Bonded: Three Fairy Tales, One Bond

by Michelle Davidson Argyle

  “Geoffrey?” She lowered her hand from the window, surprised at the tenderness in Rowland’s voice. “Is he a friend?”

  “I thought I told you about Geoffrey. He’s my good friend from school. He’s coming with his fiancée.”

  She blinked. She thought of a vial of blood, a dagger, two beating hearts. “That’s lovely, Rowland. I can’t wait to meet them.” She cleared her throat. “Why didn’t I meet him at the wedding?”

  “He wasn’t there. I believe he was traveling with his father to meet Cecily. It’s an arranged marriage—for land gain.”

  Perhaps they were not in love. She walked to her vanity and sat down. She began brushing through her hair and looked at her face in the mirror, at the dark circles under her eyes. Last night weighed heavily on her shoulders, like two flat stones. She imagined balancing them to make sure they didn’t fall.

  In the mirror’s reflection, she watched Rowland get out of bed and walk to her. He slipped the brush from her hand and pulled it through her hair in gentle strokes. When he found a knot, he tugged it carefully, not like Amie, who was more firm and resolved to get things done quickly.

  The smile on Rowland’s face hinted that he found brushing her hair an intimate activity. He had never once helped her into a dress or done more with her hair than twist it between his fingers. Those duties were not his place. Perhaps that was why he smiled now. He smoothed her hair with his hand after each stroke, his touch soft and affectionate.

  “We’re lucky to have found each other, Christina. I’m lucky my parents didn’t have someone picked out for me, that the current politics didn’t require a matrimonial bond between me and some foreign princess.”

  She looked at him in the mirror, grateful for his tenderness with her. “I’m happy they didn’t pick out someone for you,” she said quietly. She didn’t mention that she had seen a need for a bond between countries, even if she didn’t necessarily wish for one at the moment. She understood that the neighboring kingdoms viewed her and Rowland’s small country, sandwiched between two others on the brink of war, as weak and vulnerable, hence the rapid, headstrong decisions now made by the king and queen. Rowland must have seen such a thing, but Cinderella blamed the spell for interfering with his judgment. That thought alone made her depressed. Would he have even looked at her twice if it hadn’t been for Eolande’s spell?

  With these thoughts, the two stones weighing on her shoulders grew heavier—to the point that she pushed Rowland’s hand away from her hair.

  “Did I hurt you?” he asked.

  “No, I feel... dizzy all of a sudden.” She couldn’t think of any other excuse. Rowland helped her stand and then embraced her, his arms tight and solid. The stranger, she remembered, had never felt solid. He had felt like sunlight, warm and brilliant. All the same, Rowland quieted her stirring emotions. She was grateful.

  “You kept the flower,” he said, and she turned in his arms to look at the white flower she had set on the vanity the day before. It was wilted and brown on the edges. It reminded her of the stranger more than it reminded her of Rowland. She tried to look him in the eyes, but couldn’t.

  “Yes, it was a lovely ride. I hope we can go again sometime.”

  “Any time you wish. Now, lie down until you’re less dizzy. I need to get dressed for the council today. My parents have requested my attendance.” A smile played on his lips.

  She smiled brightly in return. “That’s wonderful! I know you’ve been waiting for that.” She let him lead her to the bed, and when her head touched the pillow she imagined the stones sliding from her shoulders.

  When she made it back to the meadow, the grass was thick and green, cool on her neck when she lay down. She looked up at the sky, the branches with their crisp, new leaves, the birds chattering around her.

  When he appeared, his clothes were new, lighter, his suede boots making no sound as he walked. Small white flowers lay in his hair.

  “Did you remember me?” he asked.

  She nodded as he helped her to her feet, his fingers long and slender. He led her out of the meadow and forest to the clover lining her father’s fields—now Rose’s fields. They were square patches of alternating greens, like a quilt. The house sat at the far end of the fields, gray stone with a thatched roof over the kitchen and servant quarters, wooden beams and tiles over the rest. Isaac, their only male servant, stood near the pig sty brushing Rose’s horse, a tall, white mare with brown splotches and a tail flicking back and forth. Rose’s cat watched from the fencepost, licking her paws.

  “Let’s take a shortcut,” the stranger said, tugging her into the fields. The wheat, green and tall, waved with their movement. She squeezed her eyes shut, remembering the scratchy wheat on her face when she had found her father collapsed in these fields, his hand clutched over his heart.

  When they exited, the stranger led her into a part of the forest she had never explored. A trail wound through the trees and the stranger let her walk ahead of him. When she lifted the hem of her skirt to step over a stream, he asked, “Did she give you those?”

  She knew he meant the whip marks Rose had given her. Some of them were fresh from that morning, still scabbing over.

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know why?”

  She turned, confused as to whether he was asking her why, or if he was going to tell her why. For a moment, she didn’t care, too distracted as he smoothed his hand over his hair, briefly sweeping it aside to reveal ears shaped upward into perfect points. Even as a child she would not have believed in such a being. She fought with herself to believe it now.

  “She likes to be in control,” she said, and paused to put a finger to her lips. “Or maybe it isn’t that simple. She always resented my father’s lingering love for my mother, and I’m sure she was taking it out on me the only way she could.”

  He nodded and said, “You frighten her,” and urged her to keep walking.

  “Nothing frightens Rose,” she said with a stutter as she continued along the trail. “When she found my father dead in the fields all those years ago, I still remember her face. It was stubborn and angry. She carried him back to the house by herself. She threw him over her shoulder. I’ll never forget that.”

  “You frighten her. You will frighten many in your life, Cinderella. You hold that power.”

  She turned to look at him again, more confused than before. “You speak in riddles, stranger. Won’t you tell me your name? Tell me what you are?”

  “Not yet. Let me sing you a song.” He sat with her near a bush with white flowers, the same ones in his hair, and as he sang, the smell of clover grew stronger. He helped her lie down. Petals fell from his hair when his lips touched hers. She closed her eyes and saw Isaac brushing Rose’s horse, his arm moving up and down, the cat licking her paws.

  The kitchen bustled with preparations for the banquet. Fortune was in her element, sweat rolling down her temples as she charged back and forth between pots of boiling liquid and meat sizzling over fires. The kitchen consisted of many rooms leading off the main area, and all were thick with rising steam. It gathered near the ceiling, constantly dissipating and recreating itself.

  “Christina!” Fortune exclaimed as she pushed her sleeves up her arms and lifted a tray of bread. “I am honored by your presence, but this is no place for you today.”

  “I wish to stay, if that’s all right. I won’t be in the way.” She could see she was already causing a stir. Many of the servants and cooks glanced in her direction or stopped to curtsey. A young boy dropped a platter of fried dough in the shape of pinecones. They skittered across the floor and one stopped by Cinderella’s foot. When she picked it up, the grease left a film on her fingers. Fortune snatched it away and threw it back onto the tray in the boy’s shaking hands.

  “I cannot tell you to leave,” she said with a huffy growl. A smile played across her lips as she looked over Cinderella’s blush-pink gown. “But I’m warning you, that dress of yours may get stained.”

 
“It doesn’t matter.” Cinderella accepted a padded chair offered by one of the servants and sat down. The truth was she was bored out of her mind. The emotion was a strange one since all she had wanted for the longest time was to sit and let others do the work. She had tried to embroider in the sewing room with some of the guests, but had quickly grown restless and wandered the castle looking for ways she could help with the preparations, but no one would allow her to lift a finger. Amie was busy with the guests who had been arriving all afternoon, and after the council meeting, Rowland had taken off on his horse to go meet Geoffrey.

  A girl of about thirteen swept past Cinderella with a large bowl of radishes. She stopped at a table and pulled a knife from her skirt pocket, then sat and began carving one radish, her fingers more nimble and quick than Amie’s when she braided Cinderella’s hair. As soon as the girl had begun, she was finished. She placed the vegetable, now in the shape of an elegant swan, on a platter.

  The effect of red and white was stunning, and although Cinderella had seen the carved radishes before on filled platters at meals, she had never imagined it being done so effortlessly. She looked at the girl’s red cheeks and wondered if there was a boy in her life, if the girl had experienced true love, if she was in love with someone right that moment.

  Cinderella only needed one couple in love, but she had no idea what she was supposed to do with their blood once she attained it, or the jewel or shoes. That morning, after she had awakened for the second time, she knelt by her trunk and carefully pulled out her mother’s old dresses and set them aside. Then she pulled out the shoes, the outer leather still supple, the cream bow-ribbons perfectly crisp, the fur inside still smelling of chestnuts and rose oil. Eolande had not given her any directions for how to perform the magic, but Cinderella knew the directions would come somehow.

  Fortune’s voice rang out. “Get it out of here!”

  A black sparrow soared through the main room of the kitchen, first to one wall, then a quick dive to the floor, back up to the ceiling, to another wall, its black wings slicing through the steam clouds. A boy with a broom chased it. He knocked over a bowl of vinegar, shattering it in his wake. The liquid splashed across the floor and onto the hem of Cinderella’s dress. She stood up, and the boy immediately dropped his broom and bowed to her.

  “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Don’t apologize.” She waved her arms in the air as the bird flitted past her again and again. Its wings brushed her face. As she felt its beak scrape her fingers she thought she heard a voice, but it was drowned by all the other voices.

  “Get it away from the princess!”

  “Henry, you’re tallest. Shoo it out of here!”

  “Highness, duck to the floor!”

  Although she was under attack, Cinderella didn’t feel panicked. She sensed the bird was only frightened. She kept herself straight and still. She ordered everyone to stay away from her, and just as someone’s elbow knocked into the radish bowl, the bird calmed down and landed on Cinderella’s shoulder.

  In the moment the radishes hit the stones, bouncing as everyone caught their breath, the bird whispered into Cinderella’s ear—more clearly than any voice she could fathom coming from a bird—“Eolande sent me.”

  The bird still on her shoulder, Cinderella ran out of the kitchen and walked through the castle, trying to avoid being seen by anyone, but that was impossible. Servants were everywhere, all working on the last preparations for the ball. The ceilings were draped with thin silks and transparent cloths of gold and red. Flags and jeweled candelabras and rolled-out carpets led to the banquet room. Then there was the ballroom where an assembly of musicians sat tuning their instruments.

  Glad she had left her hair down until Amie could fasten it up for the evening, she flipped it over her shoulders and it cascaded over the bird. Amie was nowhere in sight. Rowland was nowhere in sight. Over and over, the bird said, “Get to your room, quickly. Eolande sent me.”

  “I know Eolande sent you,” Cinderella hissed through her teeth as she passed a group of servants hanging a tapestry. “I’m hurrying as fast as I can.”

  Finally, she reached the hallway to her room, but as she approached the doorway, her heart almost stopped. Marion stood there, a guard on either side of her, one of her maids behind her.

  She had her arms folded over her wide girth. Her cheeks were rosy, her lips turned upward. “Ah, Christina,” she said slowly. “I heard you were in the kitchen. It’s lovely to see you.”

  She didn’t know what to do or say. The bird on her shoulder was dead weight now, a secret she didn’t want to reveal, most of all to Marion. She hoped the little creature had sense enough to stay put. “You knew I was in the kitchen?” she asked, her attention darting to her closed door. The carved wood design looked like arms barring her path.

  “Why, yes, dear child, I have known about your kitchen visits for weeks now.” Her smile faded into a straight line as she glanced at the wet hem of Cinderella’s gown. She turned to the door, waited for the closest guard to open it for her, and stepped through with her maid. Cinderella followed them inside, and the guards remained outside the door.

  “Such a fine compartment,” Marion said, looking around as she stopped in the center of the room, her back to Cinderella. “I have fond memories of the sun through these windows. I spent my youth here, you know.”

  Cinderella hadn’t realized Marion had once occupied this room, slept in the bed, brushed her hair at the vanity. In fact, she had never thought of Marion as anything other than a middle-aged queen.

  Trying to keep her voice steady, she said, “It is a pleasant room, Marion, thank you.”

  “Pleasant for a much needed conversation.” She turned around. Her maid, head bent low, silently moved out of Marion’s way. As Marion faced Cinderella, her expression turned cold. The blush on her cheeks faded. Without taking her gaze from Cinderella, she said, “Leave us, Florence.”

  The maid curtseyed and left the room. Marion stepped closer. Beneath smells of bread and powder and olive-scented breath, Cinderella tried not to cower.

  “Can I do something for you, Marion?” she asked in a voice that sounded miniscule compared to the magnificence in front of her. She tacked on, “Your Majesty?” when the coldness in Marion’s expression remained.

  She knew Eolande’s spell kept her in Marion’s favor no matter her actions—something similar to how Rowland’s heart had been affected. Unlike Rowland, Marion’s connection now seemed weaker.

  “You concern me of late,” Marion said in her deep, precise voice. “I have heard reports that you spend time in the kitchen with the cooks, that you wander the castle looking bored, that you have bothered Ambrose in the prison. You must know that is a dangerous place. For your own safety, you are not to go down there. I don’t want you harmed.”

  “I understand. It won’t happen again.” It wouldn’t, she knew. Isabel had not given any indication of helping her again, having risked enough already. She watched Marion’s eyes carefully to see if they flicked to her hair or anywhere other than her face. They did not.

  “William feels you’ve adjusted well enough so far. He was pleased with how you handled your stepmother and believes you have the strength it will take to rule.”

  The words fell on Cinderella like the gowns she dragged around every day. She felt warm all over, and then hot. The bird’s feet shifted. Oddly, she rarely thought of being queen. Power had never been her goal, and the idea moved her mind to the stranger. His pointed ears seemed light and whimsical, his singing heavenly. He had never made her feel burdened. She felt a connection to him through the tiny feet on her shoulder.

  “I will do what I can to earn that right,” she said, and did a little curtsey.

  Marion’s voice boomed, “You’ve earned it by marrying my son!” Frowning, she lifted her arms and placed two hot hands around Cinderella’s face. “It’s time to begin your instructions. You need training and direction. Rowland tells me
you’ve adjusted to the marriage with ease.”

  “I suppose so.” She didn’t dare move with Marion’s hands on her face. The thought of training and instruction was something that frightened and excited her at the same time. Nobody had said anything to her about such a thing, although it made sense that she had simply been given time to adjust.

  “Tell me, Christina,” Marion said in a lower voice as she leaned forward. Cinderella saw the rouge on her cheeks, a light dusting, and then a darkened brown cream that coated her eyelashes and carefully shaped eyebrows. “Does this marriage suit you? Does my son please you? Here?” Her gaze darted to the bed, and Cinderella tensed beneath her hold.

  “Your Majesty?”

  “Does my son please you? If you’re happy with Rowland, it’s difficult for me to imagine you’d have any desire to frolic down in the kitchen every day.” Her hands tightened and Cinderella held her breath. “After your servitude with Lady Plimmswood, I would think every luxury here would be relished. Instead, each moment I see you, you’re moping about and looking as if someone forced you to come here and marry Rowland. You have married into responsibility, and I will not stand for anything less than perfection, do you understand? I don’t like that your dress is wet, or that your hair is down and wild, and you smell of meat from the kitchen. This kingdom needs a strong queen to stand with Rowland. It will need heirs, and you will need to produce them. At the moment, I don’t like what I see before me.”

  Cinderella’s cheeks felt damp beneath Marion’s palms. Heat spread from her face to her toes—a heat she was beginning to recognize all too well. Once again, the gold circlet on her head was burdensome, but powerful. She felt Rowland’s words within her, urging her. Marion had never spoken so fervently to her before, and she wondered, almost shuddering beneath the tiny bird feet on her shoulder, if the magic was wearing thin, if it had worn thin weeks or even months ago. Would Rowland’s wear thin? Would she know his true feelings then?