I chuckled at her.
“Now if that were true, I can say for certain I would not be here. You still have something I would consider quite valuable,” I whispered, nearing her, seeing the glint of silver on her finger. “How about that lovely ring?”
I could sense the bite of my words as her expression turned from worried to sorrowful. I knew it was all she had left of her dear, dead Mummy, but it had to be done.
“This is all I have left of my mother,” she whimpered, a sob threatening at any moment. “It’s of no value to you.”
“You’re honestly going to let a scrap of silver stand in the way of saving your life? Come, I know you are smarter than that.”
I held out my hand just as I had done the previous night and waited.
I didn’t have to wait long until cool resignation washed over her. She twisted the band from her finger and held it out to me, looking away.
I gleefully took it, plucking it from her fingers and rolling the ring around in my palm.
“I can assure you mothers prefer their children live rather than cling to a memento in a gruesome death on the scaffold.”
She refused to meet my gaze.
“Now that’s settled,” I announced, stretching my hands, “I suppose it best we begin.”
I sat down at the spinning wheel, my fingertips enjoying the wood’s familiar smooth grain. I pumped my foot up and down, the treadle easily giving way to my direction until I reached the correct speed.
I grabbed a handful of straw from the nearest pile and fed the long strands into the bobbin, the wheel whirring happily with each mouthful it consumed. However, I quickly noticed the pile was getting lower and was not replenished as it should have. That’s when I heard a mournful sniffle coming from behind me.
I smiled to myself.
I turned around, seeing Laila with red, watery eyes. I usually didn’t acknowledge such displays of tawdry emotion. Tears had little effect on me. But right now, they were the prospect I most desired. I shuffled the cards and played my hand, keeping my ace well hidden.
“For a grown woman you certainly behave as a child,” I scoffed. “Crying is a waste. You’ll never solve your problems if this is the best you can do.”
Redness rushed across her chest and cheeks.
“Being nasty won’t do anything for that hole in your chest, either,” she spat back.
“Now that’s more like it,” I beamed.
She crossed her arms, spite wrinkling her pert little nose.
“What am I supposed to do now?” she asked hotly. “The king is a madman and you only take odd heirlooms of which I have no more. I am dead. I see that now. He is only going to want more and more and I can give no more.”
“May I offer you some advice that might quell these waterworks of yours?” I asked. “You are allowing your frantic sorrow to blind you. There is an opportunity presenting itself before you, but you refuse to quit your moaning and grasp it by the throat. You may think you are as tough as leather, but you are really just as weak as wool.”
She laughed like I was cracked, her throat still rough with tears.
“What could possibly be an opportunity? Prison? Torture? Yes, those are all great opportunities that I should joyfully embrace.”
I let out a dramatic sigh. She had a lot to learn about the art of influence.
“Only if you play your cards wrong,” I replied. “First, you are right…the king will never release you. That hope died the moment he saw the first thread of gold. But that doesn’t mean you can’t create for yourself a better situation than life in a cell or without a head. You need to realize you are the one offering what he wants most. That means it’s you that has the power, not him.”
“What do you mean?” she asked. Despite her pique, I could see her eyes widening with cautious interest.
“I mean, you should try to gain something more than your measly little life. Make him offer you something for his reward. Make him see you will be much more valuable if he shows a bit more kindness to you. I never work for free, and neither should you. It’s the most fundamental principle of commerce!”
“It is a principle dependent on a wild card. You,” she said, pointing her pretty finger at me.
“Have I let you down so far?” I asked with a shrug.
“No, but didn’t you hear? I have nothing left to give you. It is over.”
“Don’t be so quick to damn yourself. Let me be the judge of when that will be. For right now, I think it best not to worry about all that. I have found there is always a price one is willing to pay.”
I could see her thinking, trying to figure it out, still not completely convinced.
“It will never work. He would kill me for treason if I refused to spin,” she said.
I shook my head in disappointment at her shortsightedness.
“Stop being such a dolt! Don’t you understand? You are too valuable to kill. He won’t do it. He might huff and puff, but he knows a good thing when it passes him by.”
She twisted her gown in her hands once again. Standing up, I walked towards her, our bodies merely a breath from one another. I pulled the soft fabric away from her cold fingers and placed her hands at her sides.
“You have more power than you give yourself credit for,” I said, gazing down at her.
She laughed that throaty laugh again.
“What I have is pain.”
I stifled the grin threatening to spread across my lips.
“Ahhh, then you have the most valuable commodity there is. Pain is power, my dear. Don’t you know?”
“How is that power? How can such festering do anything but cause me suffering?”
“That’s a simpleton’s question. You have a lot to learn if that’s how you see it.”
I leaned in, expecting her to turn her head away from my gaze, but she remained frustratingly firm. I turned my head instead. I was far too close to plump lips and fragrant skin, and I could not afford to lose myself even for a moment in arousal’s sweet trap.
“Close your eyes,” I commanded in her ear.
Her lids snapped shut, but she crossed her arms defiantly.
“Now, since you can’t see it for yourself, let me help you. I want you to summon up a moment, one where your pain was greatest.”
“My mother’s death, I suppose,” she breathed.
“I suppose isn’t good enough. It either is, or it isn’t.”
She sighed and twisted her face.
“Think! You mentioned your father, how he deceived you. Tell me, what happened?”
My fingers grazed her skirts, rubbing the nap of the velvet the wrong way simply to feel it and to ground myself. I waited, but again I was met with nothing but insufferable silence. Then she spoke with a clarity and strength in her voice I hadn’t heard before.
“He couldn’t put me first,” she stated. “He’d rather impress those drunken prunes at the tavern then sustain our livelihood.”
“Good. Go on,” I pushed, my heart pumping excitedly for what I yearned to fall from her lips. My hands brushed against her waist, the hard ribs of the corset under the bodice exciting me with the thought of how they contained and constrained her.
“I told him not to boast. I told him one day it would destroy us. But he didn’t listen. He didn’t care. He had to uphold his honor at the cost of mine.” Every word of hers was now exact and resonant. “He told them I could spin straw into gold. And the king believed him, believed a drunk! What kind of idiot believes a drunk? What kind of father waves his daughter like a red cloth before a bull?”
Her tears were gone.
“How did it make you feel?” I asked, savoring the power radiating from her, inhaling her energy even as my own breath vanished when I touched the edge of her bodice where velvet met skin.
“Betrayed.” There was no hesitation in this word. “He might as well have put his hand inside my chest and crushed my heart. That moment refuses to die. It repeats endlessly in my brain, forcing me to rem
ember every cruel detail. Reminding me what I wish not to admit.”
“And what is that?”
Her hands clenched into fists as her heart continued to bleed. I struggled against the slight trembling in my own hands as I traced the tops of her breasts and the column of her throat.
“Everything was taken from me. My last hopes, my dreams. I was destined to live in poverty and fear. I hate him! I hate my father! I hate the king and his madness!”
“Excellent! Don’t stop. What is it you want?” The line of her jaw was iron encased in ivory silk, and I had the most unaccountable urge to lick it from chin to ear.
“I want to choose my own fate, and not let it be determined by such a waste of men. I want to be fearless like those women I saw in the courtyard when they brought me here in bonds. If I can’t have my freedom, then I want to be queen.”
“Then that is exactly what you demand,” I whispered, stroking her bottom lip with a feather-light caress of my thumb. “Harness that pain, take hold of the power you now feel flowing through your veins. Make your fate your own.”
Her eyes flashed open and she looked at me as if for the first time. I was witnessing a rebirth, and it was more beautiful than I ever hoped.
“When have tears ever given you such a sensation?” I asked, keeping my voice low and persuasive.
“Never,” she stated, the word filled with strength.
“Then I won’t be bothered by them anymore?”
She smiled, and the darkness that now shadowed her eyes made me absolutely giddy. I wanted to bite those plump lips that were curved into such a wicked, wanton grin.
“No,” Laila said with supreme serenity only hatred and power can grant. “I don’t want them clouding my vision. I want to see the king’s face as I take his power from him.”
“Beautifully said,” I complimented. “Nothing would give me greater joy than to have you receive this gift.”
Her expression stiffened, and her body lengthened as if already trying her new regal air. I lengthened in response, though I fiercely swore this was only because her newfound power was as intoxicating as any aphrodisiac.
“You swear if I make this demand of the king, you will spin for me one last time?”
My heart leapt.
“You have my word,” I said.
I put out my hand and she immediately gripped it firmly. The sensation burned as hotly as if I had thrown her down in the straw and made it catch fire with my power and her passion. But, I knew better than to fall prey to lust, and most of all I knew that it was hatred that bound us, not love. It was hatred that would ensure that together, we would bring about the king’s ruin.
And my revenge would be sweeter than any lady’s charms could ever be.
Chapter Three
Distaff:
noun: A cleft stick attached to a spinning wheel,
used for holding the wool or flax the spinner will need.
adjective: Of or concerning women.
The Long-Dead Past: Child of Pain
Pain found me easily.
It festered in my heart. Bubbled every time a door slammed in my face, or each time my stomach growled with hunger. Cold stares, pointing fingers and a chorus of whispers never let me forget what I had become.
“That’s the boy,” they would say. “Don’t want the likes of him around. Bad family. Nothing but trouble.”
A kick or jeer would often follow, furthering my growing distrust of people even though I couldn’t blame them. Not when I brought danger to their door. No one wanted to incur the king’s wrath, which is what would happen if it was ever discovered they took in the boy he had ordained to be an eternal outcast.
I hated the king. Hated him with every fiber of my being for what he made me become, what he did to my family. He took everything, leaving me only my name, tainted by treachery.
But, I endured, though I sometimes wondered why I bothered. Eventually, I found hope in the form of three spinsters. The Pythin Sisters made a livelihood of spinning the wool from their small herd of sheep. As luck would have it, I discovered they were in need of an extra set of hands about their small farm.
No one wanted to associate with them. Stories of hidden gold, an unhealthy taste for whiskey and even witchcraft lingered in their wake. While these tales put most people off, to me, it offered a direction to follow. I needed desperate people, and who better than three sisters embroiled in simmering scandal?
On a blustery day, I set off from the poor shelter of the dead elm tree trunk I had been sleeping in. The path was rocky and uneven, making it difficult to keep my balance as the wind blew against me. Winter was trying to proclaim dominance over the kingdom, its icy breath sealing the earth with a fine frost.
I never saw anything so whimsical as the Pythin Sisters’ house. It was like a clockmaker and an artist had an argument after a long night of drinking. Gray stones were puzzle-pieced together, and the thatched roof looked on the verge of collapse at any moment.
The place felt eerie and abandoned. The bleating of the sheep carried on the wind as they peacefully grazed on the rolling hills. My fingers were nearly frozen through as I banged loudly on the battered door, the old boards groaning from my assault.
No answer. I tried again.
I stepped back to turn around when the door flung open. Three pairs of green eyes in three faces framed by a rainbow of frizzy hair looked straight at me.
Clownishly red, white blonde, and black curls bounced every which way. The women were neither young nor old, wearing loose dresses fastened tightly around the middle with multi-colored stays.
“What do you want?” the brunette sister asked, eyeing me narrowly.
“I heard you are in need of help and I wanted to offer my services,” I answered.
“A bit scrawny, if you ask me, Mina. And so pale!” the redhead chimed in, her nose wrinkling in disapproval. “Couldn’a be more than eight or ten years old.”
“Nothin’ that can’t be undone with a little care, Edna,” the blonde responded, a reassuring smile appearing on her pink lips. “Besides, no one else has come around. Beggars can’t be choosers.”
Mina waved at them to be quiet. “What’s your name, boy?”
I closed my eyes, bracing myself for a kick or a lash for having dared darkened their doorway.
“Rumpelstiltskin, ma’am,” I said, resisting the urge to preemptively shield myself from the coming blows.
None came.
“He’s the traitor’s boy,” the blonde whispered. “It might be dangerous to take him.”
“True, Alma,” Mina said. “But we are too old to do the work ourselves, and there is little chance of anyone else wanting to risk their reputation associating with us. At least this boy has no reputation to lose.”
I prayed as she considered me closely, her sisters murmuring in both her ears. I prepared myself for the inevitable, looking out at a land that was as barren as my future.
After a few more moments of deliberation, Mina gestured for them to quiet, her face filled with a compassion I had not seen since my mother.
“A name doesn’t determine who you are,” she said, smiling. “We will allow you to stay.”
My heart leapt with gratitude.
“You’ll really take me? Even knowing my name?” I asked, breathless.
“We believe in fate, my young child,” she said. “There is a reason you have come here. It would be wrong to turn you away. Besides, we really do need the help.”
Six hands reached out and pulled me through the door. Inside, a crackling fire greeted me with its warmth. Blood rushed to my fingers and cheeks, reviving my nearly frozen flesh. I was drawn to the cozy chairs by the fireplace, though my eyes catalogued the odd trinkets tucked into even odder corners.
Of the hundreds of curious objects sticking out of crevices, smashed between books, and even poking out of flowerpots, my attention settled on a large ball of glass sitting motionless upon black velvet.
“What’s that?”
I asked, walking to the crystal and eyeing its smooth surface.
“Edna! You forgot to cover the crystal again!” Mina scolded. “Brainless girl! You know you can’t leave it out in the elements.”
“It allows one to see into another’s future, allowing us brief moments we can interpret in order to guide them through the murkiness that lies in their paths,” Alma interjected.
“How does it work?” I asked. The clarity of the glass mesmerized me.
“I’m afraid you are much too young to know its secrets,” Alma said, covering the ball. “Besides, it is more important you focus on your work. There is much to be done.”
Taking me by the shoulder, they guided me through the house. The wooden floor creaked and buckled with each step, as if it were a living thing. The tour was punctuated by information and warnings.
“This is the kitchen,” Edna said, motioning to a large oven that looked like it needed a good cleaning.
“Here are our rooms, not to be entered, mind you,” Mina said. The other two made a grimace only the bravest of men would challenge.
“There is a room with a wash basin and tub down that hall,” Edna said quickly as I was shuffled along.
“And here is where you will sleep,” Mina said smiling, pointing up a ladder to a high loft.
I looked at the rickety ladder, unsure if it would hold my weight. Closing my eyes, I took my first step, the wood giving off a menacing creak.
“Give me a hand, would you dear?” Edna asked from below once I was up a few rungs. “I’m not as spry as I once used to be.”
Her fingerless glove was scratchy against my palm as I pulled her up. Then, to my horror, the other two started up behind her as well, completely unfazed by the possibility of us all plummeting to our deaths, or at the very least, some broken bones.
“Don’t let it bother you, my dear,” Mina said. “The ladder might be a tad temperamental, but it is still quite sturdy. Once it gets to know you, you won’t have to worry about a thing.”
I breathed a sigh of relief once we reached the top. The loft was distinctive from the whimsy below. Plain walls enclosed a large, mostly bare space.
Spin: A Fairy Tale Retelling (Spindlewind Trilogy Book One) Page 4
