Snow White - Little Red Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

            My stepmother took no more notice of my traveling outside the palace than she had of my isolation.  I waited for some sort of retribution after my day away, but neither blessing nor cursing of my actions came.

            The same girl who had woken me on the morning of my birthday, Abigail, came to me one afternoon later in the week, bearing a lovely dress of sage-and-forest green.  I gawked at it—I had seen no beautiful clothing in so long—and froze, astonished, when she offered it to me.  She misinterpreted my failure to take it from her, not realizing that I was paralyzed by my surprise.

            “Of course you’ll want to wash before you dress,” she said in a rush.  “Would you like assistance?  Reaching your own back can be such a bear.”

            I found my voice at last.

            “That’s for me?”  It came out in almost a whisper.

            “Of course, silly!”  She chortled briefly, then stopped abruptly.  “Princess.”

            “Please,” I said, “there’s no need for my title.”  The words had a bitter edge that startled me.  Abigail nodded.

            “Oh yes, Princess, pardon me, but there is.”  She gazed intently at me.  Uncomfortable, I looked down at the dress.  It was pristine.  Looking at my filthy hands, I addressed the girl.

            “Help washing would be nice,” I said.  Abigail smiled.  “What is this all for?”  I inquired.

            “Oh, didn’t I tell you?  Another town wishes to have you visit.  They sent a missive.”

            “Why?”

            “Well, how else would we have known that they wanted to see you?”  I looked at her, confused for a moment.

            “Oh,” I said, comprehension breaking through.  “No.  Why do they want to see me?”

            “You’re the Princess,” she said matter-of-factly.  I nodded as if this answer explained anything.

            This town was further from the palace than the previous one, and my rump was already sore from the ride I had taken earlier in the week.  Still, the surroundings were so beautiful that I endured my soreness with a good will.  I was getting better at riding, I thought—I could focus on more things as we rode slowly past them.  I was still stunned by the lovely simplicity of things: trees, grass, houses, and even insects flying nearby.  The sounds were at times overwhelming, but in a good way.

            Abigail had opted to ride along on this journey, and she chattered to me the whole way.  I said little, nodding when she paused.  This must have been all that she expected, for she did not try to elicit responses from me often.  Instead, she answered my unasked questions.

            “The people have been preparing for your visit for weeks,” she told me confidentially.  “Your birthday, your coming-of-age, has stirred up quite a bit of excitement among the common folk.  They requested your visit through the Queen first, but when they heard nothing, they appealed to the staff.  Everyone knows that the Queen has treated you—“ she glanced around nervously, dropping her voice to a whisper.  “—ambominably.”

            “She’s not the Queen,” I replied, my tone even.  “She hasn’t earned the name.”  Abigail looked sideways at me.

            “Then who is she?”

            “Stepmother.”  The girl nodded thoughtfully, quiet for the first time in many minutes.

            “Are you the Queen, then?”

            “Certainly not.”

            “Then who are you?”

            “I don’t know yet.”

            “How can you not know?”

            “I haven’t thought about it.  Not in a very long time.”

            Abigail continued to look at me, curiosity in her eyes, after I made this comment, but said nothing more about it, turning the conversation instead to the relationships among palace servants whose names I had never heard.

            So it was that the shape of my name, of Snow White, began to change.  I still cannot say exactly what that shape was in those days, but it was no longer defined by isolation.

            When the excuse of my birthday had passed well beyond out-of-sight, the people found other reasons to invite me to their hamlets.  Start-of-Summer, Harvest, Solstice, End-of-Harvest, First Snow; I was brought to a new village at least three times in every week.  And while there was always a celebration upon my arrival, as the people became more accustomed to my appearances, my relationship with them, like my name, changed shape.

            Instead of celebrating with them in the streets for hours, I was fed and cared for in the people’s homes.  They became my friends, the first true ones of my life, and more dear to me that my own existence had ever been.

            My truest and dearest friend, however, was Abigail.  Within a shorter time than a month after my birthday, we had become so beloved and loyal to one another that we were rarely separated for any significant length of time.  I even took to accompanying her while she worked at her chores.  Yet, despite this closeness, she never treated me as a woman of lowlier station than I was.  I can easily recall the day I attempted to assist her in scrubbing at the palace steps—gently, but certainly, she told me that I was not to do something so far below myself.  “Your place is at the head, Princess,” she said.  “It is I who must prepare the ground for the coming of your feet.”  I wanted to object, but the new shape of my name had already begun to change the way I viewed myself.  I only nodded and began to sing.  Abigail joined me in her stunning alto, and I trilled out the melody of a song I had heard a mother sing to her baby days before.

Whispers of the wind, child,

Coming from the sea:

Change is blowing nearer, child,

For you and for me.

Battles may yet rage around

And we not in the lee,

But faith and strength in what you are

Will teach you who to be.

            “I don’t remember the rest,” I told Abigail.  I marveled inwardly that I spoke so easily now; had it been only a month past that I had been so reticent with this same young woman?

            “It seems strange that you know so little of songs,” she replied.  I considered this.

            “I know little of anything but what my father the King taught me,” I answered her at last.  “And what I have read in my books.  I have much to learn about everything, when you come to the truth of it.”  Abigail sat up slowly.  I watched her, confused by her dramatic posture and sudden silence. 

“What is it?”

            “Princess, you must know—but no.  We cannot talk here.”  She glanced around at the now-clean stones.  “Will you walk with me, Princess?  I know some beautiful woods not a mile hence.”

            “Yes,” I said, curiosity in my tone.

            Abigail continued uncharacteristically silent as we made our way to her woods, eyes sweeping around and, at times, behind us.

            “What are you watching for?”  I asked.  She only shook her head and placed her arm in mine.

            When we at last reached the woods, I was thoroughly perplexed.  I looked to my friend for answers.  She sighed a great sigh, as though some terrible weight had left her.

            “Princess,” she began, “you are right that there are many things of which you are ignorant.  Important things.”

            “What of it?”  I asked.  “You call me Princess, but it seems unlikely that I shall ever be in a position to truly tend my nation.”  Abigail sighed again, and glanced at the nearby trees.

            “Princess, you must understand, we must never speak of these things outside of this wood.”

            “But why ever not?  What things?”

            “Because these trees, from border to border, are shielded by the magic of—of the good witch who inhabits the heart of the forest.  Here, your Stepmother can see and hear nothing of you.  Here you are safe.”

            “Safe from what?  Stepmother does me no harm.”
            “Not yet, but—oh, I hate to say it, even of her.”  I seized Abigail’s arm, frightened by her strange reserve.

            “Say what?  Dear friend, if there is a truth that I must know, you must tell it to me.”

            “Yes,” she agreed, “I must.  It is the way of friendship.  But it is hard, for I must frighten you with the truth, and I would not wish fear upon you.”

            “I am not so easily frightened as you might think,” I said, aware of the contrast between the courage of my words and the nervousness of my voice.

            “Perhaps not,” she said, “but were I you, I would be frightened.”

            “Of what?  You have not told me.”

            “No,” she said.  She sat on a nearby rock, and I followed, sitting beside her.  I waited, feeling that anything I said now would cause only further delay.  “It’s this, Princess: the Queen—that is, your Stepmother—despises you far beyond what you see.”

            “Despises me?  I think not; she thinks little about me at all, I guess.”

            “I wish it were so,” Abigail said, “but it is not.  The Queen rants and rages with hatred of you.  She seethes with fury.  She suffers every day knowing that you even exist.”

            I considered my friend’s words as they broke into a point, like a needle snapping.  My Stepmother might not think well of me, but hatred?

            “Why do you say these things?”  I asked, and was surprised to find that there was a heavy sadness of belief in my voice.  “Why would she hate me?”  Abigail laid a hand of comfort on my shoulder.

            “She hates you because she envies your power.”

            “Power?  I have none.”  Abigail laughed, a darker laugh than I had ever heard from her.

            “Princess, you have the power of the nation—or you will.  A ruler’s ability, her right, to rule comes from the fealty of the people of the land.  Any loyalty to the Qu—your stepmother—is fading from the people’s hearts with each passing day.  She sees this, but she does not understand it.  She does not, cannot, conceive of the idea that the only way to earn the loyalty of the nation is to love her people.  She knows so very little of love that she has no way to understand.”

            I contemplated Abigail’s speech, the meaning of it, for a very long time.  At last I asked, slowly, “Why should she know little of love?”

            “Dark magic is at work in her heart,” my friend replied.  “She long ago traded her ability to love for physical beauty, to bewitch the King your father and gain power.  She could undo the spell if she wished, but she has grown deeply attached to her gorgeous appearance.  She will not let it go, even to regain the nation.”

            “But Abigail,” I asked, “what should any of this have to do with me?”

            “Why, everything, of course,” she answered.  I blinked at her a few times, and she continued.  “You are the only hope of the people, the natural rival to your Stepmother’s wickedness.”

            “Rival?  For what?”  Abigail looked into my eyes, disbelieving, and then jumped to her feet.  She began to pace.

            “Everything, Princess!  For the crown!  The country!  The rule of the nation for now and for posterity.  She hates you because you, you¸can bring an end to her reign, can take from her the only thing she loves—her power!  As the nation crumbles under her tyranny, the people turn to you as a beacon of hope.  And you must rise to the occasion, Princess!  You must take the steps that will lead you, one day, to the throne!”  She sat abruptly down beside me, looked into my face again, pleading with her eyes.  “This is why we are here.  To see that your education begins, that when the time comes for you to rule, you will do it well.”

            I was stunned.  Never had I heard my friend so passionate—she was almost angry—but raging against my stepmother—a thing I could never have imagined had it not transpired before my eyes.  The words Abigail had spoken shocked me, too.  I had not truly considered that being the Princess meant one day, perhaps, deposing my Stepmother and taking the throne, as was my right under the law.  In that moment, I understood for the first time that my Stepmother had a truer name than the one I had so long given her.  Usurper was her real title, a thing that her subjects—my subjects—had known, but that I had not.

            I was, naturally enough, afraid.  And yet somehow, there was another feeling in my heart.  I did not recognize it until later, but the feeling was a love for my people.  And more than that, it was a willingness to give my life for them—not just to die for them, if events so demanded, but to live each day for them, as my father the King had.  Unaware that I was doing so, I got to my feet, standing straighter than the surrounding trees.

            “You are right, Abigail,” I said.  “The people are my people.  I owe it to them, to my dear departed father the King, to myself, to you, and yes, to my people, to save this land from the Usurper’s poisoned touch.”  I looked back to my friend, color rising in my cheeks as a passion for my nation, a strength that I had never known I possessed, took hold of me.  “Tell me what I must do.”

Snow White-Little Red Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

            Change did eventually touch my life.  And when, at last, I sent out shoots of life, I was relieved beyond description to find nourishment in the world around me.

            Clearly no help would come to me from my stepmother.  In three years’ time, she had not spoken a word to me—a fate that was, in its own way, worse than any direct abuse could have been.

            The source of my society may not come as a surprise to you, but I did not anticipate it in the slightest.  To explain it, I must describe the state of the kingdom during my early life.

            My father the King had raised the nation to glory: we were at peace, the treasury more than comfortable, the government uncontested.  Our borders stretched well beyond the bounds that had defined them in previous years.  Our pure-hearted warlocks and enchantresses protected us from plague and famine, and our armies quelled any hint of dark magic or marauding mortals.

            Then my father the King died, and my stepmother seized the throne.  She claimed to be taking only a regency until I came of age at fourteen, but those in association with her knew that this was a lie.

            In the course of her reign, my stepmother drove the country well down the path to total destruction.

            Under the false Queen’s careless watch, the borders shrank as parcels of the land were sold to various ambitious neighboring countries.  Even more unfortunately, the folk who were willing to sell our precious homeland for gold were the sort who turned their new wealth toward the study of dark magic, unwitting trapping themselves in the clutches of evil in pursuit of money.

            I wish I could say that this was the end of the nation’s problems.  But before I can tell you about the terrible things that followed, I must describe my birthday.

            I would have let it pass unnoticed, like the other two birthdays preceding.  But fourteen marks the coming-of-age in our land, and for me, should have meant the right to rule.  But with my stepmother on the throne, I despaired of saving the kingdom.  I fought only for my own continued existence.

            Then, on the morning of my birthday, I was abruptly awoken by light in my eyes as the drapes over my windows, ordered into place years before by my stepmother, were pulled clear.

            “Princess!”

            I groaned, but sat up, slightly alarmed.  How many days had it been since my last verbal exchange?  I could not remember.  I looked around, deciding if, perhaps, my stepmother had engineered some nefarious plot that involved my early arousal from bed.  But the young woman fretting over my mess of books, strewn across the floor over the last week or so, was a kitchen servant.  Not much older that I, she smiled encouragingly at me.  I did not reciprocate, only stared at her, uncomprehending.

            “It’s your birthday,” she explained patiently.  I nodded.  She stared at me momentarily, perhaps awaiting a more thorough response.  I did not give one, and she continued at last.  “There is a celebration in the town!”

            I raised my eyebrows in confusion, eyes on hers.  Finally, I found my voice.

            “A celebration of what?”  The sounds rasped in my under-used throat.

            “Of your birthday, Princess,” she said patronizingly.  “The people always have a holiday in your honor.  But this year, for your coming-of-age, they have outdone every previous celebration.  You must join them.”  She faltered, blushing.  “If you wish, I mean, Princess.”  She curtseyed to me, neck bent but eyes still searching mine for an answer.

            I was not sure what to tell her.  I had lived alone for so long, I did not know what to make of the invitation.  But, unexpectedly, a tiny ripple of hope , begun by the young woman’s words, spread from my heart.  I nodded, feeling as though I were in a dream.  She looked at me curiously, apparently awaiting words.

            "What will I wear?”  I whispered.  The girl smiled.

            “I’ll help you!”  I winced at her strident squeal.

            The horse felt unsteady and uncomfortable beneath me, shifting my body constantly into new positions and wrenching my joints to contorted angles.  She was beautiful, though.  Black as my hair, but curried so smoothly that the sun glinted off of her flanks.  For myself, between moments spent clinging to the beast for survival, I stared like a surprised child, absorbing as much of the surroundings as I could take in.

            Everything was so colorful in the sunlight.  The anniversary of my birth came as the summer waned, but I was warm with excitement.  I had lived so long by torchlight, too afraid of my stepmother to open my window, that I had forgotten the taste of wind, the smell of blossoms, the feel of life around me.  Indeed, I thought to myself that I had been dwelling in the abode of the dead.

            We rounded the last corner, the final bend before the town—and my new life—came into view.  One of the servants riding beside me, a horse trainer, uttered a command.  My mount slowed.  I glimpsed the town for the first time since childhood, and then I saw the people.

            There was music playing.  Simple music, a few pipes and a lute, but there was a joy in the sound that I had not experienced in years.  And with the sound, dancing in the streets.  I felt a tear slip from the corner of my eye as bells of laughter rang in the air.  The great emptiness I had carried since my father the King died, the wound that ached in my heart, felt—not yet healed, but at long last warm.  I had not smiled in days, years maybe, I didn’t know.  But, slowly, I smiled then.

            A few of the people stopped dancing to stare at me, and I writhed inside.  I wondered for the first time in years what I looked like—almost no alterations had been made to my appearance in preparation for this all-too public debut.  My wardrobe had only added tears and patches since my father the King had died.  My face was unwashed, and I had surely added a layer of grime in my rough travel here.  I brushed self-consciously at my skirts—washed recently enough, but worn almost through—as more pairs of eyes rested on me.  As though on some cue, two of the servants called at once over the crowd,

            “Hail, the Princess Snow White!”

            In the quiet moment that followed, I feared that the people would spurn me for my haggard appearance.  Instead, a cheer rose up that did not end for several minutes.

            The night of my fourteenth birthday might have been the most exhausted night of my life.  So unused was I to any exertion, merely the ride to and from town would likely have assured me a good night’s rest.  The hours of partying, not to mention the overwhelming adulation of the people, left me so tired that I had to be carried to my bed.  Yet, worn through though my body was, my mind raced with images of the day’s excursion.

            I had been asked to kiss every baby, dance to every tune.  The latter was a problem, as I had not danced in three years, and then not very well.  The people did not care.  They clasped my hands and pulled me along in the steps, laughing only from joy, never in mockery of my fumbling feet.

            Tears flooded my eyes as I recalled the almost reverent way every man, woman, and child had bowed or curtsied as I left.  For the first time in years, I felt appreciated, special.  I felt loved.

            Finally I drifted off to sleep, a small smile fixed on my lips.

Snow White/Little Red Riding Hood - Whole First Chapter

Obviously you already have the beginning of this, but here is the whole first chapter of this story.  No real editing has been done to it.

PART ONE

WINTER

CHAPTER ONE

Names are funny things.  They seem to somehow define a person.  And yet, a name given at birth may not be a person’s true name.  Or, as in my case, the name that defines a person may change during their life.  I have two names, and you’ve probably heard them both.  You just don’t know that they belong to me.

            Once upon a time, I was born in a palace by the sea.  A perfect, pink baby with a head covered in a dark dandelion-puff of hair.  And it was then that I was given my first name: Snow White.

            My mother died shortly thereafter.  Sad, but for me, life without a mother was the norm—I could hardly mourn her as an infant.  And I had nurses and nannies to mother me.  Tragic as it sounds, I did not miss having a mother too much.  That is, I did not miss the mother I never knew until she was replaced.

            My father, the King, remarried when I was young.  The only things I remember about the wedding are how beautiful my stepmother looked in her wedding gown and a sweet-looking old lady who sat down the pew from me.  The old woman winked and smiled at me; my stepmother did not.

            After the ceremony I asked my father, the King, about the old lady.

            She’s my mother, he told me quickly.  Then he followed his new bride out of the room.

            I tell this story because there are two important names to remember in it—and neither is a given name.  The first is stepmother.  And while most stepmothers are good and kind and may, in time, earn the name mother, mine was not that way.  In point of fact, she was as wicked as they come.

            But the next name you must remember is a cozy name, a safe name.  It is the true-name of my father’s mother.  And that name is Granny.

            Granny had, of course, a given name, which will be revealed in due time.  But the name that describes her is the name of a caretaker, a name of family.  A name of a friend.

            And what of my name?  What person does it describe?  Who is Snow White?  Well, dear reader, that is for you to find out.

            My early youth was privileged, as one might expect for a princess.  While the nation, of course, was his first priority, my father the King took time to show me that I was important as well.  Even from my toddling days he taught me a love for and fealty to my people.  Always, always, their needs were paramount.  Their desires were heard.  Their dreams were sought.  And as my father the King taught this, I believed it.  His instruction became ingrained in my soul, as much a part of my mind as breath was a part of my lungs—stemming from a separate source than within, but inescapably connected.

            Then she came.  Stepmother.  So beautiful that to look at her almost ached—a light too bright to gaze on for any extended time.  But somehow, I never viewed her as my father’s equal.  She did not seem to comprehend things as he did, as I did.  With all of her outward splendor, she seemed to me to be little more than winter sunshine.  Glowing beauty, radiance, but with no true substance.

            By contrast, Father, the King, was a light born of flame.  Not as obviously beautiful, but so warm that no one cared how he appeared.  And while, like fire, he might burn, it was only those foolish enough to provoke his wrath who endured such pain.

            You may have noticed that my father had two true-names.  Perhaps, in “husband,” he had three, but to me he was ever Father, and ever the King.

            And then he was gone.  My father the King was lain in the ground.  He lived only in memory and in the rest of God.

            One would hope that for a suddenly fatherless child of nine, a mother would come to ease the grief.  Someone who deserved the name of “mother.”  But I had only the woman who had bought my father’s love with her beauty.  She cared nothing for me and I, having no one to claim the available title of mother, found myself very much alone.

            So we come to my years of isolation.

            I told you that I found myself alone.  This is true.  However, I also made myself alone.  For with the death of my father the King, I stopped investigating what the name “Snow White” defined.  I ceased almost any attempt to discover myself.  It did not seem to matter very much without Father to guide me.  I shrank within myself, surviving, existing, but refusing to live.

            If it is we, and not fate, that define our characters, then at this time—and for a very long time—I shaped the definition of “Snow White” into “a girl alone.”

            So what did I do with myself?  All of those days, all the months stretching into years, lonely but not recognizing that sorrow for what it was—what did I do with the time?

            Truthfully, much of my life was regimented.  Not by mandate, for no one in the palace either dared or bothered to give me orders, but by habit.  After a few days of sleeping away my mourning, my eyes opened daily of their own accord around seven in the morning.  Loathing, as I always had, the feeling of being trapped by quilts and sheets, I arose quickly.  No servants came to aid me, for the Queen—no, that name, though she seized it, was never truly hers; my Stepmother—had assigned all of my maids to herself.  So I dressed alone and in silence.  Hungry, I learned the path to the kitchens and ate at the servants’ table.  Perhaps I would have joined in their conversations, but none of the servants breakfasted as late in the morning as I did.  I ate in isolation.

            In the beginning I wandered the palace and gardens, restless and yet listless, plodding on because I yearned to do something.  Though I did not realize it then, I think I was searching for a way to live up to the name of “Princess”—a name I was given, but had not yet earned.  The emptiness of that name drove me, but without a clear path to follow, it drove me from nothing to nothing, moving ceaselessly within a great void.

            For a few weeks walking served to fill my purposelessness, desperate need for movement.  Until the day that I encountered my stepmother.

            I had stepped cautiously into the empty throne room, gazing around in horror.  Gone were all traces of my ancestors, including my father the King.  Where stately stone and gorgeous tapestries had once guarded the nation’s ruler, there was now opulence of a sickeningly excessive sort.  The stone was entirely gilded, which might have been extraordinarily lovely if there were warm summer sunlight to glint off of it, in hues cast by the colored windows.  But the great portals to the outside world had been draped in heavy, sun-stopping black.  The only light in the room shone from torches that hung bracketed to the walls with cruel, spiked bands.  The whole room felt dark, sinister, wicked.  The carpet, once the red of a rose, now seemed bloody and grotesque.  Worst of all, my father’s simple dark-wood throne, carved for comfort rather than to impress, a symbol of the King he had been, was gone.  In its place was a golden, high-backed chair, glittering with jewels that appeared to be tainted by some inescapable evil.

            I stood gasping, transfixed by the atrocious display.  I did not notice my stepmother’s soft footfalls.  Then, suddenly, a door slammed shut, the noise ripping me from my reverie.

            In a room that made everything else seem ugly, my stepmother was all the more glorious.  It was as though she had sapped the beauty from all around her, claiming it for herself, leaving everything else desolate.  I felt myself tremble in fear under her gorgeous stare.

            She said nothing, spared me no more than a long glance.  She crossed the room, her scarlet dress trailing behind her.  I glanced down at my own gown, lovely enough in its own right in my chamber that morning.  Now the mourning-black seemed my shroud, as all life in the room surely must have been pulled into my stepmother as she sat upon her shining throne.

            I ran.  Fear had gripped me, though of what I did not know.  I was certain only that to remain in my stepmother’s presence would have meant the death of my very soul.

            After this meeting, I whiled all of my days in my tower.  If I felt compelled to move, I paced.  If I hungered, I sent a note to have a meal delivered.  I spoke to no one, and no one spoke to me.  I kept my own company and lived through books.

            In this manner I passed three years.  I dare say that there has never been a soul as aquainted with loneliness as I.  I lived on for no other reason than an animal desire to survive.

            I grew pale.  So terribly, terribly white.  Contrasted to the natural black of my uncut hair, the blood-red of my lips, I began to grow—though I did not realize it—into a beauty to rival my stepmother.  Yet somehow, perhaps due to my father the King’s lasting teachings, I did not develop my stepmother’s icy manner.  She was winter, and I the flower waiting to bloom until the cold has passed.  And indeed, though I could not see it, my time for growth would come.

A Word About Brainstorming and Snow White/Little Red Riding Hood (opening)

I'm going to take a break from my usual format to talk about an important part of the writing process: brainstorming and prewriting.  For me, the two are one conglomerate step.  It all starts with a question.  Here is the one that has been bugging me of late:

1. In Snow White, why does the huntsman return to the Queen?  After he fails to kill Snow White, I mean.  After all, if the woman is fond of ripping out human hearts, she's likely to recognize a non-human one.  And (again), if she habitually removes human hearts, shouldn't the huntsman be a little nervous about letting her down?

Next on my list of SnowWhite thoughts is this--Snow White, like Little Red Riding Hood, finds herself in trouble in the woods.  What if they were one character?

From this question stemmed this stuff:

Plus several pages of notebook paper.

Don't read it too closely.  If, by some miracle, you can decipher it, it will give away the ending to this story.

Here's the beginning of this story, anyway:

                Names are funny things.  They seem to somehow define a person.  And yet, a name given at birth may not be a person’s true name.  Or, as in my case, the name that defines a person may change during their life.  I have two names, and you’ve probably heard them both.  You just don’t know that they belong to me.

                Once upon a time, I was born in a palace by the sea.  A perfect, pink baby with a head covered in a dark dandelion-puff of hair.  And it was then that I was given my first name: Snow White.

                My mother died shortly thereafter.  Sad, but for me, life without a mother was the norm—I could hardly mourn her as an infant.  And I had nurses and nannies to mother me.  Tragic as it sounds, I did not miss having a mother too much.  That is, I did not miss the mother I never knew until she was replaced.

                My father remarried when I was young.  The only things I remember about the wedding are how beautiful my stepmother looked in her wedding gown and a sweet-looking old lady who sat down the pew from me.  The old woman winked and smiled at me; my stepmother did not.

                After the ceremony I asked father about the old lady.

                She’s my mother, he told me quickly.  Then he followed his new bride out of the room.

                I tell this story because there are two important names to remember in it—and neither is a given name.  The first is stepmother.  And while most stepmothers are good and kind and may, in time, earn the name mother, mine was not that way.  In point of fact, she was as wicked as they come.

                But the next name you must remember is a cozy name, a safe name.  It is the true-name of my father’s mother.  And that name is Granny.

                Granny had, of course, a given name, which will be revealed in due time.  But the name that describes her is the name of a caretaker, a name of family.  A name of a friend.

                And what of my name?  What person does it describe?  Who is Snow White?  Well, dear reader, that is for you to find out.

Otheron (Part One)

This is the very beginning of another original work.  No editing as yet, but what do you think of the opening?

PROLOGUE

                The city will wake.

                This is the product of no prophecy on my part; it’s simply sense.  Even with all I have not learned about the Vaddi, I do know this.  The day will come when dawn ends their rest.  And Otheron will fall.

                I have no desire for this.  I love my city; I have fought hard to defend it.  Yet, my nature is not a deceptive one.  I cannot pretend away the troubles of the future any more than I can forget the problems of the past.  Would that I could.

                I do not know when.  I do not know all of the destruction that it will bring.  But I do know this:

                The city will wake.

-Tennro the Impartial, Year One of the Division

CHAPTER ONE

Smoke rose from Otheron as Ton Visco Setter rode toward it.  It created a hazy silhouette, like giant shadow spirits of legend dancing in the sky against the backdrop of an ink-red sunset.  Visco barely noticed, intent as he was on arriving home.  His mother would be waiting supper for him.  Again.

This thought made the Ton sigh.  At twenty-seven, he ought to have a wife of his own now, and move out of his mother’s house.  But there was precious little time for courtship in his line of work; the few women he served with were tough, almost manly.  Visco wanted a girl who acted like… well, like a girl.  He sighed again.

“What for the sad sounds?”  Asked the rider to his left.  Ton Inne Jacco was new to the service, and newer still to Otheron.  His language skills were still broken, stuck halfway between the heathen Kitter of his childhood and the sacred Kytter of his recent years.  Visco had struggled past this barrier in order to befriend the man; however, this time he shook his head, feigning a lack of understanding.  Visco did not want to explain.  Unfortunately for him, Inne Jacco was a perceptive man.

“For the uldern, the women, yes?”  He asked.  Jacco shook his head, his tattooed facial muscles shifting.  “Too many, or too few?”

“Too difficult,” Visco said, choosing to respond after all.  He felt guilty for his pretended confusion before.  Seeing consternation on Jacco’s face, Visco rephrased.  “Not too many, not too few—just not the right one.”

“Who needs the right one?  Try again next time.”  Visco wrinkled his nose in disgust at Jacco’s blasphemy.  Jacco realized his mistake almost immediately.  “Need right one,” he observed, contradicting his earlier statement.  “One wife, bond for life.”  He chuckled quietly.  Visco assumed it was at the sound of the rhyme.

“Yes, Jacco.  Life.  No trying again.  No second wife to make up for the inadequacies of the first.  The way the Goddess intended it.”  Jacco nodded gravely, tapping his forehead with four fingers in reverence.

“Qalis the Husband forgive,” he said, his personal and abbreviated form of the penitence prayer.

                “And Raiia,” Visco suggested.

                “Raiia the Wife forgive,” Jacco said, nodding and tapping his forehead again.

                “Orders from Otheron!”  Came a new voice, shouting.  Visco turned his head toward the sound, halting his mount behind the captain’s.  Jacco stopped just short of Visco.

“What orders?”  The captain, Toni Grae Kowers asked.  The messenger said nothing, just stretched across the gap between mounts to give Kowers a sealed scroll.

Breaking open the seal immediately, Kowers unrolled the parchment, the scarlet ink reflecting the dying rays of the sun.  Whoever had written the orders had been in a hurry, not even waiting for the ink to dry before sending the scroll.  Visco began to chew on the inside of his cheeks from anxiety.  The captain turned.

“Setter,” he said to his second-in-command.  Visco nodded slightly in response to his name.  “Take Jacco, Yella, and… oh, take Reed.  Ride around the outside of the city.  Slowly.”

                “What would you have us find, Toni?”

                “Anything irregular.”

                “Sir?”

                “These orders come from the high priestess, Ton.  Do you need further information?”  Visco did not even bother to answer the Toni, just turned to the Tons behind him.  Jacco, Yella, and Reed separated themselves from the group, steering their mounts so that they stood behind Visco’s.

                “Very good, men,” Toni Kowers said.  He nodded once to the group, then signaled for the other men and women to follow him back to the city.  Visco rode in a different direction, leading his smaller crew to the Tons’ moat-gate.

                Mother would eat without Visco tonight.

                “Nothing, Ton,” Reed reported.  The woman’s face was set in a permanent scowl, but Visco knew by now that it was not meant for him.  So he nodded to Reed as he had to the others’ similar reports and turned his steed to the right, aiming for the city gate.

                “Ride on, Tons!”  He shouted above the ever-stronger wind.  It was fully dark now, and Visco wanted to get his crew home.

                It was just before Visco crossed over the inner moat that he saw something irregular.  He would never had noticed it if the wind had not been holding the plant life against the city wall.  But there, nestled close against the outer wall of Otheron, was a hole in the ground that was simply too large for an animal.

                “Ride on, men,” he grunted at his team, who were looking back at him.  He nudged his mount—a magnificent Orthox with gold and silver plumage—nearer to the hole.  Something sparkled in the corner of his eye, and he turned his head to focus on it.  Snow, he thought with an internal sigh.  Raiia the Wife curse it.  He shivered suddenly.  It’s just a hole in the ground, he thought, abandoning his curious inspection.  Time to go home.

                As Visco rode back toward the city, he noticed Reed lingering just inside the gate, waiting for him.

                “Yes, Ton?”

                “Something wrong?”

                “No, Reed.  It’s nothing.  Ride on.”

Dragon.: Introduction

This is the introduction to one of my finished and (shockingly) partly edited stories.  The title is Dragon.  It's meant to be funny... what do you think?

INTRODUCTION

There’s nothing quite like saving the world to make one truly awesome.  Not that I needed the help; I’ve always been superior in pretty much every way.  Still, it certainly can’t hurt your reputation to save thousands of lives from slavery and death.  I try to wear my exceptional achievements humbly—otherwise, I’d be completely unapproachable!

I suppose, if you’re going to read my story, I should tell you more about myself than just that I’m wonderful.  My name is Izznae—lovely to make my acquaintance, I’m sure.  I was born and raised in a volcano on the northern edge of the western continent.  Right now I’m blue, but I don’t think it will last; blue’s really not my color.  If you want to recognize me you might notice instead the longer snout we volcano-dwellers often have and the scar on my—

        I beg your pardon?  What are you confused about?  You—you didn’t know I was a dragon?  Excuse me, I’ll be right back.

        I’m sorry, I had to go laugh at you somewhere else, so I wouldn’t accidentally light this paper on fire.

        Oh, I see.  You didn’t think dragons could write, did you?  Of all the prejudiced notions.  Why would anyone assume that only humans had the ability to write?

        Never mind, I don’t have time to deal with your personal problems.  If you want me to care, write your own book, if you’re able.

        Ahem.

        What was I saying?  Ah, yes, the scar on my right wing, near the snorkius.

        How in Daiines could you not know what a snorkius is?  Didn’t you sing that song when you were little?  You know, “head, knopers, snorkius and jeed…” No?  Ah, well.  If you want to understand this story you’ll have to know more about dragons.  I suppose this means a diagram.  Hang on a minute.

[fig.1, dragon diagram with ridiculous labels]

        There now, did that help?  Yes, you can take a minute to glory in how incredibly awesome I am.  I know, right now you’re probably wishing we were friends so you could revel in the reflected light of my glory.  Too bad.  Humans are cool too, though.  I mean, you guys have…hair.  And, um, lips?  And livers—no dragon has a liver!  And, in my experience, a fair amount of courage.

[fig. 2, stick figure diagram]

        Oh, is that why you’re reading this?  To hear about my experience with human beings?  Well, lucky you.  That’s what I’m writing about.  Which, I guess, is why you picked up this book.  Well, then.  I’d best get on with the story.

Once Upon A Tome: Rumplestiltskin

Next two chapters.  No editing!

Chapter Ten

            Rumplestiltskin ordered me to go to sleep, and as I was totally exhausted, I complied.  I spread a bit of straw on the cold stone floor and curled up on top of it, wrapped in my traveling cloak for a blanket.  My arm formed my pillow.

            I expected to sleep fitfully, waking in the night.  Certainly I had enough on my mind—fears crept out from every corner, and for the first few minutes after I laid down I fixated on them.  What would happen to Papa and to me, what would happen if somehow, miraculously, I was wed to the Prince, and a general anxiety about the strange little man spinning a few feet away.  Yet, to my surprise, I fell asleep readily, lulled by the sound of the spinning wheel.

            I dreamed of Mammy.  Perhaps because the sound of the spinning wheel reminded me of her; I don’t know.  But in my dream she was well and loving, and she stroked my cheek and sang to me—her voice, in contrast to Papa’s, sounded like an angel’s.  When I woke, I was comfortable and well-rested, and for a moment I forgot where I was.

            When it all came flooding back, which, of course, it did, I sat up immediately and stared around the room.

            My mouth dropped open of its own accord, and I can hardly blame it.

            There was no straw to be found in the entire room.  Even the pile I’d slept on was gone.  In its stead were cones upon cones of bright, golden thread.  Nervously, I fingered it, fearing that I was still dreaming.

            I heard the clattering of footsteps on the stairs above me.  I brushed my hair out of my face and dashed to the chair by the spinning wheel, trying to look unsurprised by the golden masses around me.  There was a knock at the door.

            Yes?  I asked, worry teething on the inside of my stomach.  The door swung open.

            Papa entered first, his eyes widening at the sight before him.  He was followed by many well-dressed servants and well-armed soldiers.  Finally, the King entered.  He looked around for a moment.  Then he snapped his fingers and pointed to a servant.

            You, he barked.  Bring me thread.  The servant dashed to collect a cone of the stuff, then ran back to the King.  Bowing, he placed the cone of thread in the King’s gloved hand.

            The King inspected it, much as I had, by twisting and feeling it.  Then he handed the cone back to the servant.

            Take this to the Royal Jeweler.  I must know if it is truly gold, or if it is just some trick.  The servant ran again, out of my sight, though I could hear him pounding his way up the stairs.

            There’s not as much as I thought there would be, the King commented, looking me in the eye for the first time.  I collected my courage, then replied.

            That’s part of the magic, I think, my Lord.  I told him.  It may look like more when it’s melted down and turned into coins?  My sentence ended as a question; the King’s stare frightened me.

            Perhaps.  He said.  But it is not enough.  Not enough?  I wondered.  He continued.  You will be taken upstairs, where you will be fed, bathed, and dressed, and then I will test your intelligence.  After that test is finished, you will eat, and return here.  There will be more straw.  Tonight you will spin again.

            I spluttered; rage and fear battled for prominence inside my head.

            Fear won out.  I bowed my head meekly, and allowed myself to be led from the room.  I would have to find a way to get the spinning done again.

            The bath turned out to be wonderful.  Palace servants were better than I was at getting the water hot enough, and their soaps were softer and smelled nicer than the kind we used at home.  What’s more, when I got out, I was dried with towels that I swear were made of clouds, then spritzed with perfume that smelled heavenly.  To top it all off, my maids (I had maids!) dressed me in a gown such as I had never seen: petal-pink, and soft on my skin.  The top was close-fitted, and at the waist it flared into a full skirt that trailed behind me just a bit.  The sleeves flared like the skirt, but were gathered at my elbow.  It was gorgeous, and when I saw myself in the looking-glass, I could only stare.

            I was still very much in the habit of thinking of myself as a girl, despite the fact that I had long ago begun experiencing womanhood.  But now, looking at myself clean, in that dress, I saw a woman staring back at me.  Faintly I heard a knock at the door, and a maid opened it.  I wasn’t fully aware of this flurry of activity until Papa’s face appeared behind me in the mirror.

            It’s like seeing your mother again, he said.

            Not quite, I replied.  I have your strong chin, and your ruddy cheeks.

            And you are all the lovelier for them, my dear, he said, and kissed my cheek.

            I wondered, later, why I did not confess everything to Papa then.  We took a walk around the stunning palace gardens together—carefully watched over by guards—and he asked me about the night before.  I said little, changing the subject as soon as I could.

            How did you know, Papa?

            The magic window.  I remembered it when I saw you in the cupola, and—forgive me, but I spied on you.  I had to be sure you weren’t trading your greatest gift for our survival.

            It never crossed my mind, Papa.  Since Mammy, I confess, I’ve feared the touch of a man.  Papa sighed.

            I hope the Prince doesn’t arouse such fears in you, my dear, he said.  We walked in silence for a moment.  Then, in a small voice, I asked the question that had been plaguing me since I saw the heaps of gold that morning.

            Do you really think I’m going to wed the Prince, Papa?

            Honestly?  Child, I do.  I think the King will consider you worthy of his son, and as Prince Stephen seems to have no say in the matter, it seems to be only a matter of time.  He paused.  I’m proud of you, my girl.  This is where you belong.

            I had nothing to say to that, so I stopped to inspect a chrysanthemum instead—I’d never seen one so large and full.

            Papa?  I asked.  Are you sure I could do it?  Be a princess, I mean, and one day a Queen?

            It’s what you were born for, Papa replied.

            I considered those words for a long time, but could think of no proof that he was right.

            The King summoned me to his throne room in the middle of the afternoon.  This surprised me; his throne room would be full of people, hardly a place for a closed conversation, as I imagined we were to have.  And when I arrived, I received another surprise: in a tight line leading out the door and down the hall were a series of commoners intermixed with nobles of varying degrees of importance.  In a sudden moment of understanding I realized—today was Thursday, the day the King opened his court to pleas from all of his people.

            I stood uncertainly in the back of the room for a few moments before the King noticed me.  When he did, he waved me over to a chair that stood next to, if far below, his throne.  I noticed that the thrones next to it—presumably for Queen Arrel and Prince Stephen—were vacant.  I considered this as I crossed the room, wondering if the Prince was forbidden to see me, or if he was avoiding me of his own free will.  Before I could give the matter proper thought, however, I reached the chair the King had motioned me toward and, with a look from my ruler, sat in it.

            I knew I ought to be awed and grateful; to sit in the presence of the King was a gift granted to few.  But I had room in my heart only for nervousness.  I sat on the edge of my chair and touched my veils to check that they were in place—I had worn them at Papa’s suggestion, and the King, thankfully, approved.

            It was prudent to cover your face, the King said, leaning toward me, the people must not become attached to you before we know if you are to wed my son.  And with a face like yours, they would likely become attached.  I will count that choice as a point in your favor.  And, indeed, the King raised a finger to a servant standing beside him who held a large slate.  The servant nodded and made a mark that I could only assume, unable as I was to see it, meant that I had done well.

            Thank you, Sire, I said.  I was beginning to get over my fear of him, if only a little.  He had, I noticed, deep creases in his face that showed him to be a frequent smiler, and this encouraged me.  Still, it took a great deal of courage for me to ask him my next question.

            You said this was to be a test, my Lord.  May I know what kind?  To my astonishment, the King smiled at me for the first time.

            Yes, he said simply.  I want to see how you would respond to the requests of the people.  Every time you give a clever solution to a problem, a point will be granted in your favor.  If you answer foolishly, or have no answer at all, a point will be given in the negative.  At the end of the day, we will see how you stand.  I nodded.  Have you no questions?  He asked.

            No, I said, I don’t think so.  It’s simple enough.  And it makes sense.  I may have access to money and—forgive me—reasonable beauty, but those qualities are not enough to make me a good Queen.  You must know if I could rule your people justly and intelligently.

            Just so, the King said, and looked pleased.  He seemed about to say something else when a question did occur to me.

            Sire, I said, may I ask you something after all?  He nodded that I might, and I swallowed, forcing my anxieties down.  How will you test if I will make your son happy?  He gave me a blank look, and I rushed into an explanation.  Surely, after the fiasco of your first marriage, you must want someone who—who… I faltered then.  Somehow, for some reason, I had spoken to the King without reservation, as though I were his equal.  Sitting on the dais, gazing at the hopeful people—thinking of them as potential subjects—I had quite forgotten, for a moment, that I was only a miller’s daughter.  Forgive me, my Lord, I gasped.  I should not have—I am so sorry—  I bit my lip, and my hand flew to my throat to grasp Mammy’s necklace.  With a jolt, I remembered that it was gone.  I dropped my hand and my eyes into my lap, praying that the King would spare my life.  Silence bloomed until I could no longer bear it and, lip still caught in my teeth (which thankfully did not show beneath my veils), I looked up into the King’s face.

            He did not, to my relief, look angry.  Surprised, certainly, and given my audacity, he had every right to be.  But there was no rage in his face.  It struck me suddenly that the King was, as far as I knew, very calm, and that I liked that quality.  I hoped it had been passed on to Prince Stephen.

            Finally the King spoke.

            You are quite correct, Miss—Miss—I don’t know your name, he said, sounding almost apologetic.

            Alder.  Meia Alder, my Lord, ever at your service.

            Thank you, Miss Alder.  I think you are frightened.  But your question was a wise one, and I shall answer it.  I blinked rapidly in surprise.  He would?  He went on.  It is true that I would not wish events such as I suffered to befall my son.  And for that reason, I have discarded every maiden who has tried for his hand, noble to peasant.  I have allowed them to chase after him, despite the irregularity of the situation, because I want someone who wants my son, who chooses him.

            But, Sire, I haven’t so much as seen the Prince, how could I know if—I stopped, realizing I had interrupted the King.  He raised his eyebrows at my abrupt rudeness, but continued.

            But I have refused every one that has tried, because they all fell short of my standards.  Some were unintelligent, some were cruel, some were selfish…the list goes on.  I am searching for a person with all the qualities I want both in a Queen and in a wife for my beloved son.  I will not give up until I have found her.

            And—I began.

            Yes?

            What if your son doesn’t like the woman you pick?  There was a moment of silence while the King considered.

            Then I shall have to search again, he answered simply.  I nodded, to show my understanding, but my mind was full of thoughts and realizations.  This is a good man, I realized.  A man who loves his son and his country both.

            Just then, the King clapped his hands together, leaning toward the young man cowering at the front of the line.  I had no more time to consider the King’s character after that, for my mind was filled with other things. 

I did not realize it then, but it was at that moment that I first began to want to be Princess—because somehow, in my heart, I knew that a man raised by the King would be just as good.  And maybe, just maybe, he would be good enough for me.

Chapter Eleven

As I sat in the not-quite dungeon that night, still in my pink dress, but having removed my veils, I contemplated the day’s work.  We, the King and I, had listened to petition after petition, and I had found, to my surprise, a sort of joy in the work.

I was afraid at first, of course.  I feared giving the wrong answer, and I feared being marked down on that slate.  But the plea of the first young man had seemed so easy to me.

Your majesty, he’d said, giving me a curious glace out of the corner of his eye.  I’m the second son of my father, and my brother inherited all of Father’s holdings, and he refuses to share.  I can’t join the military in peacetime, and there is no room for me among our local clergymen—the priests tell me they have too many new young men as it is.  There’s no space.  In fact, in all the town, there’s no one who would take me on as anything—except the blacksmith.  He says he would take me as apprentice.  I wouldn’t mind the work, neither, only I can’t pay the apprenticeship fee.  So I wondered—I wondered whether I might get a job here, in the city.  He looked at the King hopefully, although I could tell he was nervous by the way he twisted his hat in his hands.  The King looked at me.

I defer to your wisdom, Miss Alder, he said.  Taken aback a bit, it took me a moment to answer, and the King eyed me with impatience.  Miss Alder?  There are many petitioners, and the day is only so long—

I’m sorry, my Lord, I apologized.  Then I turned my attention to the man quivering before me.

What is your name?  I asked.

Miss?

Your name, good man.

El-Elbert, Miss.

Very well, Elbert.  Do you mind if I ask you a question?  Elbert looked to the King, who only nodded at him.

I suppose—I suppose I don’t mind, no, Miss.

I wonder.  What will happen in your town if the blacksmith gets no apprentice?

I hadn’t…thought, Miss.  I suppose he will die, eventually, and then there will not be a blacksmith in town.

And would that be a problem for your community?  I asked.

Y-yes, Miss.  I come from a town of farmers, and plow pieces and chains and other tools are always being fixed or replaced.

So it would be better, wouldn’t it, if you were to take the job as the blacksmith’s assistant?

But, Miss, the apprenticeship fee—

Tell me, Elbert.  Is your brother a man who likes to save money?

Well, Miss, I don’t know a man alive who ain’t.  I smiled, wishing Elbert could see that he’d amused me.

True enough, I said, a bit of laughter in my voice.  I suggest this, then: offer your brother a deal.  Tell me, do you know what a sponsor is?

Someone—who pays for someone else to do something, and gets something—services—in return, isn’t it?

Well said, Elbert, I replied, and he grinned shyly at me.  What I suggest is this: offer your brother a deal.  If he will sponsor you, pay your apprenticeship fee, you will give him free smithing for the rest of his life.

But Miss, I would do that anyway, he is my brother—

Does he know that?  And finally, a real smile split Elbert’s face as he understood what I was telling him.  He bowed deeply to the King, then uncertainly to me.

Thank you, Miss.  You are wisdom itself.  And—Sire—thank you.  Thank you.  He bowed again, then turned to exit the room, practically running in his excitement.

The people in line shuffled as the next person came to the front, but my eyes were on the King.  A small smile graced his face; he looked at me.

That, he said, was quite well done and clever.  And with that, he waved to the servant to add a point in my favor.  Knowing full well that the King couldn’t see it, I smiled broadly.

I paused my reminiscing, staring bleakly around the room.  Straw everywhere, and I had no power to turn it to gold.  Why was this so difficult, when advising the King’s people seemed so easy?  Another memory of the day caught my attention.

My Lord, the nobleman said, sweeping a bow with one too many flourishes.  I come to you with a most desperate need.  I only pray that you can help me.

Yes, Lord Benson, what is it?  The King asked, a touch of impatience in his tone.  I got the impression that this Lord Benson was a bit of a drain on the King.

It is a matter of utmost importance, my liege—

Yes, I’m sure it is.  What is the issue?

It’s Lord Freedan’s hedges, Lord Benson gushed.  The ones that separate my western border from his eastern one.  I stared at the man; surely he had not come to pester the King about hedges?  The King looked to me, indicating that I should take control of the conversation.

Pardon me, Lord Benson, I said hesitantly.  His—hedges?

Yes, Miss, he replied, looking relieved that the issue was being addressed so readily.  They’re out of control.  They haven’t been trimmed in a year, and this makes my lands look unkempt.  I won’t have it.

Have you tried talking to Lord Freedan?  I asked, my tone now touched with impatience.  The King snorted quietly, and I suspected he was amused by my annoyance.

I sent him a letter, Lord Benson said primly.

And did he reply?

He did.  I waited, but Lord Benson was not forthcoming.

What did he say? I asked finally.

He said that if I wanted the hedges trimmed, I could do it myself.  He harrumphed, as though he were reporting an insult.

Well, then, I said, holding back the derision in my voice as best I could, I suggest that you have the hedges trimmed, my Lord.

Lord Benson grumbled a bit, and appealed to the King, but the King declared that my decision stood, and sent him on his way.

A knock interrupted my ponderings.  Sitting up straighter, I called for the knocker to enter.  As I had hoped, the servant from the night before entered, smiling at me.  I gestured for him to take a seat on one of the bales of straw, and he did.

How are you, Miss?  He asked.  I felt my smile grow wider; there was such kindness in his voice, it made me happy just to hear him speak.

Well, thank you.  And yourself?

I am extremely curious.

Curious?

You didn’t finish your story, he explained.  I laughed.

Oh.  I paused.  Would you like me to?

Very much.

So I began to talk again.  The story flowed out of me quite easily until I reached the bit about losing the ability to spin straw into gold.  I faltered just before explaining it, pausing the story awkwardly.

And—the King—he sent you down here?  To spin?  I nodded, grateful that he hadn’t seemed to notice the break in my tale.

You know, Miss, I’d love to see—Shouts drifted down from upstairs again, and the boy sighed.  Perhaps some other time.  I must go.  I nodded to him as graciously as I could.  He bowed, smiled one last time, and was gone.

I was left alone in the cold stone room to contemplate my fate.

I had to get the straw spun; that was certain.  I couldn’t do it myself; that was also certain.  Rumplestiltskin could, I knew that.  But how to get him to come?

It seemed my tears had brought him the night before.  Seeing no other available options, I worked myself into a proper fit—I thought of Mammy, of those gruesome last moments of her life.  It was a trick that never failed me; within moments, tears were sliding down my cheeks.  I leaned forward, letting them drip onto the floor.  One.  Two.

Three.

I looked up, hoping for the loud noise and the column of smoke.

Nothing happened.

Real tears began to slide down my cheeks then.  If he did not come, I was doomed.  I had no way to call him.

I caught my breath, stopping the flow of tears.  Perhaps that was all that was needed.  Perhaps I needed to call him.

Rumplestiltskin?  I whispered.

BANG!

Smoke rose again in a column, and I leaped to my feet in joy.  The strange little man-thing stood there, a sneaky-looking grin on his face.

Princess he said, sketching a slight bow.

Rumplestiltskin.  He leered at me, although I think he meant it to be a grin.  He slid off the pile of straw he sat on, landing lightly on the stone below.

What can I do for you, milady?

I need your help again.  I need—I need you to spin this straw into gold.  Tonight.  His face was impassive.  Please, I added.  My life and my Papa’s life hang in the balance.

Not to mention your place as Queen, he replied cooly.

That is not certain yet.

Hmm.  He paused.  What will you give me?

That brought me up short.  I had nothing.

What do you want?  I asked in desperation.

Mmm.  A lock of your fine hair would do, Princess.

Without pausing to think, I grabbed the scissors and cut a small chunk from my golden head.  I handed the hairs to him, and Rumplestitslkin twisted them around his fingers and pocketed them.

Very well, Princess, he said.  We have a deal.  Go sleep in your corner; let me worry about the spinning.

I lay nervously, listening to the sound of the spinning wheel and of Rumplestiltskin’s cheerful whistling, which made me shiver.  But when I finally drifted off to sleep, it was with thoughts of a kind voice, and listening ears, and those green, green eyes.

I woke to the sound of knocking at the door.  I barely had time to marvel at the repeated miracle of the gold as I rushed to open the door.  The King stood there, followed by his attendants.  He spared me only a glance before turning his attention to the room behind me.  He smiled, although not in the kind way he had smiled at me the day before.

Well done, Miss Alder, he said finally, looking at me properly for the first time.  He reached out and tugged something from my hair; I saw straw in his hand as he pulled it away.

Thank you, Sire, I said, holding my breath.  Surely now he would tell me if I was to become his son’s wife.  But no, instead, he said,

It’s still not enough.

Not enough?  I asked blankly, looking over my shoulder at the room filled with gold.  How is this not enough?

Our treasury has been running low of late, Miss Alder.  We need more gold.  You will spin again, it is as simple as that.  He turned back toward the stairs, ignoring the outrage on my face.

Fine.  I said, ice in my voice.  Fine.  Once more I will spin for you.  But once only.  And then you will let me and my father go free, and you will never demand anything of us again.  The King turned slowly, met my eyes.

You spin for me one last time, the King said, and you will wed my son.  I held his gaze for a long moment, then offered him my hand.

You have a deal, Sire.

As I ate my afternoon meal, I pondered the rash decision I had made.  Would I have to marry Prince Stephen now, even if I didn’t like him?  And would I like him?  I was afraid that he was as greedy as I now knew his father was; the King was a good King, and even a decent man, but he had flaws that I would not wish in a husband.

I confided nothing of my fears to Papa.  He was thrilled; as far as he knew, I had been spinning the straw and would do it just as easily tonight.  He kept smiling at me over mouthfuls of the palace’s rich food, and squeezing my shoulder or my hand, and telling me that I should be happy.  Yet, I could not appease him.  I was filled with too much anxiety to even pretend at being happy.  I dreaded what the night might bring.

The trouble was, I had nothing left to give Rumplestiltskin.  I searched through my things for anything of value, but, as I’d expected, found nothing.

I barely saw Papa all day.  It was strange for me, having seen him every day of my life, but I was secretly almost glad; he would be so pleased with the deal I’d made with the King, and I wasn’t sure I was.

I was bathed again, and dressed again, this time in a stunning powder-blue gown covered in pearls.  This would be my every day if I were Princess, I thought.  This inevitably led me to thinking again of the Prince and of the inexorably approaching evening, when I would have to face Rumplestiltskin.  What to do?

My thinking was interrupted by the King’s advisor, who brought me down to a parlor where two other advisors waited.

Sirs?  I asked hesitantly.  What can I do for you?

Sit down, Miss Alder, the first one said.  I sat as daintily as I could, not wanting to muss my dress.  I looked at the advisors expectantly, and they looked back at me.

What can I do for you?  I asked again.

It seems likely that you are going to wed young Prince Stephen, one of the men, in blue robes and an odd hat, replied.  Therefore, the King would like to begin your education in politics and diplomacy immediately.

Oh.  I said.

There—that.  That is where we will begin.  Gracious responses.  Said the oldest advisor.  I sighed internally, but sat up straighter still and looked on expectantly.

Alright.  What do I do?

The advisors worked with me right until meal time, testing how gracious I could be, what I knew of our nation’s history and politics.  They were surprised at how well I did, I think, but such things had always come easily to me.  Papa said it was because I was Mammy’s daughter.

Finally, I finished choking down my evening meal and was ushered down those long wooden steps to the chamber filled with straw.  I sighed when I saw it, and the maid—a woman named Sasha—patted me on the back for good luck.

The only good thing about being confined to that room was the knock that came about half an hour after I arrived.  I bid the visitor enter, and in came my friend the serving boy.  I smiled at him, despite all the turmoil in my heart.

Hello, Miss, he said, bowing.

Hello.

Rumor in the palace is that you’re to wed the Prince, he said, sitting on a heap of straw.  I flushed; I hadn’t expected him to ask me about this, and I wasn’t entirely glad that he had.

If I can get all of this spun, then yes.  Assuming the King keeps his word, and the Prince wants to marry me, and—I’m sorry.  You don’t need to hear about my problems.

I don’t mind.

Really, please.  Tell me about yourself.

Not much to tell.  My mother ran off when I was young, leaving my father to raise me.  I’ve been…working in the palace my whole life.

You may think me an idiot for not realizing the truth at this moment; perhaps I was.  But, in my own defense, I was mesmerized by his eyes—the depth, the character in them.  He had been so kind to me, and I felt—against my usual sentiments—safe in his presence.  I didn’t realize it then, but I had developed feelings for this serving boy.  However, I was new to the sensation, and only knew at the time that I enjoyed his company.

We continued to talk.  We discussed everything, it seemed, although the conversation seemed mostly to revolve around me, around my life.  At last, he pulled out a pocket watch.

Gracious, Miss, it’s well past midnight, he said.  I have to get to bed, and you have straw to spin.  He stood, and bowed.  Can I do anything for you before I go?

No, I said, a bit sadly.  His departure forced me to face the realities I’d been avoiding.  Thank you.  For everything.  I have thoroughly enjoyed your company these past evenings.  I hope… I bit my lip momentarily.  I hope it would not be too forward of me to call us friends.

Not at all, Miss.  He said.  I beamed at him.

Then rest well, my friend.

Good night.

Good night.

The door closed.  I stared at it for a moment.

Well past midnight! I remembered with a start.

Rumplestiltskin? I called out.  Rumplestiltskin!  All of the panic I’d suppressed throughout the day threatened to overwhelm me, but I needn’t have worried.  With a BANG! and a rush of smoke, the weird little man appeared.

Ah, Princess, he said in that mellifluous voice, what can I do for you tonight?  I swallowed.

I have nothing to offer in this moment, I began, and Rumplestiltskin frowned.

Then I will take my leave of you.  I do nothing for free.  Surely you know that.

Please—I begged.  Isn’t there anything I can promise you?  If the straw is spun tonight, I will be married to the Prince.  The King has sworn it.  I’ll have access to riches, and—and heirlooms, and—I don’t know what all.  But surely there is something you would want?  I give you my word, if it is in my power, I will see to it that you receive your payment.

Actually, Rumplestiltskin said, and something in his tone sent chills through me, there’s something you can give me now.  In the blink of an eye, he was standing in front of me, balancing on the straw so that we were eye-to-eye, despite his height.

What is it?  I asked, a tremble in my voice.

Kiss me, he said simply, and leaned in, placing a long-fingered hand behind my head and pulling my face nearer to his.

My mind flashed to Mammy.  For the second time in my life, I reacted without thinking to a man who came too close to me; as I had done with the other man—his name didn’t come to mind in the moment—I punched Rumplestiltskin in the mouth.  Then I stumbled backward, fearing his magic.

Rumplestitlskin stood, and brushed himself off.

Very well, he said, and the coldness in his voice was obvious now.  You can fail the King, and die, and your father with you.

I didn’t even pause to wonder how he knew so much about my situation.  I simply fell to my knees, heedless of the dirty floor staining my beautiful dress, and raised clasped hands in a gesture of supplication.

Please.  There must be something I can give.  He paused.

Actually, now that you mention it, there is something.

Yes?  What is it?

You’re to be married soon, if all goes well, yes?

Yes, I said, wondering where this was leading.

And once you’re married, you will… he paused and made a disgusted face.  Concieve?  He finished.  I felt myself flush to what I was sure was a bright red.

Yes, I said, yes I suppose so.

Then, sooner or later, you will bear a child.

That’s how it works, I believe.

Very well.  Very well.  Here is my price: I will spin this straw into gold for you one last time.  And in exchange, when your first child is born, you will give the infant to me.

My mind raced.  How could Rumplestiltskin force me to keep such a promise?  When I was the Princess, I would have all kinds of guards to protect me and any children of mine.  I had no other way to get him to do the spinning, nothing else to trade.  And it seemed likely to me that, in whatever hole he certainly lived in, he would not know when my baby was born.  Even if he did, he surely would not want to raise a child.

I know that I was rationalizing what was, in fact, a terrible thing.  But fear makes fools of us all, and I was afraid down to my toes.   Even more, I was desperate.  Papa’s life and mine were at stake, and I could see no other way out.  Confessing the truth to the King was not an option.  Spinning the straw myself was not an option.  There was only one way out.

You have a deal, I said, and thrust out my hand.