I had to purge my thoughts of him, for I feared if he were a real man he might come back while Mother was here.
That would be most disastrous. Yet I could not help staring out my window while Mother rested, wondering if he would reappear. The very thought brought goose pimples all over my arms. One appearance could, perhaps, be dismissed as chance–he might have stumbled on the tower unwittingly–but if he returned, it would be with intention and that could not bode well. What could he want with me and my tower?
Perhaps he was a warrior, a knight who led others to battle. I had read of such a man in a book Mother gave me once. He stole a castle and took it over. Perhaps this man was a warrior, wanting a base to attack the province.
There had been great wars, Mother had told me. Maybe another one had begun and, even now, the forest hid a horde of warriors, waiting for some secret signal to begin the battle. Large brutes with long, scraggly hair, mean, angry faces, and thick, broad chests. Violent warriors who fought and killed…
Would they kill us, if we were here?
We would know their location…they would not like that.
Panic welled in my chest. Yet the memory came back of the boy–he was not dressed in armor. He seemed, honestly, rather simply dressed, as any man would be.
What if he was not a man at all, but a wizard, one capable of changing his appearance to seem less threatening?
Powerful wizards existed. I knew so, for Mother had told me. Men were masters of manipulation. A wizard would use his magical smile and attempts at kindness to disarm me, to hide his sinister plans. He would worm himself into my good graces until he caught me and dragged me to his lair, there to reveal his hunched back and gnarled teeth.
I shivered. The boy on the wall had been large. Maybe he was a warrior, then. Yet he wore such a bright blue cloak, so obvious in the dark of twilight. And blue had always been my favorite color. Perhaps he was a wizard, able to read my mind.
What if he hunted Mother’s potions? Wanted her magicks? I glanced behind me to the storeroom where Mother kept her herbs. Many were rare, and had great power when mixed properly.
Or did he have a more sinister purpose? What if his magic was dark and he needed a sacrifice? Would he take me for his prisoner to use in spells?
I put my hands on the windowsill, glancing at the ground, forcing myself to count the new blooms on the bushes, trying not to think that a wizard could climb the tower. The door to my chamber opened, making me jump.
“Come, Rapunzel, join me for tea,” Mother said.
I crossed the room, almost tripping over my hair to sit with Mother. Today, she looked much more rested, color had come to her cheeks again, even her face seemed smoother and less gaunt than it had a few days before, and I was glad, for she had seemed to take much longer to recover this time.
“Daughter,” she said, her gaze wandering around the room. “A man, alone in these woods, would never be anyone to associate with. Only thieves and men of evil spirit spend time in the Black Forest.”
“I know,” I whispered. “Or wizards. And warriors.”
Mother nodded. “Wizards are poisonous, dangerous fools who think they have power. And warriors are nothing more than men who murder the innocent. Both can be found out there.” She stirred her tea. “Do you believe that is what you saw?”
I shrugged. “He was a large boy, Mother.” I tried to busy myself with the tea, but could barely focus on the cup much less on stirring it, for my imagination drew a wizard, crossed with a warrior, overlapped by the image of the boy on my wall. “And he was not unattractive. So I guessed he must have been some kind of wizard, masking his horrible form.”
She let out a sigh. “Unfortunately, some wizards are pleasing to the eye, their black hearts hidden beneath fine clothing.”
“Yes, I know,” I replied, realizing Mother was probably right, yet again.
Despite everything, it saddened me to believe anyone who wore such a fine, blue cloak could be an evil wizard. Blue was such a happy, bright color. Not like my own, old worn dress that once was sky blue but had faded to a dusty gray. I wished I had fabric to make a new one.
Royal blue. I would have a bright, royal blue dress. Like his riding cloak.
The thought caught me off guard and I blushed.
If Mother noticed she did not say. She merely sipped her tea, having almost a glow about her today. The toll her mission work took on her seemed heavy but a few nights of good rest and some of her special tea had rejuvenated her. The light had returned to her eyes and her face was once again youthful and beautiful.
Nor was she lacking in energy.
“We shall work with the dagger,” she said as she set her empty cup on the table. The tea leaves inside had a peculiar shape and I was curious to examine them, but did not dare. Mother did not approve of me studying tea leaves.
I managed to steal a glance, and I swore her leaves formed a dark dagger, which gave me pause. “Yes, Mother.”
I finished my cup of Mother’s rejuvenating tea and, like always, the herbs in it made my hands twitch. Eager to learn, I hoped the activity would dispel the twitchiness from the tea.
“Now,” Mother said, holding out the dagger by the blade. “Take it, and defend yourself.”
I pointed it at her.
“No,” she snapped, and hit my hand. The knife tumbled to the floor as I jerked back, cradling my hand.
“Hold it like this, in your fist.” She held the dagger, her arm across her body, fist around the handle, so the tip pointed out on the side of her pinky finger. “A much stronger hold.” She slashed, a hair’s breadth from striking me in the arm.
I bit my lip to keep from moving at her display.
“More control.” With broad strokes and punching motions, she guided the weapon exactly where she wanted it to go, her sleeves like a firefly’s trail in the night. She paused and looked around the room. “We need a target.”
Taking a pillow from my bed, Mother hung it from the ceiling with a cord she had in her pocket.
“Hit that,” she said, handing back the dagger.
This time, I held the weapon as Mother had shown me, though it felt awkward in my fist and I was not sure how to strike. I thrust my hand forward, mimicking Mother, but completely missed the pillow.
“No!” Mother grabbed the hair at the back of my neck and yanked on it. “Aim! You want to hit the target!”
I swung again and this time found the pillow, though only with the slightest touch. For my failure, I received a slap on the cheek which made my head throb.
“Are you a fool?” she snarled, and took the blade. “Like this.”
She made several more slashes in the air, ripping the pillow into rags. Feathers fluttered all over the room. Mother stood in the center, panting like a wild beast, dagger in her hand like a claw, ready to strike.
I took a step back.
“That is all today,” she said with a pant. “I cannot possibly teach you if you refuse to try.”
“But, Mother, please…”
“Enough!” she held out her hand. “Come.”
I remained rooted to the spot, unable to take a step forward, my body quivering.
Her jaw clenched. “If I have to cross this room…”
I took a small step forward, the wood underneath my feet groaning. My hands trembled as I took another and another.
“Here,” she said, holding out her hand.
Having no choice, I reached for her, my hand shaking.
Her eyes narrowed on me. “For refusing to try.” She sliced across my forearm. “For refusing to come when called.” Another slice.
I froze, my gaze glued to my forearm, the thin lines of blood growing larger, soaking into the sleeve of my shirt where she had cut through. Tears stung my eyes, but I did not shed them. I remained where I stood, unable to move as the last of the feathers drifted over me like snow.
“Clean it up. We shall try again tomorrow.”
“Yes, Mother.”
&nbs
p; As the door closed behind her, I let the tears fall. Silently.
Chapter 6
Nick sighed. This was bordering on obsession and he could no longer deny it. The rope coiled on the saddle mocked him, begging him to attempt to use it to get into the tower.
Almost every night, he came. He could no longer blame the need to mark the family maps either, for all had been updated with the location, even maps that were outdated had the tower’s position on it. Yet he could not seem to stop himself coming back.
The marriage-minded girls back at the castle, the need to map the location, even the curiosity of the girl in the tower…the excuses ran through his head, but they were no longer enough.
Night after night, he stared at the tower, hoping for some glimpse of her, but could not bring himself to ascend. He wanted to, badly. He wanted to see who she was, what she was like. Was she truly an angel, as she sounded when she sang?
He had yet to find her singing so freely and openly at the window again, but on a couple of occasions some notes had trickled from the window, letting him hear, at least, that she was safe in her tower. Tonight, though, he could hear nothing at all.
Instead, he watched the girl moving within, her shadow flickering off the walls so rhythmically he wondered if she was dancing.
The shadows swung, graceful and sweet, and he tried to picture her steps, tried to imagine the music she sang as she danced.
She stopped near the window and another shadow moved about the room. Pacing, it seemed. He nosed his horse along the trees, moving to a slightly better spot to see what was happening.
Then a woman said, harsh and loud, “…ruined my potion…”
The girl’s shadow moved away from the window. “I am sorry… I tried…”
Nick tensed on Ovet, and even she went completely still.
A slap echoed in the night sky.
The girl fell out of sight.
Heart pounding, he snagged the end of the rope and fastened it to one of his arrows. Sitting on the horse, he was high enough to have a good angle on the tower window, bypassing the external wall. Once he had anchored the arrow in, he would have to climb the stone wall to get inside, but that should not be a problem. He nocked the arrow and aimed just high of the window.
“The world is a cruel place,” the woman within the tower said, and he stopped short of firing. “If you cannot defend yourself, Rapunzel, you will be at its mercy.”
Another slap punctuated the words.
Rage boiled within him. “Steady now,” he whispered to himself. “You can do this.”
If Bryan were here, his friend could have made this shot with his eyes closed. He probably could have sent the arrow through the window to whoever had hit the girl.
“I am sorry, Mother,” she said, her voice thick with tears.
Mother? Nick gritted his teeth. He aimed again, holding his shaking hand as steady as he could on the bow, and let the arrow fly. Unfortunately, burdened by the rope, it did not fly far enough.
He spat out a curse.
“What was that?” A woman stuck her head out the window. As she looked back and forth, Nick ducked into the shadows.
“I do not know, Mother.” Rapunzel joined her mother at the window.
Even from this distance, he could see that her face swelled in a most unnatural way. Despite this, she never touched it, did not, in fact, seem to notice it. She only continued searching the grounds with her mother.
“Perhaps a bird,” the mother said, and went inside.
The girl stayed where she was, intent on her search. When she went completely rigid, Nick knew she had spotted the arrow. She scanned the trees and he remained perfectly still, his hand on his horse’s face to keep the animal quiet. Ovet was a very well behaved beast, but she had been known to sneeze on occasion.
Nick held his breath.
The woman called, “Rapunzel!”
Her shoulders slumped and she ducked inside.
Nick let out a breath and turned his attention to the wall surrounding the tower. He would have to climb over and retrieve his arrow before he left. He could only imagine the mother’s reaction if she found it. Rapunzel would be blamed. In his mind he heard the sharp retort of the slap, saw her face swollen and bruised, and knew he could not be responsible for that. He would get the arrow as quickly and quietly as he could, then ride fast for home. He had to get to his friends.
This kind of situation could not go on, not in his province.
They needed a plan.
Chapter 7
I sat at the window, watching the stars and the way they reflected in the little pond near the wall, while I brushed my hair. Not looking at the arrow and the rope that had landed near the base of the tower. Though I knew it was there, close enough that I wanted to reach out and touch it. Far enough away that I knew I could not. If Mother saw that in the morning…I could not begin to comprehend my punishment.
So I watched at the window for the one who had shot the arrow, as if I could feel him out there, as if he lingered in the trees surrounding the wall. I kept working on my hair, not bothering to look at the strands, instead going over every detail of the gardens below.
Nothing aside from the arrow seemed disturbed.
I glanced at the sky, looking for storm clouds, something to wash away the arrow so Mother would not see it.
“Please,” I whispered, loosening the last of my braids. “Please, please rain.” It seemed the sky had other ideas, for not a single cloud could be seen in the heavens.
My shoulders slumped, relaxing the muscles sore from Mother’s training and the effort of unbraiding all twenty ells of my hair. My face ached, and I brought my hand to my jaw, feeling the swollen and tender skin. Tears welled in my eyes and I let a few fall. I would rather have the swollen face than the slices on my forearm with their nasty scabs. Six total now, for I never seemed to please Mother, though I tried and tried.
Tonight Mother had brought me some of her special tea. Though it was now cold, I still sipped the brew. I worked the braids–one large, thick one, comprised of three smaller braids. The sweet tea soothed me all the way to my toes, and while the braiding was a chore, tonight I relished the job.
Thankfully, Mother did not complain when I mentioned it was braiding night. In the past, Mother’s enthusiasm for teaching me new things cut into chores–braiding night or not–and some nights, I would get no sleep at all trying to do what was required. Tonight, though, Mother had been distracted even in the lesson, lost in her thoughts. Her temper flew quicker than usual and, while I tried to do my best, it had been worth less than ever. When we had finished, she left me to my room and my work without another word. I still had the dagger and, as instructed, I had hidden it under my pillow. Looking longingly at that pillow atop the thick, soft mattress of the bed, I yawned–the energy I had gained from the tea had started to ebb. Sighing, I continued to braid.
“I wish I could cut this off,” I muttered to myself.
Only once had I asked Mother if I could cut some of the length. After Mother slapped me, she had chosen to remind me what it felt like when even a small portion of the hair was cut–and then proceeded to cut off enough to wrap around her thrice for a thick belt.
I could barely hold my head up for two days the pain had been so great.
I shuddered at the memory. Though I always wished my hair gone on braiding days, such an action might very well kill me.
Humming to distract myself, I watched the lightning bugs dance in the air–a wondrous accompaniment to the tune. Soon I was singing outright, smiling with every note, amazed the bugs seemed to be in perfect time with my song. My face did not ache as much as it had before and my singing took on a dreamy tone as I lost myself in my work and the soft glow of the bugs. I was just getting the last braid fastened, when I saw a shadow on the wall directly opposite my window.
I froze, fingers knotted in my hair.
Perhaps it was just an animal. The shadow moved to the right.
M
y heart pounded. I caught a glint of blue and my breath hitched in my chest.
He paused, standing at full height atop the wall and staring at me once again, though I doubted there was much to see. The light inside my room would not have cast much illumination. Yet he saw me. My hands trembled, and I fumbled for something, anything. My hairbrush lay on the windowsill. What I could do with it, I knew not, but I held it tight, just the same.
He had come back.
He was not a figment of my imagination. He existed, and he was here.
I put my hand over my mouth. Inside, my body was as energized as if I had drunk a quart of Mother’s special tea. In one moment, I wanted to cry out, to sing in joy, because he was real. In the next, I was utterly terrified of him, for I knew not what brought him here. I wanted him to go away. I wanted him to stay as he was, wanted to make out every line, work out every detail of him.
He did not move at first, then pushed back the hood of his riding cloak and there was moonlight enough to see his face. To gleam off the line of his jaw. To frame the width of his shoulders. The cloak blew against him in the breeze, swirling around him as if it wanted to touch him.
In a word, he was magnificent.
I could not break my stare, and a blush filled my face. I started to turn from the window when he moved. He raised his arm in a wave. Before I could think about what I did, I waved back. His waving increased in fervor and I could not help a burst of laughter. I may have been silly, but I was not a fool. He really did exist. He really did.
With a thud, my chamber door slammed open and Mother came in. “Rapunzel, what is all this noise?” She headed straight for the window.
I resumed my braiding as though nothing had happened.
Mother was not deceived.
“Rapunzel!” She jerked me to my feet and slapped me across the jaw with her cold fingers. Again. I reeled from the blow, stumbling to the ground.
“I was laughing,” I whispered, tears stinging my eyes. “I laughed at the lightning bugs.”
Mother glared out the window. “What lightning bugs?”
Rescuing Rapunzel Page 3
