by Taryn Tyler
I stepped away from the straw doll. I balanced myself on both feet then drew the knife back behind my ears. It was difficult to see in the dark but not impossible. The waxing moon was bright overhead. I aimed upward and just a little to the right since my throwing hand was on the left, then flung my arm forward. The blade reached the center of my vision. I released it. It tumbled through the air in an uneven whir, then plodded into the straw doll's faceless head.
“He didn't marry her for love.” I said “He married her because he knew he could never win a war against her.”
“You are wrong. ” Hans said “Your father did marry Lucille for love.”
I turned towards him, pivoting on my heels in the chill of early morning. It wasn't true. I had seen no fondness between them. No snatched whispers or lingering glances. Papa had spent more time with me than he ever had with Lucille and more time with his kingdom than the two of us together. There was nothing wrong in it. Only people in stories married for love.
“It was your father's idea to marry Lucille.” Hans said. “When she first came she wanted him to give you to Prince Boris in exchange for peace. Your father married her instead.”
I opened my mouth but nothing came out. The morning chill settled around me, soaking into the sudden stillness. I stared at Hans, trying not to imagine myself far away in Lucille and Boris's big castle in the north. The one all her soldiers and servants had come from. I tried not to imagine Boris as my husband, hungrily watching me undress for my wedding night.
For me. Papa had married for love of me and the marriage contract had been his death warrant.
No. That wasn't fair. Papa had held no love for Lucille. I held no love for her. That didn't make her a murderess.
Small, soft hands, rolling lifeless eyes shut. How had she been so calm?
“It doesn't matter anymore.” I said. “He's gone.” Nothing mattered. I walked over to the straw doll and pulled the knife out, fighting back a wave of nausea, of darkness, of my whole being sinking down into the ground. I bit my lip, tasting the rust flavor of my blood, as I walked back to Hans. I held my hand out and unfurled my fingers around the knife, waiting for him to take it.
Hans closed my fingers back over the hilt. “Keep it.”
“Thank you.” I gripped my hand around the handle, taking comfort in the solidity of the engraved silver against my palms.
It wasn't until later that morning, while I was looking for a place to keep the knife, that I realized that every other sharp object had been removed from my chamber. Even my embroidery needles and Mama's silver comb. I touched my matted tangles. They had refused to come unwound even after a full day of brush strokes.
If only I had a pair of sheers. I looked at the blade still in my hand. Sharp. Elegant.
A few moments later the tangles were in a pile of black shreds around my feet. The remaining threads bounced clean and light around my ears. The edges prickled my neck.
Constanze looked horrified when I gave her the shreds of hair to dispose of but she said nothing. She seldom spoke except to ask me if I would be dining with the queen each day in her harsh, mocking tone.
The next day I asked her for a bath as well as my breakfast. The day after that I picked up a book and tried to read. The Latin hymns were hard to concentrate on. The love poems were worse. I took out a quill and paper and wrote what I could remember of one of Papa's tales. Tears prickled in my eyes and dripped down my nose, soaking into the crisp paper along with the ink. I wrote until the light was too gray to see by then laid the pages out on the table to dry. I changed back into my night shift and sat on my bed, watching the sky darken.
I must have fallen asleep. I woke from a long, twisting stream of nightmares to the scent of wheat porridge and honey. The bright light of late morning streamed in through the window, dancing with the dust that permeated from my drapes and tapestries. I bolted upright. Hans was supposed to show me how to skin an animal pelt that morning.
It would have to wait. The still of early morning was past. The yard would be full of drilling soldiers.
I pulled myself out of bed and examined the breakfast already waiting for me on the table next to the pages of papa's story. The bread was still warm. I ate all three pieces, smothered in honey, while I stacked the pages and read through what I'd written. It wasn't much like papa's stories at all. I'd forgotten the part where the princess confessed her deception to the cook and added a crow who kept trying to peck out her eyes. I'd ran out of light before I'd gotten her out of the castle dungeons.
I finished my breakfast and set the story aside. I didn't know how to get the princess out without the cook as her ally. When Constanze returned to take my dishes away I was already dressed, my feathery crop of hair brushed as neatly as I could manage. She placed her hand the the dishes to take them away and paused. She arched an eyebrow. “Mourning clothes?”
“Of course.” I looked down at my long black gown laced tightly around my shift. It hung over the toes of my boots, dragging the hem against the carpet. It hadn't been three months yet since papa's death. Surely everyone in the castle was still in mourning. Constanze herself wore the same plain black wool gown I'd seen her in everyday since I'd met her.
Constanze curled her lips. She lifted the tray and turned toward the door.
“Wait.” I said. This was when she usually asked me if I would be dining with the queen. With Lucille.
Constanze turned back. Her small eyes sharpened like a cornered rodent's. What could she possibly be frightened of?
“I will be dining with the queen tonight.” I said.
Constanze bowed her head. A real bow. The crown of her head drooped from her shoulders with an unaccustomed weight. “As you wish, your ladyship.”
I watched her go. The door clicked shut. My belly swirled with nausea. Why had I said that? To vex her? To frighten her?
No. I sank down onto my mattress and stared up at the iron bat-like creatures frozen onto the ceiling. I almost wished they would come to life and devour me the way they did in my nightmares. I'd said it to find out why Constanze no longer wished me to dine with Lucille
-- why she had ever suggested it at all. The last thing I wanted to do was spend the evening making polite remarks to Boris and his mother. Especially after . . .
The sickness in my stomach tightened. I breathed deep, hating myself for being glad for the first time that papa had married Lucille. Not even a prince could take his own sister even if she were only a stepsister.
I closed my eyes, resisting the urge to leap off my bed, pound my fists against the door, and scream to Constanze that I had changed my mind. I wasn't sure I could stomach the whispering gaze of the servants, wondering what I had been doing shut up in my chamber all this time.
Nothing. I had been doing nothing.
I couldn't concentrate on transcribing any more of papa's story. It was insufficient. A vacant copy using only some of his words without the vibrancy of his laughter and wit as he had told it. I stared at the pages of the philosophy and romance books that cluttered my chamber, scanning my eyes across the words but registering none of it. The thoughts and images each scrawl was meant to unlock in my mind remained hidden to me as I stared, uncomprehending, at the ink and paper.
At last I gave up. I took the knife Hans had given me out of my jewelry box and practiced thrusting it into one of my pillows. My nerves were beyond calming but at least the repetitive motion gave my hands something to do. My fist clenched tight around the knife hilt as if it would give me some of its steadiness.
When there was nothing left of the pillow I dumped the feathers and shreds of silk into the bottom of my chest so Constanze wouldn't ask questions when she came to dress me for dinner. The pale white flakes floated out of my hand and settled among my colored stockings and gowns like winter's first falling of snow. I slammed the lid shut.
Constanze came earlier than I expected. The sky hadn't even started to gray when three even knocks sounded against my chamber door. I jum
ped up off my bed and fumbled with the latch to let her in.
Constanze stepped inside. Her lips pulled even more tightly together than usual as she glanced at the black velvet gown I had already laid out across the chair behind me. “Mourning is over.” She said “The queen will expect color.” She brushed past me, snatched the gown off the cushion, and popped my clothing chest open. If she saw the feathers and silk shreds inside it she said nothing. She rummaged through my clothes until she found a deep purple gown embroidered with silver leaves around the wrists and bodice line. The chemise she chose for it was cream white with wide, flamboyant sleeves.
Constanze helped me out of my daytime clothes and into the silk gown. Her hands were quick and firm as she pulled the laces tight around the bodice. She gave me a pair of silk stockings to put on then slipped a pair of deep purple slippers to match the gown over my feet. She stood up and eyed the hacked threads of my hair sticking up around my ears with disapproval. It was too short for any of the ribbons or hair pins crowded together in my jewelry box. She flattened what she could down with my brush and left the chamber. When she returned she had Mama's silver comb in her hand. She pressed it into the side of my hair and stood back, examining her work with pursed lips. “That will have to do.”
I glanced toward the window, trying to see my reflection in it, but it hadn't grown dark enough yet. I counted back the days again in my head. It couldn't have been three months. It hadn't even been two. Perhaps they didn't mourn as long in the north.
“Hurry.” Constanze said “Or you'll be late.”
My heart hiccuped in my chest as I made my way through the corridors towards the dining hall. I hadn't been down these corridors since . . . since Papa was waiting for me at the end of them. I had taken my suppers with him in his chamber after he'd taken ill. I breathed deep, struggling to keep my footsteps slow and steady. He hadn't been ill for long. A day at most.
The corridors were quiet. My slippers clicked against the stone floor in the fading light. Lucille never burned oil or coal if she could avoid it. I could barely make out the shadows of the footmen as I passed them. A draft howled past me from an open window. I shivered.
At last I saw a flicker of torchlight. The thick savory scents of apples and cinnamon and sausages filtered through my nostrils, sharpening my hunger. I quickened my pace and stepped into the dining hall.
I stopped, unable to move.
Lucille turned toward me from Papa's seat at the head of the table. Her green eyes glittered in the torchlight. Nut brown curls rippled down her back. She smiled. It was the first smile I had seen in weeks and it chilled me to the marrow.
“The mad princess emerges from her tower at last.” Her son Boris fixed me with a smile of his own from his seat beside her. It was a clever, amiable smile that almost made me like him until I remembered how many villages he and his men had ransacked. How many settlements he had burned and women he had taken against their will.
I moved my gaze from him back to Lucille. The table was spread with sweet breads and candied nuts, pears, apple strudels, roast swans, and platter after platter of sausages. My belly heaved with sickness.
“Well.” Lucille said. “Are you going to sit down?”
I shook my head, unable to speak. Lucille. Boris. The six footmen lined up and down the walls on either side of the table. They were all dressed in a plain, somber, unmistakable black. Even Lucille's thick, abundant hair was held back in a simple braid. She wore no jewelry.
Constanze had lied. Mourning wasn't over at all.
I stepped back, wilting in my draping silk sleeves and deep purple gown. Mama's comb, engraved with deep, elaborate vines, stabbed into my hair like a knife. I should have known. I should have stopped Constanze instead of stampeding over Papa's memory as if he had been nothing.
“She looks like she's going to be ill.” Boris said.
I turned and ran. My feet flailed against the stone floor, pounding as if I could crush the deep leaden feeling out of my chest. I gulped air into my chest but it didn't quell the dizziness swarming my mind, pelting it with memories. I rushed through the corridors until I reached my chamber. I darted across the antechamber without glancing at Constanze and flung the doors of my bedchamber open. I slammed them shut behind me and leaned against the ebony splinters, pressing my forehead into the ironwork.
I closed my eyes, waiting for the tears to come but I was given no such relief. Papa's laughter turned to a scream inside my head. Soft delicate hands rolled his round eyes shut. Lucille's lyrical voice grew harsh as she ordered me to be taken from him. A strange curl edged itself into the corner of her lips as she turned away. Could it have been a smile?
Rose
The sky lit up with the brightness of the full moon but Greta kept the windows draped. “To keep the spirits out” she said but I never saw any spirits. Only the hypnotic turn of Greta's spinning wheel as we sat in the almost dark of a single candle, waiting for the night to pass. Greta kept her eyes on her wheel, pulling the thread through her fingers while it spun with the familiar thumping rhythm I had heard every day for as long as I could remember. Some days the sound almost put me to sleep. Tonight it made me restless and jumpy. The wind howled outside, beating against the draped windowpanes.
I carded a tuft of wool in my hands, pulling the rough material apart with a comb until it was smooth between my fingers. The house was cluttered with baskets of wool and pile after pile of spools wound with spiderweb-thin threads. A pot sat over the fire, bubbling with our supper as we worked. The scent of onions, carrots, and thick rabbit gravy filled the room. My stomach growled but we weren't to touch a bite until Gran arrived.
“ Rose.” Greta looked up from the steady whir of her wheel. It kept spinning. Her fingers knew what to do even without the aid of her eyes. “The miller's wife wants her thread next week not next year.”
I gripped the wool in my hands, feeling the rough texture between my fingers. My stomach wasn't growling anymore. It was snarling. “Gran is late.”
Greta looked back down at her wheel. The thread spun around and around, never stopping for a moment. “Perhaps she's seen sense and decided a walk after dark on a full moon is madness. Especially in that wood.”
“ Not Gran.” I said “She isn't afraid of anything.”
“Then she's a fool.”
I sighed. Gran came every full moon no matter how many times
Greta told her not to risk the long, cold walk on such a night. No matter how many times she begged and pleaded with her to come and live with us instead of among the wild dangers of the wood. I hated nights like this when we sat together, never knowing if Gran would arrive or not. Greta was dour in her best moods. On full moons she was like the living dead.
I stifled a giggle, imagining Greta haunting the forest with the rest of the spirits. I doubted she would have enough life in her even to moan. A spiritless spirit. Maybe it wasn't so amusing after all.
The wind beat harder against the window, groaning against the glass. A razor sharp gust leaked through the cracks in the door. I shivered.
“ Add some logs to the fire, Rose.” Greta said “And fill those cracks.”
I stood, glad for the excuse to put down the wool and carding comb. I lingered over the fire, letting its warmth scorch the surface of my skin as I piled logs onto it. Embers scattered. A spark flew up toward my chin. I jumped back. It landed on my shawl and burned its way into the plain gray fabric. Wool of course. Everything in our house was made of wool. The curtains. The blankets. I sometimes wondered why Greta didn't insist we eat it.
I reluctantly stepped away from the fire and pulled a heap of scraps out of the scrap basket. The wind whistled at me as I moved toward the door. I knelt next to it, shivering. The moaning wind grew louder. A long howl pierced through the night, sending chills into my blood. I gasped, pulling back from the door. “Weres.” There had been rumors of them in the village but no one had seen them for certain.
“Pay them no mind.” Greta kep
t her head bent over her work. “They won't come near the fire.”
“Gran is out there.” I said.
For the flicker of a second I thought I saw Greta's tiny calloused hands go still but then the shadow in her eyes disappeared and thread was whirring through her fingers once more. The rhythm of her spinning wheel hadn't stopped turning. “We don't know that.”
“She comes every--”
“And every moon I tell her she is a fool for it. She knows what dangers are out there better than any of us. If she comes to grief it is through her own choice and more importantly” She closed her eyes and let out a sigh, small and faint as if she her lungs had no air left to empty out. “More importantly, Rose, there is nothing we can do about it.” She opened her eyes and looked down at me where I was still crouched on the floor. “We can't fight weres. We can't fight ghosts or storms or hobgoblins or kings or witches. The best we can do is stay out of their way.”
I wrinkled my forehead. “Witches?”
The wool on Greta's wheel came to an end. She spun the last inch, then stopped the wheel with the palm of her hand. She wrapped the last bit of thread around the spool and tucked it so that it would hold. Her fingers moved quickly, done almost in the blink of an eye. “Pour the stew, Rose.” She said “We can't wait any longer.”
I stuffed the wool scraps into the cracks of the door with trembling hands. The howling released again outside, long and shrill. I couldn't decide if it sounded more like a battle cry or a call for help. I stood and poured stew into two wooden bowls but I wasn't hungry anymore. I stirred the gravy and vegetables around while Greta swallowed bite after bite in silence. The wind whistled, rattling against the door. I stared at the gray wooden planks, willing Gran to step through with her jaunty tired gait and gap toothed smile, boiling over with unspoken wisdom. Maybe she would bring us dyed wool to spin for her again.
Last time she had brought red. I had spun it myself, admiring the bright color as it ran across my fingers like a soft trickle of blood. Gran had taken the finished threads away and returned the next month with a blood red cloak. The wooden clasp was carved with a single rose.
