by Wendy Mass
To all the readers who asked for more
Twice Upon a Time books. This one’s for you.
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
About the Author
Copyright
Today started poorly and got even worse. It is now nightfall, and I am certain even the village’s dung heap cleaner would not want to change places with me. I should have known the winds of good tidings were not blowing my way the moment I laid eyes on the baker’s new apprentice, a boy a few years my senior who I have never seen in the village before. Our kitchen maid usually does the errands, but she is visiting her family today, so I went to fetch our order of barley rolls.
I do not often venture out into town alone, for Papa worries and his worrying makes me nervous. But this morning I made sure to hold my head high and to look more confident than I felt. I ignored anyone who called out for me to buy whatever they were selling, and made sure to step carefully over the waste constantly being tossed out the windows to the street below. Part of me wanted to take off running in the fields behind the village church and forget the barley rolls. I never feel nervous when I run. But that would be unladylike. I have not been allowed to run freely for years now.
When I arrived at the bakery, the baker — a kind man who always smells like fresh bread — greeted me by name. One of three things happens when someone hears my name for the first time. The worst is when they laugh. The second worst is when they start to laugh but quickly turn it into a cough so as not to appear rude. Lastly, if they are a halfway decent sort, they will squint at my face as though searching for some prettiness that perhaps they missed initially. Upon finding none, they will then say something like, “Have you seen the new juggler performing in the town square? Such talent!”
No one, in all my twelve and three-quarter years, has ever said that the name Beauty suits me.
I blame my mother (may her soul rest in peaceful slumber amidst fields of wildflowers). She used her very last breath to bestow my name upon me. If I were the betting type, I would say she was more likely referring to the beauty shining forth from the gates of heaven — which were no doubt opening wide in welcome — than to the infant held up before her, red-faced and sporting a nose that leaned a bit too far to the left. My nose, thankfully, has righted itself as I have grown. Mostly.
When the baker said my name, his new apprentice turned to look. I figured he would choose the first option and laugh. He had the type of sharp chin and thin lips that indicate a certain meanness of spirit. But he did not laugh. Rather, he surprised me with a response I had not heard before. He tipped an imaginary hat at me and said, “Good day, Beauty, my name is Handsome!” And then he laughed. The baker gave him a sharp jab in the ribs and waved off my coin as he handed me my sack of rolls.
I cannot tell if my face flushed from the heat of the baker’s huge oven, or the hurtful words. Likely both. I know the teasing should not bother me, for I have many good qualities. My sister, Clarissa, insists no one makes better ginger candies. And I can outrun a hare, not that there is much use for this skill unless one is chasing hares. (Which I am not allowed to do anymore after chasing away the Easter hare three years ago.) Plus, no one in our village reads as well as I, including the monks at the monastery, and they read all day long.
But the teasing bothers me nonetheless.
I wish my name had gone to Clarissa, nearly three years my senior, who truly is beautiful. You know the type — hair soft as the finest silk from across the sea, round blue eyes like robins’ eggs, and a forehead so high she has been mistaken for royalty. She is also sweet and gentle and does not furrow her brow by thinking of serious things. All of the boys in town want her hand in marriage, but she turns them down. Though she cares deeply about maintaining (or bettering) her social standing as the daughter of a successful merchant, Clarissa is holding out for love.
Where she is a romantic, I am a realist. Romantic love is something found only in the books Papa sells to the lords and ladies of the kingdom for a tidy profit. I should know, for I have read many of them. My head is full of stories from the books Papa buys and sells without ever opening the cover himself. Clarissa’s head is full of purple silk gowns and dances and handsome troubadours playing the lute. One day soon, Papa shall tire of Clarissa’s silliness and will marry her off to whomever he deems her best match. Although the thought of marriage currently makes me shudder, neither my sister nor I shall marry for love. It is simply not the way of things.
Clarissa insists I should not look at life so bleakly, for it makes me seem unpleasant and no one will want to be in my company. She says that if I took the time to comb my hair and powder my cheeks and stopped wearing Papa’s old tunics and breeches, people might actually smile when they hear my name. She may be right, but I do not intend to find out.
Much to my surprise, being insulted by the apprentice turned out to be the high point of my day. For sometime between this afternoon when my sister lit the hearth to stave off the first autumn chill, and sunset when I returned home from my errands, our house burned to the ground.
Darkness. Cold. Silence, but for the fearful panting in my ear. The breath warming my ear is not mine. My own mouth is closed tight against the cold air and the tiny winged bugs that surround us. My vision is clear, though, impeded only by the thickness of the forest.
“Jump!” the voice screams. So I spring up, easily clearing the top of a ditch. We run deeper into the forest, thick trees ominous and unyielding, the ground hard and unforgiving on my bare feet. I do not know why my feet are bare. My mother, the queen, would never allow me to step foot outside the castle without boots on, even when the sun is high and hot in the sky. Yet I clearly feel the dirt and rocks and twigs beneath me.
“Duck!” the voice yells. I try to twist my head to see to whom the voice belongs. But it is dark, so dark.
“DUCK!”
I have waited too long to obey. The top of my head crashes into the branch abov
e, but it does not hurt. It never hurts. But after the crash, the voice shouting in my ear is silenced. It is at this point I always wake up, my nightclothes stuck to me with sweat. My first thought is always to look around for the person who shouted to me in the dream. But I am always alone. I’ve had this dream every week since I turned thirteen a few months back, but this is the first time I have had it while out of my bed.
I hear my brother calling my name, but do not reply to Alexander’s shouts. I shake off the cobwebs of the dream, surprised that I actually fell asleep while hiding atop the castle’s tallest tower. I turn my attention to the stars above. In my dream I cannot see them. My tutor, Master Cedrick, says that there is a star in the heavens for every person who walks the ground below. Mother says my tutor has peculiar ideas. I think that’s why I like him, for I, too, have been called odd.
If I were a normal prince, I would be inside with the rest of the royal family escorting our remaining guests across the dance floor. Instead, I am sitting with my back against the hard stone wall, trying to pretend my nightmare does not bother me. All I wanted to do tonight was to play my bagpipes and admire the bright stars of the Summer Triangle, which shall soon be disappearing from view as the summer turns to fall. Was that so much to ask?
The door to the balcony creaks open behind me. I know without turning that it is Alexander, the heir to our father’s throne and a much better prince than I. A much better everything, actually. But I don’t mind. If only one of us should have the ability to speak five languages, it should be the one who will one day have a kingdom to rule. If only one is able to discuss the great works of philosophy and mathematics with the finest minds in the land, while also being charming, witty, handsome, and an excellent rider of horses, it should be Alexander.
And tall, did I mention tall? At fourteen, he is easily a head and a half taller, although I am only a year his junior.
“Riley, Riley, Riley,” he says, sitting down next to me and pulling his knees to his chest. “I have given you as long as I could. I even pretended to check the dungeons, and you know how I feel about them. You must return to the party immediately. Mother is beginning to turn various shades of purple.”
“Must I truly? I have already stepped on the toes of two princesses, a duchess, and a lady-in-waiting who I am pretty sure snuck into the castle when the royal guards’ backs were turned.”
Alexander leans over and straightens the silver chain that links the tips of my velvet cape. “There are worse things in the world than dancing with beautiful girls, little brother. You make it sound more unpleasant than cleaning the dung heaps. Now come. Duty calls.”
I do not know why everyone always assumes the worst job is cleaning the latrines. It is smelly, without a doubt. But sometimes, amidst the waste, a pearl will turn up, lost from some woman’s necklace, or coins from a nobleman’s pocket. Or so I am told, since Mother keeps me far from the laborers.
I blow one last forlorn note on my bagpipes and follow Alexander back into the small room inside the tower. I rest the bagpipes against the wall before heading down the winding staircase. If I brought them with me, Mother would no doubt make me play them for the gathered guests. Being the center of attention gives me hives, and I do not want to end this already disagreeable evening with a visit from the castle doctor. The man is all too attached to his leeches.
Although neighbors had rushed to douse the flames with barrels of water, only a handful of our belongings survived the fire: my mother’s old locket (although the rose petal inside is now a pile of cinders); our iron bathtub; one chest of Papa’s books, which had been with him at the time of the fire; a basket of clothes that my sister grabbed when she ran from the burning house; and a few jars of jellies and pickled pig’s feet from what used to be the pantry.
All of the books, all of the paintings, all of the furniture, all of it is gone. Clarissa has taken the loss of our belongings very hard, and is barely speaking. Even though I lost my collection of found objects — arguably my most valued possessions next to my mother’s locket — the fact that we all escaped from bodily harm has kept me from wallowing too deep in self-pity.
Three days have passed and we can no longer accept the charity of our neighbors. They were kind enough to give us beds to sleep on, and bread and cheese to eat although we’ve been without an appetite. Papa has sold off the few books that had been stored in the chest and bought us the most basic belongings. We are moving to a tiny cottage on the western edge of the village. I will have to find employment while Papa works hard to build up his business again. Without our maids, Clarissa will be charged with making sure our home is in order, as before.
Well, perhaps better than before, what with burning it down and all.
I have gone to the church to contemplate our new life and to seek comfort. Soon I will not have the luxury of stealing away to think, and Papa is too upset to worry that I am off alone. He (and I) will have to get used to it, since there are no more maids to accompany me.
I have positioned myself in the last pew, right beside my favorite stained-glass window. I close my eyes and allow my face to be bathed in warm blue-green light.
“I thought I would find you here,” Clarissa whispers, sitting down next to me. Her voice is small and sad, but at least she is talking again.
I turn to look at her. Her skirt is wrinkled, her boots unlaced and scuffed. Her usually shiny hair is dull and pulled back in a messy braid. Without her face powder, she is blotchy and pink. This is not good. Only one of us is allowed not to care about our appearance, and that person has to be me.
“Clarissa,” I say, lifting her hand into mine. Her nails are bitten to the quick. “I have good news!”
“Will it bring back our home? The many possessions Papa worked so hard to get for us? Return us to our rightful status in society?”
“Well, no,” I admit. “But you can stop blaming yourself for the fire. It was not your fault. It turns out a pigeon had gotten caught in the chimney and blocked the path of the smoke. You could not have known.”
That gets her attention. For the first time in days, her eyes widen with interest. “Truly?” she asks. “How do you know?”
“The carpenter went over to see what materials he could salvage for us,” I tell her, which is the truth. “And he found the bird.” (Not true.) “Wedged in tight, poor thing.” (Also not true.)
Clarissa exhales deeply. “That is good to hear. Well, not for the bird, of course.”
I look around the church, glad that we are alone. It is not like this is my first falsehood, but surely my first inside a church. Perhaps in light of all we have been through, the parish priest will let this one pass.
“It is time,” she says. “We must make our way to the new house.”
I nod, aware that when I stand up, I will be leaving my comfortable, familiar life behind, and walking into the unknown. I do not want to let on how scared I am. I have to be the brave one. Both for her and for Papa. He tries hard to raise two daughters on his own, but I know it is not always easy.
By the time we step out onto the road, a new determination has settled upon Clarissa’s face. She is standing taller. When a fancy woman in a lace dress sniffs in disapproval at our appearance, Clarissa even tosses her braid in defiance. Once the woman turns into the shoemaker’s shop, however, Clarissa’s shoulders slump again. “Our new home has no well,” she laments. “Papa’s back is so bad he cannot possibly lug water from the stream all the way to the edge of the village. How will we bathe?”
I reach out for her hand, feeling, not for the first time, as though I am the older sister. “I shall fetch our bathwater.”
We enter the crowded marketplace, lively with peddlers hawking everything from hair ribbons and rabbit pelts to carrot soup and chamber pots. If this were a normal day, Clarissa would already be haggling for the best prices, her arms laden with objects she simply must have. But this is not a normal day.
“And what of food?” Clarissa asks as we pass a vegetab
le stand, the sacks of corn, peas, and beans from the summer harvest piled as high as my head. “Papa puts on a brave face, but he is worried, I can tell. We have no money and no land to farm.”
I swallow my own fears. “I shall find work,” I assure her. “Our bellies will not be empty.”
After a long pause, Clarissa says, “Do not take this the wrong way, dear sister, but there are only two things you could be — a maid, or a lady-in-waiting. And you have the skills for neither.”
Normally, I would pinch her for a comment like that, but I restrain myself due to her still-fragile state. That, and the fact that she speaks the truth. I have watched our various maids perform all the household chores but was never encouraged to learn them myself. And although Clarissa was the unofficial “lady of the house,” she certainly did not dirty her hands preparing roast duck or beating our woolen tunics with a broom. Neither of us can weave cloth or spin wool into yarn or even mend the holes in Papa’s socks. We cannot make candles or butter or cheese or ale. We have never gathered eggs, and have not picked our own berries or nuts since we were little children playing in the fields.
We stop to watch a group of boys play leapfrog on the riverbank. They leap over one another’s backs and then run to the end of the line as fast as they can. They have given me an idea. “I know! I can earn money by running!”
