed her bejeweled fingers. I couldn’t see her face from where I stood, but I had a hunch her eyes were glazed and she wore a hint of a smile—or, probably, more of a smirk. If the artist—Jasper, I think he’d said he was called—knew best, he’d make my mother appear even more beautiful in his painting than she actually was. Then it was possible she’d forgive him for taking longer than she wanted.

  Although I did not enjoy standing still for hours, either, I was not nearly as
antsy as my mother for Jasper to finish. I liked the way he tilted his head when he studied each of us, and the way he chuckled softly to himself whenever Thaddeus, the faithful bloodhound sleeping peacefully yet noisily at my father’s feet, grunted. Every now and then, Jasper squinted his eyes or wrinkled his forehead. Once or twice, he stepped away from the painting, studying it for a few minutes before picking up his paintbrush again.

  I could tell when he was painting me. Whenever I dared to meet his gaze, it felt as if his eyes were probing into my very soul, viewing my secrets and dreams. At first it was overwhelming, and it gave me a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach. While I tried to focus on the window behind him—he’d wanted natural light to help bring out our features—some mysterious force kept pulling me back to his eyes. They were unlike any I’d ever seen: bluish green, framed by thick, dark lashes. They seemed to twinkle, and when he raised the corner of his mouth, giving me a crooked grin, it felt as though my heart skipped a beat. I wore a dress my mother had commissioned for the occasion, one that would appear fashionable and classic for all the years the painting—if my mother ended up favoring it—would bedeck our wall. Yet the way the artist’s eyes roved over every part of me, I felt as if I were wearing a much more revealing garment—or perhaps nothing at all. Thinking those sorts of thoughts made my cheeks heat up. Hopefully, Jasper wouldn’t capture my blush in his painting. Unless, of course, it made me look more beautiful.

  Weeks later, Jasper delivered the finished portrait, and as my parents discussed where to hang it, I followed him to the door. “You paint very well,” I said. “My mother is pleased, and that is no easy feat.”

  He flashed his crooked smile, rendering me speechless. The sudden silence between us made me nervous, and so I added, “I wish I could paint well.”

  “Who says you can’t?” he asked.

  “Well, no one has actually said I can’t. It’s just that I—”

  “Haven’t tried?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, that should be remedied.”