The Fighter and the Baroness: A Modern-Day Fairy Tale

by Sunniva Dee

  His sigh is burdened, gaze still on me.

  “Close your eyes,” I say.

  He does.

  “Can you feel me kiss the inside of your hand?”

  HELENA

  My nanny is still here for me after all of these years. Even when I was little, Elfriede’s loyalty to me surpassed her loyalty to my parents. My heart goes mushy whenever I think of her. I remember blurting out secrets she’d have to berate me for. Even so, she wouldn’t tell Mama.

  Lately, I’ve shared my worries with Victor, but I can’t do that anymore. No, I have to keep a nothing-to-see-here façade, at least until after the fight in Thailand, and Elfriede I trust one hundred percent. Today I need her more than ever.

  My heart hurts when I think of what I’ll have to do after the Thai fight. It’s taken me twenty-four hours to understand that I have only one option for my future. See, Gunther Wilhelm and my positions have reversed. I once asked him to marry me for the betterment of Kyria. He never asked me if I loved him, and he still accepted my proposition. Now he wants the same blind agreement out of me.

  Gunther Wilhelm the Fourth can say what he wants, but his wish to get hitched isn’t out of love. He was clear about wanting me to marry him for the status of his family. I’ll have to tell Victor that I’m giving up on returning to America, on my master’s degree and on what we had. For Kyria, it has to be worth it.

  I still owe it to Victor and me to investigate leads. Elfriede hadn’t heard about the cuttong of Madonna number two, so now we’re on our way to the forest. Her chest, full against her maid’s shirt, heaves with exertion; she isn’t used to outdoors exercise anymore.

  The sun hits the forest ceiling, painting the ambience in a spring-green glow. It’s warm and mystical, perfect for our pilgrim world. There have been no visitors here today, which is odd for the end of summer. We used to have visitors up through mid-October. Then it would pick up again before Christmas.

  The folds of Madonna number two’s skirts touch the rock she’s been mounted on. In blue and beige, she’s a beauty, face humbly tilted and eyes downcast in pain over her son. We have her statues in different stages of Jesus’ life. Their placement on the route isn’t chronological, which still puzzles me.

  “Do you see it?” Elfriede puffs, following me around the statue. She rolls her sleeves up, like we’re about to start on a physical project.

  “Yeah, at the hem of her skirt, right there.” I point. The carvings are barely visible. If I didn’t know what to look for, I might not have found them. If I were to guess, I’d say the offender used a pocket knife. Whatever the material she’s made of, Gunther Wilhelm the Fourth is probably right in that it will require small fortune to restore her.

  Elfriede presses her glasses onto her nose and leans in, peering. “It doesn’t say anything. There’s not a single word there, just kids’ doodles.”

  “Right? No ‘diabolo.’”

  “Not at all.” She throws her head back to pierce me with her stare.

  “I don’t want to add problems to my father’s load, but… I wonder if he’s aware.”

  “He isn’t. Only last night, he sat in the cigar room and made a checklist in front of your mother. Neither of them mentioned the Madonnas.”

  I twist my hair into a haphazard rope and leave it over a shoulder so it doesn’t fall into my face. “Okay. There’s only one child on these grounds. I need to speak with Peter.”

  We find Peter at home, in the groundskeeper’s cottage at the bottom of the Madonna Forest. When I knock, Elfriede at my side, I glimpse him through a crack in the curtains, and he doesn’t have his sunny-face on when he opens for us.

  “Hey, little man,” I say, smiling. “How are you?”

  “Okay.” He wrings his hands, not looking okay.

  “You want to take a walk with us?”

  He doesn’t, that much is obvious. Still, Peter follows, brave and scared in one skinny bundle. It doesn’t bode well for his innocence.

  “Have you seen this before?” I ask once we’re by Madonna number two, and I’m surprised when he instantly confesses.

  “I did that.” Guilt and fear tremble in his voice. I’ve known him his entire life. I adore this kid. We all do. How did this happen? I don’t want him to cry.

  “Tell me what it is,” I say. “What did you write here? I can’t read it.”

  He shakes his head, pulling his hat down over his ears. “I just cut a little. It’s not writing or a drawing or anything.”

  “But why, Peter? Do you have any idea how expensive it will be to restore?” I don’t raise my voice. Peter doesn’t need it.

  “But it’s so little! I did it in an area no one would see,” he bursts out, tears filling his eyes. He’s small for his age, so I sink to my haunches and grab his shoulders.

  “You didn’t want it to be seen? I don’t understand why you would do it in the first place then. Your father says you’re concerned about Kyria Castle. If you’re concerned, how can you vandalize it? This is vandalism, Peter, and Kyria is your home too. Which means that you’ve vandalized your home.”

  When he starts to sob, I feel horrible. I’ve been little too, and things accidentally happened. Sometimes adults just didn’t get it. Then again, I’ve also been a girl who knew she’d done something wrong, and I still cried when I was caught.

  “You don’t understand!” he shouts. “You weren’t meant to find it. I hid it!”

  “What is it then? A magic spell?”

  “No, I had to do it, but it should have been big and horrible and I didn’t want to do that. I just did the small one.”

  I exchange a glance with Elfriede. “Peter. There have to be repercussions for these actions. I’m going to have to speak with your father.”

  In lieu of an answer, a forlorn hiccough escapes him, and when we part ways, he leaves with the slumped shoulders of a much older boy.

  Gunther Wilhelm the Fourth visits every day. I stay in my rooms as much as I can when the Maserati beams from the rotunda. I wish I was always successful in evading him. I’m having a hard time meeting his eyes when we pass each other in the courtyard or in the Madonna Forest.

  Elfriede is at my side more than she has been in years. With small, shrewd eyes, she pierces Gunther Wilhelm the Fourth with her suspicions. It doesn’t register with him, because she’s “only” a maid.

  Two days after our visit to Madonna number two, Elfriede tsks her disapproval while my soon-to-be fiancé steps carefully over fallen branches en route to the Star Tower. The masonry crew flown in from Berlin is on his tail. My father lumbers along too, concerned and grateful for Gunther’s assistance. Papa doesn’t yet know of the breakfast meeting. I have to break tough news to many I love in a few days. I just did to Elfriede.

  “Baroness, don’t you think there has been enough stalling,” she murmurs now. Her voice is respectful, but there’s an edge to it that indicates how serious she is. “Have you met with Peter’s father yet?”

  “I haven’t. Peter is so distressed.”

  “Yes, but the best way of feeling better is to confess.”

  “Yes, which he did,” I say, but she crosses her arms over a generous bosom, waiting for me to grasp her meaning.

  “Nein, he did not. But he gave you plenty of clues to put two and two together.”

  I stop, coffee cup and plate in hand, ready to carry them to the kitchen. She snatches them from me, as always wanting to do it herself. I follow her, trying to read her expression. “Tell me what you think, sweet Elfriede.”

  “The poor boy said clear as day that he didn’t want to do it.”

  “Well, he said the carving should have been bigger and uglier.”

  “Exactly. He made it clear that he didn’t complete the task according to the specifications. Instead he found a small, unassuming spot where he could make doodles that wouldn’t mar the statue.”

  “And why did he do it at all if he didn’t want to?” I ask.

  “Because someone forced him
.”

  Gunther Wilhelm the Fourth makes an instant cameo in my thoughts.

  “You watch too many crime shows,” I tease to lighten the mood.

  Elfriede raises her arms in an exaggerated I don’t know. “I just think that it’s time we ask Peter some more questions.”

  We find Peter outside their cottage, playing with a young black cat. When he sees us coming, he picks it up and squeezes it close. The cat wiggles lazily, wanting to break free, but doesn’t put enough effort into the act to succeed.

  “Hi there,” I begin. Peter’s frown deepens, on the verge of creating an actual pleat on his forehead.

  “Is that your cat?” I ask.

  He squeezes harder, causing a small mewl to erupt from his companion. The cat blinks slowly, studying us with less suspicion than its owner. “Yes, she’s mine.”

  “What’s her name?” I want to remain on safe topics until Peter relaxes. For now it’s not working. He seems to shrink into the paneling of the house as he answers.

  “Sophie.”

  “That’s a pretty name. How long have you had her?”

  He sidles toward the front door. With one eye on us, he opens it and lets the kitty inside. He looks relieved when he’s closed the door behind her. Does he think we’re cat-nappers or something? I bite my lip.

  “He gave her to me three months ago.”

  “Who, your father?” Elfriede asks.

  “She’s mine, and Dad told me I could keep her,” he bursts out. “I’ve never had an animal before. She sleeps in my bed.”

  “Shh, Peter, sweetie. Why do you think I’d take your cat away? It’s okay. I’d never dream of it.”

  His lip trembles, a drop of water lingering on its edge.

  I tuck a lock of hair behind his ear. “There’s nothing wrong with having a cat here. I bet she loves your house.”

  Elfriede cuts through my reassurance. “Peter, did your father give you the cat?”

  “No, Sir Affenheimer did. He talked with my mother too and made sure she’d let me keep Sophie.”

  “She doesn’t like animals?” I ask, peeking toward the curtains.

  Peter drags the back of his hand over his nose, leaving a damp path on his sleeve. “No. She’s allergic to them. Sir Affenheimer convinced her though.”

  “You like Sir Affenheimer?” I ask, again trying to pull him back into his comfort zone. “What a nice thing of him to do.”

  “No.” He sniffs. “He’s mean.”

  I don’t need to turn for Elfriede’s response. She clucks her tongue. Oh I vividly remember her making that sound in lieu of an I-told-you-so when I was little.

  “Tell me why he’s mean, Peter.”

  “For no reason.”

  “Peter.” I don’t think I sound stern. I sound insistent.

  The ten-year-old blows up his cheeks like a grown man who doesn’t know what to do. Then he mutters, “Because he wants to hurt Sophie.”

  We leave the cottage without any more information. Peter clammed up completely after his admission, and no luring or assurance could make him reveal the reasons to my ex’s threat of hurting an animal he himself had given away.

  “This feels like some children’s film,” I say to Elfriede as we trot up the hill. “The mean man with an agenda.”

  “Agenda, yes,” Elfriede bobs out. “Oh Helena, Sir Affenheimer cannot become a part of Kyria. I’ve always thought there was something strange about him.”

  “You have?”

  “Ja, I have.”

  Back at the castle, I do what I should have done days ago. I give the groundskeeper a call. I wasn’t going to rip into details over the phone, but I end up telling him about Madonna number two.

  I can’t lie to myself: my gut tells me that Gunther Wilhelm the Fourth is behind the vandalism. But I can’t wrap my mind around such a logic. He wants Kyria, and he wants her to shine—I have no doubt he’ll take care of my home in ways my father and I can’t even dream of right now.

  I grew up with this person. We played together. Over the years, he’s been there at every turn with a smile and kind words. Today, Gunther Wilhelm has more money than my family has owned for generations. He’s got a job he loves, and he’s respected within his area of expertise. I just don’t understand what his motive could be. Why would he break Kyria down?

  In bed if I’m not too tired, my thoughts flow crystal-clear. My best ideas surge then. Now, I’m under the covers, staring out the window at the pale moon. That moon is waiting for me to make a decision.

  Tomorrow is Sunday, and I have to return to Teufelschpitze Breakfast & Lunch Den where Gunther Wilhelm will be expecting an answer to his marriage proposal.

  What would happen if I said “no?”

  I think about Gunther Wilhelm the Fourth, the adult. Is he a compassionate person? As kids, he was just there, always ready to play, but we weren’t actually close. Maybe I never learned who he was.

  I want to consider both his positive and the negative sides, but it’s hard to recall anything good right now. Gunther Wilhelm is manipulative. He breaks moral codes to reach his goals. Judging by his interaction with Peter, he isn’t compassionate either. If he has no empathy, if he exclusively works for his personal goals, I shouldn’t take any chances and declare war by going against his wishes. I’d need to beat him at his game, and for that, I’d need a strategy.

  All I have are suspicion and slivers of information I can’t yet slam in his head. In a few hours, the two of us will have breakfast.

  I scrunch my eyes shut against my only option.

  For Kyria I know what I have to do.

  HELENA

  Another Sunday.

  Not a Sunday I like.

  This Sunday takes me to Teufelschpitze Breakfast & Lunch Den with Gunther Wilhelm Affenheimer the Fourth, and his bland face breaks in a contented smirk as I accept his ring.

  He’s on a knee again, in front of me. The view behind him is breathtaking, my home, my valley, the calm waters of the river. At the forefront, hundreds of thousands of late-summer leaves flutter like butterflies, enclosing this image in a colorful frame that collides with my grey mind.

  I’m sealing my fate. I’m tying myself to this man. But I’m also securing Kyria Castle’s future as a healthy, blooming piece of history that will thrive for decades to come under the Affenheimer rule.

  I miss Victor so much my stomach is a hole I fill with champagne. The buzz setting in as I accept each clink of my fiancé’s flute does nothing to diminish my despair.

  “Soon, you’ll be Maria Isabella Helena Affenheimer von Isenlohe the First,” my fiancé whispers, voice thick with emotion. Or is it victory? Blood-red fish lips find the top of my hand in a pillowy kiss.

  I’ll have to sleep with this man, eventually, feel the doughy substance of him press me down and arms free of muscles encage me. He’ll be going in between my thighs.

  I squeeze my legs together, the horror of my imagination too vivid. To run off again isn’t an option.

  Oh Victor. How simple it all was in Tampa. We slid into this beautiful thing we didn’t call a relationship. My fervent fighter, so protective, so sweet.

  “Let’s set the wedding date. Any day works for me. My fiancée gets to choose,” Gunther purrs, smile gleaming like my ring. “Then we’ll inform our families that the engagement is back on. They will all be so delighted.”

  My brain scrounges for a good reason to stall us. It’s August. Victor’s fight is in less than two weeks. I can’t, simply can’t think beyond that. “I’ve always wanted a Christmas wedding,” I lie a good lie.

  It would give me time. It’s going to take a while to call Gunther Wilhelm the Fourth my fiancé again.

  “Oh no, no,” he chuckles, shaking his head slowly. With a finger, he taps my nose. “I can’t wait that long for you. Haven’t you already put me through enough, wife-to-be?”

  He’s right about what I’ve put him through.

  “I’ve got the wedding planner on speed dial. She’
s ready.” He winks. “For the right price these things can get taken care of in forty-eight hours.”

  My scalp freezes like I’ve been doused with ice water. It’s fear, and it seeps through, chilling my brain. Then the panic sets in.

  “The guests,” I say. “I want my friends from Tampa to come. Forty-eight hours is too short of a notice.”

  Gunther Wilhelm the Fourth’s stare cools. “Which friends?”

  “Cassandra and Allyn,” I hurry out.

  I’m—

  Trapped.

  In a way we’re the same, he and I. Only Gunther uses extortion to get what he wants.

  Gunther and my negotiations are at a standstill. For now, I have earned myself a two-week notice for the wedding.

  Sunday in two weeks—

  Two days after Victor’s fight.

  Gunther has business to take care of, his own business, Kyria, then it’s the wedding arrangements I’m not supposed to worry my “pretty little head” with. Mostly though, he’s waiting to pin down the date because he’s given me a twenty-four-hour window to connect with Allyn and Cass.

  That strike of genius in the midst of my panic is the only thing I am happy about. I’m not dying for my friends to see me get married to the man of my nightmares, but if it weren’t for them, I’d be married in two days instead of in two weeks.

  Cass is shocked when I call her. Allyn is just sad. Neither of them understands how I can comply with this. They talk about how Victor looked at me like I was his sun, how they can’t picture either of us with someone else. Cass uses the expression “soulmates.”

  Cass tells Gun while I’m on the phone, and I hear him ask, “She dropped the fighter for him? I mean he talked German, which was cool, but—”

  “Victor and I weren’t a thing!” I shout to Cass.

  “No? Hmm, I—”

  I can’t deal with her doubt. “I didn’t leave Florida with a boyfriend waiting or promising to come here. We didn’t have long-term plans. There was no one to drop.”

  “Of course, sweetie. Yes,” Cass shushes. “You used to sound happy though, before. Are you sure you want to go through with this?” Her compassion makes my throat constrict. “Marriages are supposed to last for life, you know. Is that what you want with this guy?”