Chapter
One
My Mammy died when I was six. Practically speaking, I should have grieved
for a time and then moved on. After all,
I was left with only a child’s idealized memories of the woman—kind and gentle,
warm, loving, and exquisitely beautiful.
Unfortunately, life does not always flow in a practical manner. My mother’s death consumed my life beyond my
own will or choice.
The trouble with my mother was that
she was exquisitely beautiful. As her daughter, I would have idolized her
even if she had worn the hideous face of a troll. This was hardly the case. My Mammy—Niera—was the kind of woman for whom
grown men stopped in the street, stuttered a hello, and then remained frozen in
the act of tipping their hats for some ten minutes. She was that lovely. Papa always swore that she ought to have been
a queen instead of a miller’s wife, and she in turn declared that she would
rather be queen of the mill with Papa and me than rule over the whole kingdom
without us. My parents loved each other
desperately. Which, I assume, is why Mammy’s death struck Papa so horribly.
My mother’s extreme beauty was also
her summons to execution, in a way.
Coming home from market late one evening, she was accosted by three foul
men who were drifting through town. They
refused to let her pass by them and continue home. I’ve often imagined their conversation.
Even’ng,
ma’am.
Good evening.
Hey there—lady, don’t run off and leave us so fast. Give us each a kiss before you go. If you’re lucky, we’ll give you more’n that,
too.
I try to stop imagining the scene after
that; Mammy trying to excuse herself politely, as was her nature, then becoming
more frenzied and desperate as the men forced her to stay. I don’t like imagining her screams echoing
off the lonely hills. I don’t want to
know all that led to the conclusion—my uncle finding her body, half buried,
rotting, four days later. She’d been
beaten, raped, and finally strangled.
Papa didn’t let me go to the trial. In a
way I’m glad; those who were there tell me that Mammy’s killers described what
they did to her in awful detail, gloating about it even, until Papa broke one
man’s jaw. I wasn’t allowed to go to the
hanging, either, but I watched it by climbing up into the cupola and peering at
the Square through the old enchanted window Papa had forgotten. I thought it would help, seeing them
die. In the end, though, their
faces—what I could make out of their faces—just stalked my dreams. That wasn’t why they changed my life, though.
Right after the hanging Papa came home
almost running. I’d never seen him hurry
that fast except when he was late to milk the cow, and maybe this was faster
yet. I dashed down from the attic when I
saw him, brushing the dust off myself, but I barely made myself presentable in
time to meet him. I knew he was coming
to see me: who else would he be running to like that, with Mammy dead? But he did not, as I expected, squeeze me
tight in his arms when he saw me. He
didn’t even smile. He just touched my face
and then he started crying.
Oh,
Meia.
What
is it, Papa?
Meia,
Meia. You look like her. You’re going to grow up to look like her.
Like
Mammy?
Yes,
like your Mammy.
But
Papa, wasn’t Mammy the prettiest girl you ever saw in your whole life?
Yes,
Meia. Yes she was.
Then
I want to look like her!
Oh,
Meia. I don’t want you to meet the same
fate as your mother did.
I
don’t understand, Papa.
It’s been thirteen years and eighty-two
days since my Mammy died. I understand
now.
* * *
Papa wasn’t the only one who thought
I looked like Mammy. The October I was
twelve people started noticing me.
Especially boys. I knew I was
pretty; I’d seen my reflection in pools and windows enough to recognize the
features that people called “fine.” I
had my mother’s high cheekbones and full lips, and my body was starting to
curve the way hers had. Most of all,
though, I had her golden cascade of hair.
I don’t mean Mammy and I had blonde hair; in sunlight it looked like it
was actually made of gold. Papa told me
once that it was the first thing he had noticed about Mammy.
That winter Papa talked to me
directly about Mammy’s death for the first time. Of course he still mentioned her, but it had
been “your mother used to—” or “before your mother died—“ for six years. He had told me no details about her
demise—what I knew I had learned from my uncle.
Yet this particular evening he asked me to sit down formally. He looked down at his hands for a while,
fingering his wedding band.
Meia.
Yes,
Papa.
You
know how your mother died? And why?
Uncle
told me.
Oh,
Meia.
It’s
alright, Papa. I wanted to know.
Meia. You look so much like your mother now.
Thank
you, Papa.
It…it
worries me. It frightens me for you.
Because
you’re afraid someone will hurt me like they did Mammy.
Yes.
I
understand, Papa. What do you want me to
do? Perhaps we should cut my face, so it
scars?
No,
Meia! I would never hurt you that way.
Then
how will we keep me safe, Papa?
It was after that conversation that
I started wearing a veil. I never left
the house without it. My face and hair
were concealed from everyone but myself and Papa every day, wherever I went.
Chapter
Two
Afternoon,
Meia.
Good
afternoon, Mrs. Chejs.
Conversations
at the well and market are so often touched with discomfort. My neighbors accepted my veils five and a
half years ago, but even so, the women in my town give me strange glances when
they think I’m not looking. Which is
foolish of them, really, because they never know when I’m looking where—the
veil over my eyes is sheer enough for me to see through it, but not for them to
see me. I’m not sure why they give me
those looks; a mix, I suppose, of envy—they think it’s a blessing to be so
beautiful that I have to hide my features all the time—and distrust—a natural
enough reaction to someone whose face one can’t see. I used to spy on them through the window in
the cupola, trying to understand their reasons for discomfort, but in the end I
decided that it was better to trust in my own guesses. Hearing gossip about myself was really rather
unpleasant, and I discovered the falsehood of more than a few friends that way.
How
is your father? I haven’t seen him in
these last two months.
He’s
well; and yourself?
I’m
also very well, thank you. Well, excuse
me, my water will get warm, I must be getting on.
Of
course.
I
was accustomed to people excusing themselves from my presence under any premise
they could think of. People in town
liked and trusted my father, though; he had been the only miller in the town
since he was seventeen and he inherited the business from his father. He kept up on the gossip in town almost as
well as Mammy had simply by talking with his customers while they waited for
their wheat to transform to flour between the millstones.
I
had an unusual visit today, he said to me one snowy afternoon.
A
visit? It’s not the season for grinding.
Not
a customer.
Someone
who wasn’t a customer came all the way up the hill to see us?
Yes.
What
did he want?
He
introduced himself as my competition.
Competition?
He
plans to open another mill on the other side of town.
Well
that’s nonsensical. There isn’t enough
grain grown here for two millers.
That’s
what I told him. He gave me an odd sort
of look, smiled, and said he knew.
Perhaps
he thinks he can bring people to his mill instead of ours?
Perhaps.
Don’t
worry about him, Papa. No one is going
to abandon the business they’ve trusted all their lives in favor of some new
mill run by an out-of-town stranger.
I
suppose you’re right, Meia.
Of
course I am, Papa. Nothing will change
around here.
I
certainly hope not.
I
looked through the window that night, searching the town for a newcomer—what’s
the reason for a magic window if not to do a bit of spying? I was usually quite adept at finding my
quarry, yet somehow the stranger eluded me.
I searched until my head began to ache, at which point I sat down on
Mammy’s rocking chair in the corner—I’d dragged it to this pinnacle of the
house years before when I saw how it depressed Papa—and rubbed away the
soreness in my temples.
Meia?
I stood and started for the
stairs. No sense dallying up here when
Papa needed me.
Chapter
Three
That winter was uneventful except
for two things: The first, I turned
eighteen—old enough to be married. And,
to my surprise, offers came for my hand.
Me, the girl they mocked in whispers.
Me the girl they hadn’t seen the face of since childhood. Me, the miller’s daughter, the girl with the
veil—I became the girl everyone wanted.
I think that was the mentality,
anyway. Not that they cared about my
happiness, or whether we would be well-suited to each other, but rather that I
was an impossible catch. A challenge. A game.
A dare. Thankfully, Papa
understood this too, and it angered him.
If he hadn’t had such a big heart, he would probably have married me off
for the dowry money—but my Papa and I were all each other had. As it was, I never feared.
There was a second thing that
happened that winter: the Crown Prince Stephen began searching for a maiden to
take to wife. Apparently the women at
court didn’t suit him, and a series of balls began in the capital—about twelve
miles from our little town—so that he could meet new women. I, of course, did not attend—we didn’t have
the kind of wealth expected of those invited.
Papa seemed sad about it, though, almost as if he wished that I, too,
could go charm the prince.
Despite these small changes, winter
proceeded as it always had—not being the season, very few customers came to the
mill—most people had their grain ground to flour already, and the ones who
struggled up the hill to see Papa were those who hadn’t planned ahead well
enough. We heard rumors from the
visitors that we did have, though, that the stranger was building a second mill
across town.
It’s
going up unnatural fast, Gerard. A
friend and neighbor, Mr. Rastle, said. But, I told my wife, I did—no one will go
there. Maybe a few outta curious, but
never enough to matter. I wouldn’t worry
none if I was you.
I’m
not worried, Thibaut, but thank you for your concern. As I told Meia, there simply isn’t enough
grown here for two mills. I wish the man
luck, but it will have to be in some other line of work. Perhaps I should send him a note to that
effect before he gets in over his head.
I
don’t guess it would help none, Gerard.
Even an idiot can see how small our town is, and he don’t strike me as
an idiot—leastways, he don’t talk like one.
He must have some sort of plan.
Could I get more coffee then, Meia?
I
spied on the new mill with my window that night. The new man stood in front of a snow-covered
frame millhouse, hands on his hips in what I assumed was frustration. I could see why; with the snow as deep as it
was, work on the building would have to stop for at least a week. I couldn’t imagine why the man had decided to
build in winter to begin with. Even if
he was hoping to get work done at the very start of grinding season, spring
would have been soon enough to build. I
stared at his image for a while, watching his unfocused shape—the window
refused to give me a good look at his face—while he puttered around his
land. He seemed uncomfortable, and I
wondered if he could feel my thoughts—that his plan to open a mill was foolish,
and so that he was a fool.
As spring drew nearer, I began work
on the beginning-of-spring chores, dividing our remaining winter grain into a
half to eat and a half to plant in our small plot of farmland behind the mill,
airing out our spring clothes, and fixing our battered old broom. In the evenings I would spin thread so that I
could repair our work clothes for the coming season, and Papa would read
parables from the Bible aloud.
Gossip,
passed from Mrs. Chejs to Papa to me, had it that Prince Stephen had found no
one in the capital that was right for him, and that he had begun to search in
other towns for a bride that was suitable for him.
After the year’s last serious
snowstorm, Papa and I had a visitor far more surprising than Mr. Rastle or Mrs.
Chejs. I was coming down for lunch one
afternoon, without my veils—I was in the house, after all—when I saw a man I
didn’t recognize in our sitting room. I
stopped on the second-to-bottom stair in surprise. Papa and I didn’t get social visitors often.
Meia!
Papa exclaimed, looking startled. I
turned to go back up the stairs, but the man called out to me in a voice
silkier than Mammy’s wedding gown.
Miss? You don’t need to run from me; I’m here as a
friend. The man was on his
feet. I looked at Papa, uncertain—part
of me wanted to hide behind my veils, as I had for years. The other part of me, though, wanted to study
the face of a man with such a voice.
Join,
us, won’t you, Meia? Papa asked, an edge in his tone. That made me pay attention; his fingers
gripped his armchair so tightly that his fingertips were white. Something about this stranger was making him
exceptionally uncomfortable. Since my wife’s death, my daughter Meia is
the woman of the house, and much better at hosting than I, he explained. He
stood and held out a hand to me. May I present my daughter, Meia. The stranger stepped forward, took the
hand Papa wasn’t holding, bowed over it, and kissed it. I felt my pale skin burn in what I’m sure was
a rose-red blush, and cursed myself for not wearing the veils that would have
hidden my embarrassment.
You
may indeed, he said to Papa. Then,
to me, it’s a very great pleasure to meet
the most exceptional beauty on earth. I
am at your service, Miss Alder. He
smiled at me, and it occurred to me that he was extraordinarily handsome—I
flushed again. Unbidden, the image of a
baby with his nose and my eyes flashed into my mind; I was so startled that I
yanked my hand back from the stranger, shaking my head. I’m
sorry, he said, did I offend
you? The image was gone.
No,
I said, still shaken—I rarely considered what it would like to be married, and
my sudden moment of uninvited fantasy had truly shocked me. No. I simply pricked myself on that hand with a
needle earlier, and you bumped the spot by accident, I lied. No real
harm done, Mr…?
Smamen. Tristan
Smamen, at your service, he said. I
curtsied.
Pleased
to meet you, Mr. Smamen. Can I get you
anything? Coffee? Tea?
Nothing
but the welcome pleasure of your company, Miss Alder. Join us, please. I looked at Papa,
unsure of whether I wanted to stay. He
nodded slightly.
Very
well, I said, and sat down on a bench.
Mr. Smamen looked pleased. What can we do for you, Mr. Smamen?
Oh,
please, call me Tristan, he said.
I
hardly think I know you well enough—
Tristan,
please, he said, a pressure in his words. Mr.
Smamen was my father, God rest his soul, and being called by my last name is
still strange to me. I’m not so old as
that yet. I smiled before I realized
that I was doing so; I felt strangely glad not to think of this man as
old. Again, the image of the baby—our
baby—pressed itself into my mind. I felt
my smile fade as I shook my head, startled and confused. Thankfully, Tristan hadn’t noticed. He was addressing Papa.
As
I was saying, I’m here on a matter of business.
We are in the same one, after all.
He chuckled, although I couldn’t see why what he’d said was funny.
What
matter is it, exactly? Papa asked politely, hands still clenched as his
eyes darted between Tristan and me.
I’ve
come to offer you a position at my mill—I’d feel terrible taking all of your
business away. Especially when your
lovely daughter is dependent on you. I’m
afraid that if you don’t work for me, you and she will both have starved by
this time next year. A chill wind
seemed to tear through me; how, why, would he speak to Papa this way? Papa looked dazed for a moment, then looked
Tristan—Mr. Smamen, I told myself
forcibly—in the eye.
You
claim to have come here as a friend.
I
did.
Then
why would you try to threaten me?
Threaten
you? No, Mr. Alder. I came to prepare you for what’s coming. I would like for us to be friends. He glanced at me. I think
it would be…beneficial. To both of
us. He grinned, a wide, toothy
smile, but his eyes remained, calculating, on Papa’s.
Mr.
Smamen, I began.
Tristan,
Miss Alder, please. I would like for us
to be friends as well, and then he was beaming his icy smile at me. Another picture flickered on in my brain:
myself in wedding clothes, standing beside him.
Something in my heart responded, leaping joyously. I swallowed hard, sending the image away. Tristan—Mr. Smamen—leaned in toward me
conspiratorially. After all, I’ve been a traveler all my life, and I have never seen a
beauty quite like yours. I’m in awe of
you, Miss Alder.
Thank
you for your kind words, I said, my voice the temperature of
the mounded snow outside. But I think it would be best if you left
now. Good day, Mr. Smamen. He blinked twice, quickly, and then sat
straight again, picking up his hat as he did so.
Perhaps
you’re right, he said, and stood. Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Alder,
Miss Alder. And sir, please remember my
offer. It will not be revoked. He bowed to Papa, then reached out to me
as though he was going to take my hand and kiss it again. I gripped my skirts and nodded to him
instead, which he saw with a small smirk.
He bowed, spun on his heel, and walked out the door.
Well,
that was very strange, I said to Papa when Tristan had left. Papa only nodded wearily.
I
am sorry, Papa. I would’ve worn my
veils, I didn’t realize we had company. Papa
waved away my response and clutched at his head. Are you
alright?
Nothing
a bit of rest won’t cure, he said, and smiled at me. Then he turned and walked to his room to
rest.
I, worried about Papa, went to the
winter kitchen to prepare our lunch. As
I worked, I thought about Tristan—how strange he was! Once more the picture of the two of us, newly
married, lit up for a moment in my mind.
I splashed water from a bucket on my face, clearing my thoughts.
None
of that nonsense, I told myself. He’s just handsome. Nothing more.
After
Papa and I took our lunch, I spied out my window at Tristan again. He was facing away from me, braced in the
cold March wind. As I stared at him, he
turned around, and for a moment I felt he could see me. He smiled in his wide, toothy way again, and
I stepped back from the window, suddenly frightened. When I had convinced myself that he couldn’t
see me, and that his stare had been a coincidence, I looked into the window
again—but he had vanished, and I couldn’t find him anymore.
Chapter
Four
For a year after Mammy died, I had
terrible nightmares. Chased by monsters
out of stories that were a little too real to banish from my mind, I screamed
for Mammy, for Papa, for our cat, Milk-White.
I’d wake up in the night, still crying for Mammy, and Papa would come
into my room with a lantern and sing to me—his voice was terrible, but it was
sweet—until I relaxed enough to fall back asleep in his arms.
Thankfully, the nightmares had gone
away with time. So it was startling to
me when I woke that night from a terrible dream. I shuddered and my teeth
chattered. I could only remember bits of
what I’d seen—Tristan laughing, Papa bloodied, my mother, ghostlike, clutching
her heart. And the feeling of being
trapped. It was only a dream, I whispered into the darkness. Nothing
to be afraid of.
I stayed in my bed until I could
bear it no more; ripping away my blankets, I scuttled up to the cupola to gaze
out of my window in Mammy’s chair. The
stars twinkled down at me like the eyes of a million angels, and slowly I fell
asleep again.
I awoke to Papa’s eyes watching
me. I started, frightened momentarily,
but then he smiled. Why did you sleep here, Meia?
You had me worried when you missed breakfast. I apologized, not mentioning the
dream. Somehow I felt that Papa didn’t
want to know anything about Tristan, and wouldn’t approve of my dreaming about
him.
Despite my habit of watching him
frequently through my window, that was the last we heard of Tristan for quite
some time. I wasn’t sure how to feel
about this: part of me was relieved, because there was a piercing quality to
Tristan that made me feel as though I stood naked before him. But part of me was sorry not to hear more
news of him—I found him fascinating, enigmatic, entrancing.
This latter half of my heart got its
wish, eventually. The beginning of
spring usually led to a handful of customers coming to the mill to have their
extra seed-grain ground after they had planted their fields. But that year, even though the grain was
planted on its regular schedule, not a soul came to the mill. Papa and I puzzled over this for a few days,
until I went into the town for market day.
Nothing
like that nasty old flour, I heard a man say. I whirled; anything involving flour was my
father’s business, and therefore mine.
No
indeed! I meant to have just a little of
my grain ground there, take the rest to old man Alder—here the man paused
to chuckle, and I felt my hands grip my basket like an angry vice. But
after meeting Mr. Smamen, I must say, there is no more genial gentleman out
there—or, indeed, a miller of half his quality. I winced.
The two men who had been speaking turned to a fruit seller and left me
puzzled and angry.
All throughout the market that day,
people acted oddly toward me. More oddly
than normal, even. Instead of the usual
stares, I was greeted with embarrassed nods.
It didn’t take me long to find out why—everywhere, people were
discussing the fine quality of the flour Tristan—Mr. Smamen—had ground for them.
Finally, I ran into my Mammy’s brother.
Uncle? I asked.
We haven’t seen you this
spring. Did you not have any leftover
grain? He squirmed under my
gaze. Finally, after an awkward silence,
he spoke, almost as though he was choking on his words.
Yes—surely—I’m
sorry, Meia—no, I—I don’t know what drew me… almost as though I was summoned there, you understand. So I—well, you can see. He spread his arms in a hopeless gesture,
as if to say that he had no choice of where to go for grinding. I frowned, although Uncle couldn’t see it
through my veils.
Something
strange is happening in this town, I thought. Oddly, the moment I thought it, I was
overcome with a surge of tiredness, which overwhelmed any desire I had to find
out what the problem was. All I wanted
was a good nap.
I chatted with Uncle about my aunt
and cousins for a while, then finished my shopping. I oozed home like molasses, gliding slowly up
the long hill to home. When I arrived, I
collapsed in a chair in the front room, breathing deeply.
How
was the market, Meia? Papa asked,
entering the room. I sighed.
Fine,
I said. It was just a market. But the
strangest thing happened—I meant to tell Papa about the mysterious fame of
Tristan Smamen, but was interrupted by an enormous yawn instead.
What
was it? Papa asked after a moment.
What
was what? I asked, struggling to
stay awake. I yawned again. Papa said something to me, but I fell asleep
while he was speaking and couldn’t remember what it was he’d said when I woke.
That spring was hard. We had always had, if not riches, enough for
our needs. Suddenly that spring, we were
barely putting food on the table, and I was stripping the garden of anything
that I could feed us off of.
Papa kept promising me that things
would get better. Folks will be back to us this summer, once the novelty of the new mill
wears off, he swore. You’ll see, Meia, loyalty will win out.
I wasn’t so sure. Something strange was happening in town, and
I was sure it had something to do with the inscrutable Mr. Smamen.
Which is why I avoided him when he
came to call. I remember well the first
day he came to see us that year.
Miss
Alder, he said with a smirk, bowing over and kissing my hand. You are
lovelier than ever, if it is possible.
Thank
you, I replied stiffly, wondering idly how he could have drawn that conclusion
with my face swathed in veils. I felt
the oddest sensation with Tristan; I had decided that I didn’t like him, and
yet, when I was with him, I felt the urge to kiss him so strongly that I was
glad of the barrier of fabric between us.
We chatted for a few minutes before
Tristan asked to see Papa; I showed Tristan to him and then walked away,
thinking that would be the end of things.
But, no, half an hour later, Papa found me in my room and sat down on
the corner of my bed, looking dazed.
What
did Tris-Mr. Smamen want, Papa? I
asked.
He
asked my permission in courting you, he replied bluntly. I raised my eyebrows, and my mouth opened
slightly.
He
asked what? I asked, shocked. Papa shook his head, as though shaking off a
pesky insect.
I…
told him he might, Papa said. My jaw
dropped more.
Why? I demanded.
I’m
not sure, Papa said. But, I don’t suppose I could withdraw my
permission now.
I
suppose not, I agreed. But
Papa, I don’t like him. He’s stealing from you, if indirectly. What on earth will I say to him?
I
would soon find out.
That night my dreams featured
Tristan again, which I found disconcerting, if not surprising. We lived together in what I assumed was his
mill, although I had never seen it. In my
dream we had two daughters; one was toddling, the other a babe in arms. Papa lived there with us, although he seemed
older, even to my dream self—I worried about him and thanked my husband for
taking such good care of my Papa. I woke
just as Tristan kissed my mouth, and I felt his kiss still on my lips.
Unfortunately, the real Tristan came
to see me that day, resulting in my being jumpy as a cricket.
I
hope it’s not too forward of me, Miss Alder, but I’ve asked your father his
permission to court you, he said.
He
told me, I answered shortly.
And
what do you think of the idea? He
asked. Then the strangest thing
happened.
I
think it’s lovely, I replied. I
clapped my hand over my mouth, tasting veil.
Where had those words come from?
And yet, in that moment, it had
felt like a lovely idea to be courted by Mr. Smamen. What was this strange effect he had on me?
Miss
Alder? Are you alright?
Fine,
Mr. Smamen.
Please,
call me Tristan. After all, we are going
to be seeing rather a lot of each other.
I’ll
try…Tristan.
After that, Tristan made a point of
seeing me every day. Sometimes I pitied
him, walking up that enormous hill just to see me.
Sometimes we would walk into town
together, and he would carry my basket.
Some days we would sit together and talk. It didn’t much matter what we did; I always
felt uncomfortable with him. I felt that
he wanted something from me, the way he stared at me through barely-blinking
eyes, grinning that half-smile that seemed to say so little and so much.
Still, after a month, I began to
feel that perhaps I had misjudged him.
Though I didn’t share the town’s strange obsession with him, there was
nothing I could pinpoint as wrong
about him. I even watched him through
the window in the cupola, trying to discover a flaw; I could find none. He was philanthropic, gentile, cultured, and
apparently wealthy. He was kind to his
customers and thorough with his work. He
was, essentially, the perfect man. That
made me exceedingly uncomfortable.
Papa had come to like him quite a
bit. In fact, it was as though Tristan’s
initially threatening attitude had never loomed over Papa; Papa, like everyone
else but me, seemed to worship the ground Tristan walked on.
And then it all started to go wrong.
Tristan took me for a carriage ride
one afternoon in late April. The sun was
just beginning to be truly warm, and the air smelled of thawing earth. I loved it, and put my head out of the
carriage window to breathe in more of the smell.
Keep
your head inside like a lady, darling, Tristan said. Reluctantly, I pulled my head in. I glared just slightly at Tristan, and he
laughed and patted my hand. You’ll get used to a lady’s lifestyle, my
dear, he said. My expression changed
to perplexity; a lady’s lifestyle?
The carriage stopped with a slight
jolt, and Tristan climbed out immediately, then offered me his hand so that I
could get down. I looked around; we were
by a meadow bordering a wood.
What
are we doing here? I asked.
I
thought this would make a lovely spot for a picnic, he answered. I nodded my understanding, then left Tristan
behind, walking to the center of the meadow.
Mushrooms grew in a circle.
Oh
Tristan, a fairy ring! I exclaimed,
gathering my skirts to the side and sitting on the grass. I’m a pragmatic person in general, but I have
always hoped that, rare as they are these days, I could one day see a fairy.
Is there?
Tristan’s voice sounded strangely dreadful. He walked over to me and stood just outside
the fairy ring.
Let’s
picnic here, I said pleadingly.
Now,
darling, let’s not smash the fairies’ homes, he said. Why
don’t we eat somewhere else? I
sighed, but stood and followed Tristan to another corner of the meadow.
You are so beautiful, Tristan said when we were seated.
How can you tell, through my veils? I asked.
I was hoping to catch him out, to make him feel uncomfortable. Tristan, however, was quicker than that.
I suppose I’m just remembering the way you looked when we first met.
But for all you know, I’m not beautiful now.
I’m sure you are, my dear. But if you would like me to know for certain…
and
with that, Tristan reached over to me and tugged my lower veil out of place,
leaning ever closer to me.
What are you doing? I
demanded, jerking backwards. I won’t
deny that there was a small part of me that wanted to leave my veil, to find
out what his kiss would be like. But my
senses prevailed, and I hurriedly replaced my shield.
Forgive me, darling, he said.
I nodded, still a bit dazed by the speed of it all.
Nothing to forgive, I replied.
Tristan beamed at me.
Chapter
Five
Summer came quickly, but
for us, it didn’t bring its usual abundance.
All my life, summer had been a time to celebrate, to relax, to absorb
the loving rays of the sun and go forward with courage. That summer, however, felt slower than our
mule, Molly, when she was plodding. As
the season wore on, it became more and more evident that we were in real financial
trouble—and that no one in town seemed to care.
I hated Tristan for
it. Yet, every time I tried to end our
romantic relationship, I found that there was something I liked about him, some
reason to hold on. Additionally, my father
was always so pleased when I had been out with Tristan, and I didn’t want to
let him down. But I watched Tristan
through my window, and hated him for ruining our lives.
I was not the only
frustrated person in the nation. Word
trickled in—more slowly than usual, but it trickled nonetheless—that the King
was now opening the castle doors to any who he might deem “worthy” of Prince
Stephen. After hearing this news, I
found the King in my window one evening.
His face was in his hands, and his expression told a story of fruitless
searching and endless frustration.
I couldn’t help feeling
sorry for the Prince, either, although I never thought to spy on him
directly. How awful it would be to marry
for a reason other than love! I know, so
many people do. But my parents loved
each other fiercely, and I wanted that in my life.
One evening over a poor
supper of bread and milk, Papa surprised me.
I wish you could go try for the Prince’s heart, Meia, he said. I looked up.
What would I do in a castle, Papa?
I asked. I’m a miller’s child, not some Duke’s daughter.
Perhaps, but you deserve a better life
than—this—he replied, gesturing sadly toward his mug. I
always said your mother belonged in a castle.
You’re so much like her, and not just in the way you look.
Thank you, Papa, I
said, staring at my hands.
If not the Prince, what about Mr. Smamen? I was taken aback; was my father really
considering marrying me to our nemesis?
Papa, no, I could never be happy with a man who ruined you. Ruined us.
Perhaps not.
But consider it, Meia. He may be
the wealthiest man in town. You would be
well taken care of.
Did you just ask me to marry for something
other than love? Papa, are you feeling
alright?
Now that you mention it, no, I’m feeling a bit dizzy.
Lie down, Papa.
That was only the
beginning of Papa’s odd behavior. Where
he had always been calm and steady, now he jumped and twitched at the slightest
disturbance. He slept fitfully, mumbling
to himself, and in the daytime he was always tired. I would have sent for a doctor, but we
couldn’t afford one.
More than anything, I
wished for a friend to confide my troubles to.
I had always kept my head high and pretended I didn’t mind my
ostracism. But as the summer continued,
I found myself crying alone in my bed at night, wishing for a return to
normality.
You may think my
reaction was extreme. And, in truth, it
may have been. But I have difficulty
communicating the terrible sense I had that year that something was horribly wrong.
Wrong with Papa, wrong with the town, and especially wrong with Tristan.
All of that wrongness
reached its zenith late one evening in early July. Tristan and I were out walking with the stars
as chaperone.
Miss Alder, he said. I
stopped walking to look at him; I had never heard him use such a serious tone
before. I want to speak to you.
Go ahead, then,
I answered somewhat rudely.
I think you know that I feel strongly about you. He took a step toward me, and I
automatically stepped back, feeling my back brush against the boulder behind
me.
I have an inkling, Mr. Smamen, I said, a tremble in my voice. I backed up more, flattening myself against
the rock.
And I have been good to you, haven’t I? I nodded.
Yes, I have, he
continued. And it seems only fair that you, in turn, be good to me, and give me
what I want. Images of my mother’s
killers flashed through my mind, and I let out an involuntary gasp of
fear. Tristan reached over to me, once
again pulling my veil off of the bottom half of my face.
I know now that he
wanted no more than a kiss from me, but in that moment, it seemed possible that
he could rob me of everything. Besides,
a kiss stolen from a terrified girl is bad enough in its own right. Either way, I was so terribly afraid, I
didn’t even pause to think. I simply
acted.
I punched Mr. Smamen in
the mouth.
Then I gathered up my
skirts and ran, calling for Papa. I
looked back over my shoulder once; although he called after me, Mr. Smamen did
not give pursuit.
When I finally arrived
at home, I cast myself into Papa’s arms, weeping. He stroked my hair, but he was not as upset
as it seemed to me that he ought to be.
At last I finished crying, and sat up straight to look at my
father. He wiped the tears from my eyes,
and then he said the most horrible thing:
Meia, I think you owe Mr. Smamen an apology.
My stomach twisted. Papa sounded sincere, but his eyes seemed
strangely clouded. I backed away from
him, afraid of my Papa for the first and only time in my life. He said nothing. I turned on my toe and bolted, heading for
the attic.
Tears still coursed down
my face as I looked out the magic window, seeking Mr. Smamen. I found him, and my jaw dropped.
He was chanting and
dancing, throwing herbs into a cauldron hung over his fire. A purplish, shimmering steam rose from the
pot.
I don’t know much about
magic. But I was certain, in that
moment, that Tristan was using it. And
as soon as I realized this, everything else began to make sense. The town, my Papa, the strange control Tristan
had over me, all began to be clear.
Hurriedly I grabbed my
shawl from its peg and wrapped it around me.
I sneaked past my father, who was asleep in his chair, and dashed off
into the night. I was going to set this
right.
Chapter
Six
Mr. Smamen! I called,
knocking loudly on the door of the mill.
Mr. Smamen! Open the door immediately! I need to speak with you! I heard footsteps, and then the door swung
open, and there was Tristan, looking at me with relief.
Darling, he said, I’m so sorry. Forgive me, please.
For a moment, I almost
did. Then I realized that he was
probably using magic on me again. I
pushed past him into the house, giving no thought to the kind of horrors a
conjurer could bring down on my head.
You have magic, I declared when Tristan had closed the door behind
us and followed me into the house. He
looked startled for a moment, then met my eyes with a grin.
What of it? He asked. I swallowed.
You’ve been using it on the town.
On my Papa.
And?
And you’re going to stop.
Oh, darling Meia, he
said, lounging across a cushioned chair, why
would I do such a thing?
Because
if you don’t, I’ll let the whole town know that you’re using magic on
them. Witchcraft is frowned on here, Mr.
Smamen. You’ll be burned at the stake.
Ah,
but my dear, for that to happen, the town would have to stop trusting me. And I’ve ensured—he
gestured to the cauldron that now rested on the hearth—that such a thing will never happen.
Perhaps
I can’t persuade the whole town, I replied, but your magic isn’t all-powerful, or I
wouldn’t have been able to tell you no. Tristan
paused at this.
Yes,
my dear, but you are somewhat special. I
shrugged off his compliment, sure that it was only meant to distract me.
I
can persuade my father. I can tell him
that you tried to force me. He would be
well within his rights to challenge you, and even a town under a spell won’t
condone your actions. You’ll see. There was a pause.
Perhaps,
dear one, you could make trouble for me, he said after a pensive
moment. So here’s what I’ll do: you will tell no one what I do, and in
exchange, I will grant you one wish so far as it is in my power. I thought rapidly. My wish was to return to how things had been.
Fine,
I said finally, I wish that my father
and I will have the means to support ourselves again.
Tristan
smiled a wide smile.
I stared at my hands. Could it be true? The knowledge buzzed around in my brain like
an insect trapped in a jar. Surely it must be true.
There was only one way to find out.
I sat down at my mother’s old
spinning wheel, which was, like so many of her things, in the attic. I knew how to spin, of course, but spinning
straw? Who had ever heard of such a
thing? Nevertheless, I gathered a
handful of straw—there was still plenty to be found on the floor of the
now-silenced mill—and began to feed it to the spinning wheel.
It seemed to take longer than
spinning wool into thread would have. I
suppose that must have been the magic at work.
But, finally, the thread began to wind its way around the spindle. I leaned in to inspect it and gasped.
Gold. It was definitely gold. I was about to tear the thread from my
spinning wheel and show Papa, when I remembered Tristan’s warning.
If
words ever divulge your gift, that same gift will be taken from you.
I
couldn’t tell Papa. I couldn’t tell
anyone.
This was going to require some
thinking.
Papa went out the next
afternoon. He had taken to long walks
since the mill had been shut down; usually I napped or sewed or read when he
was gone. But today, I took out my
little ball of gold thread, an old pot, and the butter mold.
I dropped the thread into the pot
and hung it over the fire, wondering whether this bit of the magic would work. I couldn’t see why it wouldn’t, though; the
spinning certainly had! But it was with
trepidation that I held my hand over the pot and whispered, melt.
The gold thread puddled. I poured it quickly into the mold, relief
filling me from top to toe. This would
work. Papa and I were going to live.
Chapter
Seven
I worried, a bit, that the merchants
at market wouldn’t accept my butter-mold gold, but they did. In fact, many of them didn’t notice—it was
traditional in our kingdom to take payment by weight, and that worked fine for
me.
Every
time I made a purchase that first day, it was as though something in my
chest—something that had been tight and pressurized—released a little bit. Food. Real food.
We were going to live. I
thought that so many times that it became a mantra, then a song, then stuck in
my head.
At
dinner that night, Papa gawked. I hadn’t
thought through this part; I’d been so giddy at the idea of a real meal that I
hadn’t considered Papa’s reaction.
Meia? He asked, sounding nervous.
Yes, Papa? I feigned ignorance.
Meia, how did we pay
for this? I said
nothing for a moment, thinking, and Papa spoke again, hesitantly. We—we did pay for it?
Of course we did,
Papa! It’s just…
I trailed off, trying to think of a convincing enough lie. It’s
just that I looked more carefully at our accounts, and we have more money than
I’d thought. I was in such a celebratory
mood, I guess I got carried away. And,
indeed, there was more food on the table than the two of us would eat.
Papa
looked at me, a sigh building. He could
tell I was lying. So I altered the
course of the conversation as best I could.
I’ve ended things with
Tristan, Papa. Now
Papa’s stare became hard and cold, and I felt a surge of anger at Tristan for
enchanting my Papa so. I continued. He
tried to be…more physical than I wanted, I said, and he wouldn’t accept my “no.”
So that’s the end of that. At
the word “physical,” a different light bloomed in Papa’s eyes. I guessed that he was remembering Mammy, and
that this, somehow, broke the spell over him.
Papa rested a hand on mine.
I’m glad you escaped,
then, Meia. There
was a pause. Then, Are you—are you still… a maid?
Yes, Papa, I
swear. I never let him touch me.
Good girl. He stood, walked around the table, and kissed
my head.
Spinning
enough to keep us afloat was much easier than I’d anticipated. At first it was tricky; Papa seemed to always
be in the house, and I didn’t want to arouse his suspicions. But one day while he was out I had a stroke
of genius—I carried Mammy’s spinning wheel down from the cupola to an old shed
behind the still mill. It was dusty and
cobwebby in there, but the light was fine, and I could spin for hours without
worrying that Papa would hear me.
I
did feel bad, lying to Papa about what I was doing—I’d tell him before spinning
that I was going for a walk, or to see a friend, or to market—but not bad
enough to confess the truth and lose our only source of income. We needed that money for our very survival,
and I justified my small lies to myself for that reason.
For
a month, everything was lovely. Papa and
I ate well—although I was careful that we never ate too well again—and I had things to do, cleaning a bit and spinning
a lot. Papa spent a lot of time with men
from the village, and at first this didn’t bother me. It was only when, late one night, his friends
carried him in, passed-out drunk, that I began to fear there was a problem.
I
kept a closer eye on Papa after that.
And suddenly I realized that I had completely misinterpreted the
situation. While I led a fairly busy
life, his was suddenly one of ease—this for a man who had worked for his bread
all his life! He was miserable, and in
my relief at the recent turn of events, I hadn’t seen it.
Papa,
I asked him one night when he came home late.
I could smell the stink of alcohol on him, and sweat dripped down his
face. I noticed suddenly that he had
gained weight, and not in a good way. Papa, I began again, I need to speak with you.
Not—not now, Meia,
girl, I’m for bed.
His words were slurred a little, making him a little difficult to
understand. Without waiting for my
reply, my father turned away from me, took two steps toward his bedroom. Then, with a jerk, he turned back around,
stumbled toward me. He stood a little
too close, and put a gentle hand on my cheek.
So much like your
mother, he whispered, foul breath filling my nostrils.
Bed, Papa.
Yes, Meia. Bed.
Papa
was still very much on my mind when, early the next morning, a knock came at
the door. I opened it, curious. Standing before me was none other than the
town-charming and wicked Mr. Smamen himself.
Miss Alder, I was
hoping I’d see you, I—
I
shut the door in his face.
Tristan
came by three times a week after that. I
am almost ashamed to admit now that I was never courteous, never kind. The one exception was the night that he,
alone, helped my drink-staggering father up the hill to our house. I thanked him politely, but made sure he knew
that I was only grateful for his help, not for his company. Then I sent him on his way.
Cards
and bouquets of flowers arrived all through this time, all from Mr.
Smamen. They were all the same: they
begged me to give him another chance, promised that he would be the perfect
gentleman to me, swore that he loved me.
Without exception I threw them onto the compost heap, even the flowers—I
wanted no reminders of that man in my house, the man who had turned my father
into a drunkard.
Still,
a week after Tristan brought my father home, I had to wonder if he was using
his magic to help Papa. Since that
night, Papa had behaved more like himself then I had seen him in almost a year. Rather than going out to drink, as I knew now
was the purpose of most of his excursions, he stayed home with me, reading a
favorite book by the fire.
The Prince still hasn’t
found a bride, he said suddenly.
Mmm,
I replied, attention on my embroidery.
I wish you might go to
the King, he mused.
Me, speak to the King? I chuckled quietly.
Like your mother, you
belong in a palace, not a mill—what used to be a mill—now
he sounded bitter—in a tiny town. I’d take you to the capital, but the word is
that the King won’t even discuss girls who aren’t both extraordinarily
beautiful—a quality you certainly possess, my dear—and have some unbelievable
talent. Now, you have many talents, my
love, but I doubt the King wants someone with an eye for properly ground flour
or the hands for gardening.
I’m not offended Papa,
don’t worry.
Still, I wish you could
compete for the Prince’s hand.
I don’t. I don’t even know him; who would want to
marry a stranger?
I suppose. He paused. What
about here, in town?
What about what here in
town?
Do you think you could
find a fine enough husband here?
Oh, Papa, I
said, rolling my eyes. The boys here are all fools who teased me
all my life for wearing veils. I’m not a
person to them, I’m a toy. And husbands
who treat their wives as toys often find other toys to play with. I’d rather that not be my lot in life.
No, I wouldn’t want
that for you either, Papa conceded. Still,
you can’t care for your ailing father forever.
I looked up for the first time.
Never, I
said in my most serious tone, whether I
marry or not, will I ever stop looking after you, Papa. It’s my duty.
Papa
smiled. Then he stood, stretched, and
went to bed, patting me lovingly on the shoulder as he passed.
Unfortunately,
I had not dissuaded Papa from thinking of my marriage. Tristan visited again, and, though I did not
know it, Papa listened.
Darling,
Tristan began, please, consider my off— He was cut off abruptly, if not surprisingly,
by the closing of the door. I turned
back toward the kitchen, where I had been making lunch. Papa stepped out and followed me.
Yes, Papa? I asked, somewhat irritably, as he stared at
me while I sliced bread. Tristan’s
visits always put me in a mood. However,
I did my best to swallow it. Papa did
not deserve my rudeness.
You’ve seen rather a
lot of Mr. Smamen since you broke off with him, haven’t you?
Unfortunately.
Meia…
Papa looked uncomfortable. He made you happy, once. I tried to interrupt, to object, but Papa
raised a hand to stop me. He wants to marry you, Meia, I’m all but
sure of it. Couldn’t you consider his
offer?
Why do you want me
to? I asked,
suspicious that more magic was at work.
I…well, I’m concerned
about where our money is coming from, and if you married a man like Tristan,
you could have money—well, by a—an honorable means— he
trailed off, looking an odd combination of hopeful and concerned.
I told you, Papa. The money is nothing to be worried
about. All of your careful saving over
the years has done us good. I
kissed him on the cheek and shooed him from the room, worrying about the fact
that my cover story was as weak as Tristan’s requests for my forgiveness.
That
week Papa took to following me everywhere I went. It drove me mad. I love Papa, and I didn’t even mind his
company, but I couldn’t spin with him there.
What’s more, when we were in town—he came with me to market,
naturally—he listened in to every conversation I had with a man. Just the ones with men, though. It was very odd. Even when I spoke to Uncle—a conversation
that was a bit awkward, we hadn’t spoken much since he abandoned our
business—Papa was there, looming.
I
spent the last of our gold that day. I
hadn’t been spinning much, because, one, it was abnormally exhausting—I assumed
this was some part of the magic—and, two, I didn’t have a safe, secret place to
store extra gold. I was troubled by
this, and determined to get some gold spun.
That
night, to the sound of Papa’s snores, I crept out of bed in my housecoat. When I came to the bit of floor in front of
Papa’s room, I paused. The floorboards
in front of his door creaked terribly.
Backing up, I leapt—and crashed onto the last squeaky board with a noise
like a giant stomping on a cat.
Papa’s
snores stopped immediately.
Meia? Is that you?
Yes, Papa. I—I’m going to get a drink of water is
all. Go back to sleep.
Alright, Meia. Be careful.
I
didn’t even respond, just stood there, quiet, until the rumbling of his snores
drifted out to me again.
I
tiptoed to the door to the mill, and yanked it open. It closed with an unfortunately loud crash, and I winced. Nothing seemed to stir in the house, though,
and after a moment of waiting, I continued on.
I
spun for a good two hours that night, until I could no longer keep my eyes
propped open. Sighing at the mess of
thread around me, I wound it all into balls and dropped it in the old pot I’d
smuggled from the house. I had
discovered that I didn’t even need the heat from the fire to melt the gold—just
the magic and the word was enough.
Melt. I whispered, pointing. The thread immediately turned to liquid, and
I molded it, and stacked it in the corner of the shed. Just in case of Papa, I threw a moth-eaten
old blanket over the small pile of wealth, hiding it. Then I crept—silently, this time—back into
the house to sleep.
The
next morning, Papa regarded me with a wary eye.
He said nothing, though, so I tried to shrug it off. And when I went to buy the day’s bread in the
town, he declined to join me.
I
was just paying for my bread when I heard a voice at my shoulder, nearly in my
ear.
Good afternoon, Miss
Alder. I whirled. There was Mr. Smamen, leaning against the
baker’s cart easily, as though he hadn’t just been crouched over me.
Mr. Smamen,
I said cooly. I turned back toward the
hills, ready to head home.
Allow me to carry your
basket for you, Miss Alder, he said, slipping it
off my arm. I grabbed at it, too late.
I’m perfectly capable
of carrying my own basket, Mr. Smamen.
Tristan, Miss Alder,
please.
I don’t believe that’s
entirely appropriate, Mr. Smamen. And
you’re still holding my basket.
So I am. I stopped walking in
exasperation.
What do you want, Mr.
Smamen?
Tsk, tsk, he
said with a smirk. Not your most courteous moment, Miss Alder. I would have thought you owed me courtesy at
the least, given our recent exchange.
I owe you nothing. I held up my end of the deal. You paid me for it. There is no business left between us.
What if I should like
to make another deal with you? I would
very much like to gain something more from you.
Unfortunately for you,
Mr. Smamen, there is nothing I want or need from you. With that, I retrieved
my basket from its place on Tristan’s arm and hurried up the hill to home.
Home
did not, sadly, provide the relief I had hoped it might. Papa met me at the door.
Meia. I think it is time we got out of this town,
at least for a while. We should take a
trip.
But, Papa—trips are
expensive. And where would we go? We have no family to visit.
Well, you keep saying
we have more money than I think. Unless
there’s something you’d like to tell me? He fixed me with a determined stare, and I
was sure he knew how much I’d been lying to him. Worms writhed in my stomach.
Nothing, Papa, I
said, forcing my voice to stay steady. I’ll…find a way for us to go. You just worry about where to go.
As
I walked away, I felt the disappointment in Papa’s stare, which was fixed on my
back. I choked back a sob and hurried
away.
Papa
continued to discuss the trip idea, raising and discarding destination ideas
several times daily. I was grateful that
he was spending time working on that, because I was spending all of my time in
the shed, spinning. I didn’t know where
we were going, or when we would be back, so I wanted to bring as much gold as I
could.
Tristan
abruptly stopped coming around, for which I was grateful. If Papa thought this was unusual, he said
nothing. In fact, he behaved perfectly
normally—except that when his friends came by, he kept me from speaking to
them. This was odd, but given the
strangeness of the last while, I didn’t mind too much.
I
wondered idly, from time to time, why someone with magic, the ability to grant
wishes, and apparently an endless supply of wealth would choose to be a miller
in a tiny town. This, inevitably, led to
my consideration of how rude I had been to Mr. Smamen, for which I was
beginning to feel bad. I was watching
him through the magic window, making sure he wasn’t upset, when I heard
footsteps on the stairs. I jumped into
Mammy’s chair, doing my best to act nonchalant.
Papa emerged, looking at me. I
wasn’t wearing my veils, and he sighed.
So much like your
mother. I didn’t
know what to say, and after a moment, Papa walked over to the window. He gazed out of it for a moment. Then, suddenly, his hands grasped the window
frame so tight that his knuckles turned white.
He turned around immediately and left without telling me goodbye.
I
came in the next day from spinning, having stopped early. I was pretty sure that by now we had enough
gold for our trip. I whistled as I
walked, tired, but relieved to be finished spinning for a while.
Papa
sat at the kitchen table, face white.
What’s wrong, Papa?
Wrong? Nothing wrong. Nothing.
Just—I’ve decided where we’re going.
We’re leaving for the capital.
Tomorrow.
Chapter
Eight
The
trip to the capital wasn’t too bad. We
hitched Molly, the mule, to the cart, and rode away from our home. Papa had spoken to Uncle, although I doubted
that he would miss us, and there was no business to put in order. So we rode away.
I
thought suddenly of Mammy, of the fact that we were leaving her body behind
us. Suddenly I was overwhelmed by a fear
that we were never coming back.
Nervously, I fingered the locket of hers that I had brought. It brought me little comfort. So I sat in the cart, wrapping my skirts and
arms around my legs. Something with this
trip was wrong, and I didn’t like it.
Papa,
on the other hand, was sunshine itself.
He whistled and even sang, unfortunately. I loved that he was happy, but yet another dramatic
mood change set me on edge. I tried to
ask him why we were going to the capital, but he told me it was a
surprise. So we rode on.
I
fell asleep after a while. The road was
bumpy, but I was warm under the autumn sun and wrapped in a blanket, and I was
tired enough that I didn’t mind the bouncing beneath me.
I
woke when the cart stopped. I sat up,
rubbing my eyes, and blinked several times at the sight in front of me.
The
gates to the capital were enormous. Huge.
Wrought iron, I guessed, but plated in gold—or at least something
gold-colored. This made sense, because
the King was known for absurd displays of wealth, and I suspected this was only
the first of such that I’d see in the capital.
Papa
left the cart and inquired something of the nearest guard. Papa nodded once and then turned back to the
cart. I fixed him with a quizzical look,
but he merely smiled and climbed back into the driver’s seat.
We
rode along, following the main road, and eventually I became fascinated by a
glimmer in the distance—I was so distracted that I almost missed it when the
wind tore the veil from the lower half of my face, but the cool breeze reminded
me almost at once, and I replaced it.
What is that? I finally asked Papa of the big, shining
thing we were steadily approaching.
The King’s palace, Papa
replied. I gaped, glad that no one could
see my country-girl-in-the-city expression.
It had to be unimaginably huge,
and made of some shining material that drew every eye. The King, or, more likely, some ancestor of his,
had ensured that the people in the capital never for one moment forgot that the
monarchy was there.
The
cart kept drifting toward the palace, and the closer we got, the more
incredulous I became. How many people
lived there? Did they really need all
that space? But it was beautiful—so
beautiful that it didn’t even occur to me to wonder what business we had going
so near the palace. It was only when
Papa stopped the cart and tied Molly to a post, then helped me from the back
and led me toward a long line of people, that I wondered where we were going
and what we were doing.
Papa?
Mmm?
What are we doing?
Mmm.
I
got no better answer from him. After a
while, I got tired of questioning my unresponsive father, so I turned my
attention instead to those who stood in line with us.
I
noticed that there seemed to be lots of young women my age, and a most were
accompanied by men around the age of Papa.
I will freely admit that I was a bit of an idiot at this point—I didn’t
realize what we were doing until we were almost to the front of the line. Then the voice of a girl ahead of me drifted
back to me on the breeze, and I stiffened.
What if I’m too nervous
to speak to the King? And
her father replied.
You won’t be speaking
to him, darling. I will. Don’t worry.
Papa! I demanded, whirling
toward him, skirts a-swish and rage building.
We’re here to see the King, aren’t we?
To see the King and vie for the Prince!
My father said nothing. Papa, how could you?
You belong in a palace,
my dear, Papa said firmly.
I tried to dash away—to who knows where, anywhere but where I was—but
Papa held me firmly. You are royal in your soul, my darling. What can it hurt to try? I sighed, but stayed in the line. It was important to Papa that I try, and I
was sure that the King would give me only a passing glance. And then we could go home, and things would
return to normal. Or, as normal as they
ever were.
We
halted two yards before the King. He
looked far less despondent than I had seen him in the magic window, but just as
tired. Nervous like I had never been
before in my life, I twisted Mammy’s locket around and around my finger.
Take off your veils,
Meia, Papa said to me when the King looked at me
curiously. Anxious, I let the necklace
unwind and unpinned my veils, pulling them away from my face.
The
King gasped.
I
will admit, I had all but expected this reaction. I’d inspected my own face in the window as
I’d grown, and I matched very well the image I had in my mind of my
mother. I knew I was curvaceous, knew that
my face was lovely, and that my hair was extraordinary. I tried not to be vain, but at that moment
when the King gasped and his advisor stared, a bubble of pride expanded in my
chest, so much that I almost didn’t realize what my father was saying.
—A magic window in the
attic, my Lord, through which I confess I spied on my daughter. She was providing money seemingly out of
nowhere, you see, and I worried—with her beauty as a factor—that she was… you
know…selling her virtue to put bread on our table. But, thankfully, it was not that. No indeed. The sense had come back to me now, and I had
begun to panic. Papa knew—he would tell
the King—and then—I don’t know how she
learned it, my Lord, but my daughter has a skill that no other in the Kingdom
can boast of, I think. She—
Papa, no!
—can spin straw into
gold! And Papa
held out a stray bit of gold thread in triumph.
The King leaned in to look at it.
And the world started to whirl around me.
I
became very hot, then achingly cold.
Colored lights danced before my eyes.
I heard a roaring sound fill my ears, and I collapsed onto the ground.
When
I awoke in Papa’s arms, he was speaking.
Don’t worry, Meia. Don’t worry.
You’re going to have a real shot at winning the Prince. All you have to do is prove to the King that
you can spin straw into gold.
I
searched my own mind frantically, panicked, hoping against hope that what I
guessed had happened had not just happened.
But it had. Tristan’s words rang
in my ears, clear as if he spoke them to me: If words ever divulge your gift, that same gift will be taken from you.
The
gift had indeed been taken from me. I
couldn’t remember how to do the magic.
Regardless of the King’s demands, I would not be able to spin straw into
gold.
Chapter
Nine
It
wasn’t a dungeon, exactly. It was a
cold, stone, basement room with poor lighting, but it was not a dungeon. For one thing, there were no chains or
instruments of torture. No, instead
there were bales upon bales of straw, stacked to the ceiling. And, of course, a highly polished spinning
wheel in the center of the room, along with things like scissors and a
chair. Everything I could ever need to
spin this straw into gold. Except, of
course, the knowledge of how to do it.
I
sank despondently into the chair, nodding my thanks to the bored-looking
servant who had led me here. I hadn’t
even been allowed to speak to Papa before I was dragged to this low point
beneath the main palace. Not that I knew
what I would say to him. I was angry,
and hurt, and loved him for thinking I ought to be a princess. I was embarrassed, I was anxious, I was
tired.
What
would happen? I tried to look at the
situation realistically. I couldn’t spin
the straw into gold, that was almost certain.
Almost certain.
Just
because I couldn’t think of the magic didn’t mean my hands had forgotten. Quickly now, as though alacrity would
increase my chances of success, I reached for a handful of straw from a nearby
tower of it. I attached it to the leader
thread which someone had kindly provided, and I began to spin. It seemed to take forever—but, remembering
that I had felt the same way when I had first spun straw into gold, this was
more relieving than alarming. I spun
more, hope bubbling inside me like boiling water.
The
hope dissipated as quickly as it had come.
A thread of sorts had emerged from the wheel, but it was not of
gold. Bits of straw were simply twisted
together, and when I tugged them loose from the machine, they fell apart and
drifted to the floor.
I
tried again.
And
again.
And
again.
Tears
were already stinging my eyes when, at last, I pulled my fifth attempt from the
spinning wheel. It crumbled just as the
others had, seeming to mock me as it floated down.
I can’t do it,
I finally admitted to myself, speaking aloud to the empty room—well, empty of
people, anyhow. I felt a hot tear course
down my cheek and wiped it away vigorously.
What
would happen now?
The
King’s first wife had dishonored him, finally running away with another
man. This left him with a legendary
dislike of being lied to. His motto was Honesty is Honor, and Honor is All. So when he discovered that my father—and I,
for my lack of denial—had apparently lied to him, he would be livid. At best, we were facing a lifetime in prison. At the worst, we had slipped a noose around
our own necks.
And for what? I thought bitterly. I was
happy at home—well, if not happy, then content.
At peace. I didn’t mind caring
for Papa. And yes, it would have been
nice to marry, but that might have come someday. I didn’t need to wed the Prince. I didn’t want this.
Hot
rage against my father coursed through my veins. Then I thought of the hopeful way he had
looked at me when I had taken off my veils, the way he wanted a better life for
me. I couldn’t be angry with him. He just loved me. Since Mammy died, he was the only person who
loved me. How could I be the least bit
cross with such a person?
Tears
poured down my face, and as fast as I could wipe them away, there were
more. It felt as though they were scalding
my skin. I don’t know how long I cried,
but at last, there was a soft knock at the door.
Hello? I asked in a choked voice. The handle turned, and in walked a young man,
about my age, in garb as plain as mine, except that it was in the castle’s official
colors of gold and emerald green. I
noticed immediately, even through my watery eyes, that this made his large,
strikingly green eyes stand out. They
were his best feature, although he was reasonably handsome—in an approachable,
friendly sort of way.
Miss? He asked
tentatively. Looking closer at my face,
he reached into his inner jacket pocket and whipped out a handkerchief. He walked nearer to me and gave me the square
of cloth. I barely registered the
embroidered initials, S. A., before I wiped my eyes on it.
Miss? He said again. Are
you—are you alright? His eyes were
so full of pity that I wanted to burst into another round of sobs, but I didn’t
want this stranger to see me so weak. So
instead I forbade myself any more tears—they wouldn’t help the situation
anyway, I thought to myself—and dried my face with the handkerchief. I tried to hand it back to him, but he
refused to let me, so I put it in the pocket of my overdress.
Thank you,
I said, my voice almost steady. I’m alright, yes. Or I will be.
I suppose. I felt my chin
quiver, and it took me a moment to realize that, sans my usual veils, this
young man could see it. Embarrassed, I
covered the offending bit of my face with a hand until I had forced it to
steady.
Please, Miss. Tell me what’s wrong. I’ve been assigned to be your personal
servant for the night, you see. He smiled, and his marvelous eyes sparkled at
me in the most charming way.
It’s rather a
complicated story, I told him. He smiled.
That’s the best kind,
he replied. I sighed, looking him
over. He seemed trustworthy enough—and
what else would I do with my time? So I
began.
I suppose I should
begin with the spinning, I said. Or—no,
I guess it starts with Mr. Smamen. But
to explain him, I have to tell you about our whole acquaintance, and to tell
you about that, I would have to explain about the veils. So I guess… I guess the story starts when I
was six. My Mammy died, you see, and my
Papa was devastated…
I
talked for so long that I became hoarse, adding far too many details, I’m
sure. But the young man didn’t once look
bored; his eyes were locked on my face, as though my life’s story were food and
he was a starving man.
I
had just reached the bit about Tristan’s mill overtaking ours when he and I
both jumped at a noise—somewhere above us, there were panicked shouts. They were muffled, but I heard a man shout, Where is that boy?! We looked at each other for a moment, the
serving boy and I, and then he sighed, hanging his head.
It
has been a true pleasure talking with you, Miss, he said (internally I
scoffed, thinking that I had done all of the talking and that the story
couldn’t have been very pleasant). I wish you the best of luck. But, unfortunately, I must go now. I’ve been away too long, and I must—I must
help with whatever commotion is occurring upstairs. Forgive me. He swept me a graceful bow with all the ease
of long practice, then turned to leave.
He paused just after he opened the door.
If
you need me, he said, pull this cord
by the door. I shall do my best to
come. Good night, Miss. And then he was gone.
I smiled after him for a moment,
troubles forgotten as I contemplated eyes like summer grass, like Mammy’s
sparkling glass brooch, like being safe in Papa’s arms. Then reality rudely made its way back into my
mind.
I
could run away, I thought, almost standing up to try the door. But then I remembered Papa, and I relaxed
back into my chair. If I ran, they would
surely execute Papa as punishment for our perceived deception. There was nothing I could do.
This realization crashed down around
me, filling my whole soul. I was
trapped, cornered, unable to escape a horrible fate, unable, for the first time
in my life, to run to Papa to receive comfort, unable to find safety or
peace. And as I understood this, truly
understood it, I began to sob in the cry of the desperate.
Tears fell thickly onto my beautiful
face (what good is a beautiful face? I wondered), and I didn’t even bother to wipe
them away, just leaned forward so my head rested on the spinning wheel, and
watched through half-closed eyes as one, two, three tears struck the floor.
BANG. I looked up, terrified, vision still
swimming, though I blinked rapidly to clear it.
There was a column of smoke rising from one of the stacks of straw, and
at first I thought it was a fire, but then it dissipated. Sitting right where the smoke had emanated
from was the strangest little man I had ever seen.
Unlike with the serving boy, this
odd man sent shivers down my spine. I
pulled Mammy’s locket out from where it hung beneath my dress, twisting it
again. I didn’t know what about this
fellow caused my anxiety, I only knew that something did.
He was only as tall as a
six-year-old, I judged, though it was a bit difficult to tell when he was sitting
and above my head. His ears were
enormous, mouth the same, but his nose and eyes were tiny. The nose curved up at the end and the eyes
seemed to bug out. I noticed, too, that
his fingers and even palms were unnaturally long, but his feet seemed, in their
oddly curled shoes, to befit his stature.
Clearly, whatever this man was, he was not human. He grinned at me, and his too-wide smile
brought me to a sudden understanding of the expression, “grinning from ear to
ear.” It was not a comfortable smile—there
was something mocking and cruel in it, as though he gained some sort of
strength from my sorrow. Yet, when he
spoke, it was with a voice so melodic that the words seemed almost to form a
song, and it took all of my willpower to stay focused on anything but the sound
of his voice.
Good
evening, Princess. Why are you
weeping? One so lovely as you should
never have cause to weep.
“Princess?” I asked. Why
would you call me that? I am but a
humble miller’s daughter.
Ah,
he
said, leaping down from the straw to stand across the spinning wheel from me—I
scooted backward, pressing my spine into the chair. His closeness made me nervous. Ah,
he said again, but you’ve come to wed the
Prince, haven’t you?
Not—not
exactly, I stammered. My Papa wants me to—he brought me—I sat
straighter, refusing to be cowed by someone half my height. I don’t
see that that’s any of your business, I finished.
Isn’t
it? He asked, and as he grinned at
me again, something flashed in his eyes that made him look almost familiar to
me, although I couldn’t put my finger on exactly why. I think
this is very much my business, Princess.
Tell me, why are you down here?
Because
the King believes that I might be able to spin straw into gold, I
said bitterly.
And
can’t you? He leered at me.
No,
I snapped, I can’t. And unless you can do it for me, I demand
that you leave right now.
Well,
then, he said, bouncing on the balls of his feet now,
hands in his pockets, looking like some grotesque child at a candy
counter. Isn’t it nice that I can do
it for you?
I’d been staring at a small hole in
my dress by the end of his sentence, unwilling to look at him any longer. But at these words, my head whipped back up
and I met his eyes. They were black, and
reflected no emotion, and again I was overwhelmed by a sense of familiarity. But I said nothing of this. Instead, I asked,
You
can?
Certainly.
Then—please! I said, vacating the chair and gesturing for
him to sit in it in my stead.
I
think…not. He replied smugly.
Not? I asked faintly. Here was my chance of rescue, and the one
fellow who might save me was not willing to.
Not…without
a price.
What
do you want? I
asked. I didn’t care what it was; I
would get it for him. I have some gold left, you can have that.
Gold,
he scoffed. Gold I can get easily. No, I
want something that is of more… value… to you. His eyes drifted from my face, down my neck,
and came to rest on my chest. I crossed
my arms over my breasts hurriedly.
I
would rather die, I told him truthfully.
No,
no, Meia, I don’t want your virtue or your body. I want that. He said, and he pointed to my chest. I looked down; there, hanging where I had
exposed it, was Mammy’s locket.
You
want my Mammy’s necklace? I asked in
disbelief. Why?
I
don’t believe I shall tell you, he said. I swallowed hard.
Fine. I said after a moment’s pause. I had more of Mammy’s things at home, if not
many of them. I could live without the
locket, if it meant that I would indeed live.
The strange man held out his hand.
Have
we a deal, then? I paused one more
time, fearful of this man, this creature, but not doubting for a moment that he
could do what he promised. I reached
out, shook his clammy hand.
A
deal. I said.
Good. He replied shortly. Then, Go
to sleep. In the morning, this will be
gold, and I will be gone with my payment.
I
might have argued, but just then a huge yawn burst out of me.
Excuse
me, I said automatically.
Excuse
you what? He asked somewhat
irritably, now gathering straw to begin spinning with.
I—I
didn’t want to explain, so I lied. I do not know your name, Sir.
He
turned around to face me and gave a little bow.
My
name, he said, is Rumplestiltskin.
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