by Sarah Cross
“They’re just worried.”
“Are you worried?”
She shook her head. She didn’t think worried was what she felt, so it wasn’t really a lie. She was grateful he didn’t ask whether she was happy. That would have been harder to fake.
“Are you hungry?” Jasper asked. “Can I get you anything?”
“No.”
“Do you want to tell me what happened? Or do you want to try to forget it?”
“I—I’ll tell you.”
The bed was so high she had to climb onto it. She sat with her legs hanging over the edge, feet not touching the floor. Her hand found its way to the rabbit she’d placed there and she pulled it into her lap, playing with its ears while she spoke.
“Henley. He … died.”
“How?” Jasper asked quietly.
“Another Huntsman found me. Older—a guy Regina knew when she was young. He dragged me into the woods, and—you can see where he cut me.” She pushed the neckline of her dress down to expose the scars. “He was … toying with me. Making it hurt before he killed me.”
She took a deep breath. “But he didn’t have the chance. Henley showed up, and … told me to run. The last time I saw them, they were fighting for the Huntsman’s knife. No one knows how it ended. There was blood, but no one’s found their bodies. It’s not impossible that the old Huntsman would disappear, but Henley—if he was alive, he wouldn’t. That’s how I know he’s—that’s how I know.”
Jasper touched the scars on her chest. “It’s over now. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”
He kissed her. It was slow, soft, but it was a real kiss—a relationship kiss—and it was a shock to her system. She’d come here because she was heartbroken, scared, full of loathing for herself and her old dreams. But to Jasper her arrival was cause for celebration. Day one of their happy ending.
All the sick games she’d played with Henley, and this was the kiss that felt like betrayal. Now, when there was no one left to betray.
She kissed Jasper back. She didn’t want to sit there and be kissed like a dead girl. She didn’t know how long she’d need to grieve—maybe the pain would never go away. But she couldn’t expect Jasper to sit by for a year consoling her while she talked about Henley. She needed to be safe, and Jasper could keep her safe.…
Kissing him felt like trying on a glass slipper that didn’t fit.
But I can make it fit. It would feel natural eventually.
When she said she was tired, Jasper offered to stay with her so she wouldn’t wake up alone. He went to his room to change, and Viv slipped into a white nightgown that looked like it had been designed for a virgin sacrifice. Sheer, puffed sleeves. Lace neckline. Pink scars standing out against the white of her chest.
That night, Jasper slept beside her, his hand on hers, his voice the last thing she heard before she fell asleep. The first night of the rest of their lives.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
VIV OPENED HER EYES, not to sunlight, but to the faint glow of the lanterns in the silver forest, filtered through the colored glass of her window. Instead of birds singing and the growl of a lawn mower, there was a vast quiet that gave the impression of an extreme emptiness.
She didn’t know if it was night or morning—there was no discernible difference in the underworld—but she couldn’t sleep. She pushed aside the covers and slid down from the bed. When Jasper didn’t stir, she opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.
The velvety carpet was littered with post-party debris: grape leaves, silver sashes, shoes the princes had kicked off. The silence was as heavy as the darkness.
Viv took the stairs slowly, alert for the sound of footsteps or creaking doors. Did anyone other than Jasper know she was here? She hadn’t met his parents, hadn’t spoken a word to his brothers, and now she was living in their home. She wondered whether Jasper had even gotten permission for her to stay. If he hadn’t and she was discovered, would they send her back to the surface? And would Regina be waiting for her? She’d known Viv was going to the underworld, known Viv needed a dress. She’d known … too much. Did Regina think that all she had to do was wait for Viv to climb up through the manhole and then …
Barefoot, Viv crept deeper into the palace than she’d ever been. The marble floor was cold against her skin and the candles on the chandelier had melted down to squat stubs. Only about a third of the candles were still burning. Shadows crowded the hall and her own shadow joined them. The Viv in the mirrors looked solemn, ghostlike. More flames guttered and were swallowed by wax.
She peered into dark rooms, feeling around for light switches, flipping them on if she could find them, continuing forward if she couldn’t. She found a ballroom, and a dining room with a table with sixteen chairs. There were pitch-black corridors she avoided, not wanting to smack into something and wake whoever lived there. There was a narrow stone staircase that led below the palace; the air that wafted up was cold and damp—she avoided that, too. She kept going until she found herself in another wing, where the floor shifted from marble to polished wood. The doors on either side of the corridor had been left open and lamplight flowed out into the hall from a room here and there, enough for Viv to find her way, and to see that the color scheme had changed from white and gold to dusky purple and dark brown. There was a smell like an old man’s cologne, and also … something like apple juice and gingerbread.
Viv sniffed—baby powder, too. She stopped at the door where the odor was strongest and tried the knob.
The door opened into a nursery. Infants and toddlers in cribs or in small beds with guardrails on the sides. A teenage girl sat in a rocking chair, her head pillowed on her arm. She sprang up when Viv came in, shuffled forward in slippers that had half fallen off her feet.
“What is this place?” Viv asked. “Whose kids are these?”
“You’re not allowed in here. No guests in the palace.”
“I’m not a guest. I live here.” She wondered if it was a mistake to say it. Looking around, she saw that the nursery held nine children, ranging from one or two years old to about six.
“If you lived here, I would know,” the girl said. “I’ve worked here my whole life.”
“Your whole life?”
“Since I was one of these.” The girl pointed at the nearest crib.
“Well, I live here now. I’m Jasper’s princess.”
The girl bit her lip. “Come into the hall. Where it’s brighter.”
Viv stepped out and stood in a wash of light that spilled from one of the rooms. The girl followed her.
“You do look like a Snow White princess. Maybe you are. But—how long have you been here?”
“Just since last night. Those kids … Who do they belong to?”
“They belong to the king.”
“He has twenty-two children?”
“They’re not his by blood. He brings them here after their parents give them up.”
“What do you mean, give them up? This place is an orphanage?” Her head was spinning. Owen had said that after twenty years here people lost their minds or something; this was about the worst location for an orphanage, aside from a cannibalistic witch’s candy house.
“I have to watch over them,” the girl said. “I can’t stay out here with you. When the king comes back … he won’t like that you’re here. You should go. I’ll pretend I never saw you. Good night.” The girl let herself back into the nursery, and this time she locked the door to keep Viv out.
Orphanage … babies … think, stupid, think.
The king was still gone; that was all she needed to know to keep exploring.
The door at the end of the corridor was shut, but light showed at the base. Viv took a chance and opened it.
The first thing she saw was a king-size bed with a gold canopy and gold curtains. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. The old-man cologne smell was worse here. Notes of bergamot and … decay. Viv saw a sliver of bathtub through an open doorway; through
another she caught a glimpse of gold. She thought of fabled dragons’ hoards, of King Midas. She thought of all the Royals she knew with their family heirlooms, their jewels and gold, art and antiques, on display throughout the house or packed away in attics.
She peered into the room with the gold and saw what looked like a museum exhibit: plain white walls hung with paintings, the center of the room taken up by sculptures, every piece labeled with an artist’s name.
She stood there staring, her eyes raking over the artwork, convincing herself she wasn’t having a nightmare.
The paintings showed women tearing out their own hearts.
There was an unnerving Warhol-style portrait series of a grinning man with long black hair and a widow’s peak: the same face ten times, in garish colors.
There was a collage—hundreds of pictures of men and women, cut from snapshots and wallet-sized photos. And hanging all around it, fastened to the wall like more dead butterflies, was an assortment of baby booties, pacifiers, necklaces, rings.
In the middle of the room were three shining metal sculptures—one gold, one silver, one bronze—their shapes distorted to show that they were art, not functional objects. All spinning wheels.
He’s someone who helps people with things.
Gold … babies … deals.
The king of the underworld had a Rumpelstiltskin curse.
CHAPTER THIRTY
JASPER WAS STILL ASLEEP, lying on his back, every princely feature at ease. He didn’t look the way she’d expect a troll’s son to look. But that was who he was. Rumpelstiltskin curses were rare and, based on gossip Viv had heard back home—Rumpelstiltskin’s latest victims, et cetera—the current and only bearer of the curse was a troll.
She turned on the light and sat down heavily on the bed. Jasper rolled over, sleepily content. “Good morning.”
“What’s your father’s name?”
“What?”
“Your father. Now that I’m here, I’m going to meet him. What do I call him?”
Jasper’s smile faded. He sat up against the headboard. “I suppose you can call him Father if you like. No one uses his name.”
“Why? Is it a secret?” Viv knew she wasn’t being subtle. Rumpelstiltskin took advantage of people who were desperate, locked them into horrible deals—and the only way to defeat him was to speak his true name.
When Jasper didn’t respond right away, she said, “I’m tempted to go home.”
“Please don’t.” He threw off the covers and took her hands, pleading with her again. She noticed that her silver exit mark had worn off sometime during the night. “It isn’t safe for you there. That’s just what your stepmother wants.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about your father’s curse?”
“I intended to. There wasn’t time. I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”
“You didn’t want to scare me. You didn’t want to give me a reason not to come.”
“Of course I didn’t want to scare you. I needed you to know me first, so you would trust me—and feel safe with me—despite that.”
“And what if I don’t, Jasper? He did something horrible to your sister; she’s so scared of him that she won’t leave her room. Do you make her feel safe? Your father has a palace staffed by people that he … stole.…”
“He didn’t steal them. He performed a service and collected on his deals. It’s no different than … than a prince marrying his princess after he saves her.”
“This is a deal to you?” She went to the wardrobe to get her dress. “I don’t think I can stay here.”
“Viv—” He jumped up after her. “That wasn’t what I meant. I want to be with you. I want to make you happy. I’m just saying that what my father does, as despicable as it may seem, is not that different from other fairy-tale arrangements. It isn’t a crime.”
“Jasper—people are getting sick down here. That is a crime.”
“No. It’s an unfortunate side effect of where we live. One I don’t remember telling you about.”
“You conveniently left that out.”
“Because it doesn’t affect you. Your curse renders you as immune as I am.”
“You think what happens to the people who work here doesn’t affect me?”
“Why would it? You’re a princess. You were born luckier than everyone else. That’s your fate.”
“I’m lucky? My best friend is dead.” The tears came before she could stop them.
Jasper wrapped his arms around her, pulling her against his chest. “Don’t cry. Every Cursed goes through an ordeal. But you’re where you’re meant to be now. This is the place where you’ll find happiness. Where we will, together. But you have to want it, too. I can’t be the only one who wants us to be happy.”
She gripped his shirt in her fists, her words muffled. “Of course I want to be happy.”
“Then don’t worry about what my father does in his spare time. You’re safe here. I’m going to take care of you like no one has ever cared for you. I promise you that.”
Jasper arranged for breakfast, lunch, and dinner to be brought to Viv in her room. For three days she didn’t venture out into the palace. She was still a little uncertain about staying, but she felt that as long as her presence remained a secret—from Jasper’s father, in particular—she could leave at a moment’s notice. No one but Jasper, Garnet, and a handful of servants would know that she’d ever planned to stay.
During the day she heard Jasper’s brothers coming and going, talking to one another about their princesses and other random topics. In the evenings there was a flurry of activity, the corridor filled with voices. It’s almost time. Hurry up! Your tie is crooked. How do I look? Brush your teeth! You’ll knock her out with breath like that. Tonight’s the night they’ll decide to stay. Last night I swear Charlie almost said she loved me. Charleston? You wish.
Viv and Jasper never went to the club, although Jasper promised they would go again soon. For now, Viv was content to stay hidden. They spent some evenings with Garnet. Talking, listening to music. Viv answered Garnet’s questions about Beau Rivage, and Jasper apologized for not having tales of Minuet. Viv would try to drag out the conversation until Garnet was too exhausted to keep them there, and then she’d retire to her room with Jasper, where they’d lie down on her bed to talk. At some point, he would kiss her, and she’d kiss back, making an effort, like it was something everyone raved about but she just didn’t like and kept trying to acquire a taste for.
True love’s kiss was supposed to be natural between a cursed prince and princess. You were supposed to feel like you’d known each other a lifetime. But Viv knew what it felt like to know someone your whole life, and to love him, and it didn’t feel like this.
Fate and magic were supposed to bind them together, but she felt like her heart had been cut from her chest. She tried to counter the numbness with action: she pretended she was an actress, playing the part of in-love princess; she pushed Jasper down and kissed him, held him so close she could feel the blood pulsing in his veins.
They were destined to be together. She had no future with anyone else. But every night, when his hands moved under her dress, she whispered not yet, as if there were a ghost in the room.
Not yet, as if there were a beast beside her.
She moved away in the enormous bed, far enough that Jasper’s hand lay in the space between them, her body hot with Recognition, her heart cold. Every night she waited for something to change. She hoped she would want him—but she didn’t.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
ON VIV’S FOURTH DAY in the underworld, the king summoned her to dinner.
Jasper’s eldest brother delivered the message and emphasized that it was not a request. Jasper had already gone down to dinner, as he did every night, to allay suspicion. Viv dressed hurriedly, rehearsing what she would do. She needed to make a good impression—that was the only option if she wanted to get along with the king. He had to approve of her and like her enough that giving his throne
to Jasper and Viv would seem like a good idea.
She’d dreaded this meeting, but it was as inevitable as every other part of her curse. The sooner she got it out of the way, the better.
She followed Jasper’s brother to the dining room. He didn’t attempt to speak with her, just looked her over when she appeared in the corridor in a dark purple gown. His eyes held a trace of bitterness—a sort of, Why should Jasper’s princess be here, when the twelve princesses leave every night?
Viv tried to remind herself how to behave. All the times she’d bitten her tongue with Regina, or laughed politely with some lecherous old club member, or faked an attraction to a prince she had no interest in—all those times were practice for this moment. The most important performance of her life.
Jasper’s brother pushed open the door to the dining room and they stepped inside. Seated at a long table, dressed in suits and ascots, were Jasper and the rest of his brothers. The queen—a harshly beautiful, black-haired woman wearing a dark blue gown and a tiara—sat at the foot of the table. At the head of the table was Jasper’s father, the king of the underworld.
Viv’s gaze skittered over the troll quickly, nervously, so she encountered him in pieces. Thick, sharp nails. Stone-gray eyes. His limbs were long and gangly, his hands far too large for his body. Unlike the little man in the fairy tale, Jasper’s father was extremely tall. His black hair was slicked back from his forehead, revealing a steep widow’s peak. He wore a gold brocade suit, a powder-blue shirt, a tie with a gold-and-white diamond pattern, and gold cuff links shaped like spinning wheels. The stench of bergamot and cabbage wafted off him and killed any appetite Viv might have had.
When the troll spoke, he licked his pale lips.
“Vivian,” he said, as if her name were delicious. He made it sound almost dirty.
“I prefer Viv.”
“I prefer Vivian,” the troll replied. “Viv sounds like a tart. Not the pie, dear.”
Jasper stayed silent. He was going to let his father insult her. Fine. She could take a few insults.
