I nod, tears building in my eyes despite my resolve not to let them get the best of me. I swore I wouldn’t.
“Things will change,” I whisper, clasping his hand. “She has responsibilities now, a home to keep.”
“Soon you will too.” He brushes his thumb down my cheek.
I shake my head vehemently. “I won’t marry.” When he doesn’t answer, I meet his eyes. “I won’t give you up.”
The truth is, no one can measure up to him. How can I marry a boy from the village when I’ve fallen in love with an elf?
His eyes search mine, and he frowns slightly, looking as if he’s searching for words. “Perhaps you won’t have to.”
Laughing, I pull away from him, the conversation a little too uncomfortable. “What a ridiculous thing to say. We couldn’t continue this if I were married. You know that.”
He catches me by the waist, pulling me back. He studies me for several long moments. “What if we married?”
My knees soften, and I stare at him, lost for words. Surely I heard him wrong.
“That’s not funny,” I say softly, needing him to understand that he can’t tease me, not about that.
There are boundaries, and that’s one that shouldn’t be crossed.
“It wasn’t meant to be. We’re friends, aren’t we? You know me better than anyone, and there is no one I want to spend time with more.”
Friends.
My heart breaks a little—just a fissure through the middle. Nothing fatal.
“I don’t even know your real name,” I whisper.
I call him Rune because he’s my secret. No one knows of our friendship. Not Millicent, nor Aunt Gerlind—who’s not my aunt at all but the woman who fancies my father and has tried to seat herself into my departed mother’s chair, and not Father. Certainly not Father.
“Names are of no importance,” he says.
I laugh. “They are, though. They really are.”
A shadow crosses his face. “You’re right—more than you know. But believe me when I say I am Rune to you, and that’s all I ever want to be.”
“I—”
Breathing out a laugh, he presses his fingers over my mouth, gently shushing me. “Don’t dwell on it now. Just…think about it. As an alternative to spinsterhood.”
I pull his hand down. “You don’t want to marry me. I am…nothing.”
“No words could be further from the truth. You are dear to me.”
Yes, a dear friend.
I yearn to ask if he loves me, if that’s what has prompted this painful conversation. But I don’t want to hear his answer.
“This is foolish,” I say with a laugh, turning away from him. “Your people would never forgive you.”
“My people are intolerable. I could not care less what they think or want for me.”
There’s steel in his usually gentle voice, and it causes me to look back. “Are you all right?”
His shoulders rise as he takes a deep breath. He nods as he exhales.
Even if something’s bothering him, he won’t tell me. I know nothing of his life outside the meadow. The elves are secretive and reclusive, and they dislike humans the way we dislike mice.
We are below them, or so they think.
So I think too.
No human I’ve ever met can hold a candle to Rune. He’s noble, loyal, strong.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, shaking his head, smiling despite himself.
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve put me on a pedestal.”
“And what if I have?”
He steps forward. “I might not be human, but I assure you I am a man, and I have weaknesses like any other.”
“Do you?”
“You’re my weakness,” he says suddenly, drawing even closer. “You are the only person who could destroy me.”
His words kindle a fire in my belly, make me question everything I’ve assumed about our relationship. Maybe, for some unknown reason, he cares for me as I care for him.
“If I am that person, then you are safe.” I clasp his hand. “I would never hurt you.”
“I know that.”
Things have wandered into serious territory. We’ve never shared a conversation like this, not ever. We study each other, unsure how to move forward.
Finally, Rune glances at the creek. “Should we try?”
The strange tension eases, and I grin. “You haven’t offered in ages. I figured you’ve aged enough to believe it foolish.”
“I’m offering now.”
I lie on my side, watching Rune as he scoops the damp silt from the creek bed and lets it sift through his fingers as I’ve seen him do hundreds of times in the past. The autumn-chilled ground is cold—too cold for me to stretch out like this, but I’m clinging to summer just like the stubborn late-blooming flowers in the meadow.
His magic glows like amber in the sun, and the wet, sandy mixture dries in his palms as if baked in fire. His eyes—tawny, amber, mesmerizing—lock on mine, and a hint of a smile tugs at his lips.
Without a word, he turns from me and blows the sand and grit away. I sit up, loving this part of the game no matter how many times I’ve seen it.
“Well?” I ask, as eager as a child.
He glances at his palm and frowns. “Not this time, Greta.”
Disappointed, I sink back to my elbow, resigned to the fact that it doesn’t always work.
With a flash of a mischievous smile, he then turns his palm toward me. The finest dusting of gold coats his hand, shimmering like the crushed mica the flamboyant women of the village wear on their eyelids.
Elated, I sit up and trail my finger down the middle of his palm, leaving a streak. “Is there enough?”
Slowly, he presses his hand against mine and meets my gaze, his blue eyes bright. “You know there is.”
Somewhere deep in my heart, I recognize I shouldn’t spend time with him, shouldn’t love him. He says I have the power to destroy him, but I know without a doubt he could ruin me—crush what remains of my heart.
He’s become my everything, healthy or not. I crave his warmth as a flower turns its head toward the sun.
Taking his time, oblivious to my thoughts, Rune chooses a tall stalk of wild rye. “Hold your hand up.”
He needn’t say it because I already am. With the utmost care, Rune weaves the stalk through my fingers, one by one. “Now close your hand.”
Doing as I’m told, I clench my fingers to my palm, encasing the grass in the gold dust, and offer my hand to Rune. Knowing what comes next, my stomach flutters. Gently, he brushes his lips over my fingers and breathes out a warm breath. My hand tingles and grows hot.
After several moments, he releases me. With raised eyebrows and a secret smile, he nods for me to look. Even though I know what to expect, I let out a little gasp when I open my fist. Where the stalk of rye was only moments ago, there’s now a golden chain wrapped around my fingers.
“Amazing,” I whisper as I unwind the chain and hold it up to the autumn sun.
“You think so?” Rune smiles, laughing under his breath, and catches my hand. His tone gentles. “Then marry me.”
I lean forward, drawn to him, searching his eyes for signs that this is some cruel joke. After a moment, I whisper, “Tell me your name.”
Rune hesitates at my request, almost as if he’s going to give in. My pulse jumps, and I focus on the feel of his hand in mine. Then, much to my disappointment, he sighs and pulls away. He smiles again, but it doesn’t reach his eyes this time. “I can’t.”
“You can’t?” I sit back as well, setting my palms on the cold dirt. Tiny rocks dig into my skin, but I barely notice. “Or you won’t?”
“Both.”
“But why?”
Several moments go by, and a breeze blows through the trees, sending red and gold leaves swirling around us. A few settle on my dress, but most land in the creek and get swept away. They twirl in the bubbling flow, temporarily catching on rocks
jutting from the cool, mellow water, and then, as if they can stall no longer, float downstream.
The chill of night is in the air, my reminder that it’s nearly time for me to leave. Already, smoke from cooking fires is on the breeze. I shiver as I wrap my arms around myself.
So softly I have to lean forward to hear him, Rune says, “If I were to give you my name, and you were to say it one day—perhaps completely by accident—I would cease to exist.”
Cease to exist?
I search his eyes. “How can that be?”
He looks away. “It’s our magic—it’s in our very essence, transferred to us the moment we’re named at birth. When a human utters it, the magic leaves, and we vanish from being.”
“Surely not,” I whisper, horrified. “What happens to you?”
He shrugs, a helpless gesture. We study each other for several heartbeats. I reach for his hand, turn it palm-side up, and lower the chain into it. “Make me a disk, something round and small and unadorned.”
Rune raises an eyebrow but clasps his palms together without question. As his magic glows, the light seeps from the chain within. Once it fades, he opens his hands, revealing exactly what I asked for. I take it from him and bring it to my lips, kissing it softly.
He watches me, intrigued, and I press it back into his hand. “I offer you a promise. I will never betray—”
“No,” he says so abruptly I jump. After letting out a long, slow breath, he takes my hand. “Never offer a promise to an elf, Greta. They are worth far more than gold.”
His words are ominous. As if the air around us senses it, a gust of wind blows past, stronger than the last cool breeze. The sun sinks behind the Dark Forest, the last of its rays gone, and the meadow lies in shadows.
“Then what shall we call it?” I ask, nodding toward the golden disk.
Rune squeezes my hand. “A token.”
“A token of what?”
His eyes shift to our hands, and he gives me a wry smile. “Of your affection?”
Feeling bold, I lean forward. He watches me, almost bemused.
“All right,” I say softly. And then, gathering all my courage, I brush a kiss over his cheek. “It’s a token of my affection.”
He smells like the forest—like fir and pine and sunshine. Slowly, I draw back. He’s very still, almost cautious, like he’s afraid if he moves, I’ll flee. Our eyes meet and hold for several long seconds.
“It’s late,” I whisper, pulling my gaze away. A little shaky, I stand and brush the earth and leaves from my dress. “I have to go.”
Before he can answer, I turn on my heel and run from the meadow, through the darkening forest and its lengthening shadows, to the cottage I’ve long called home.
“Why are you starry-eyed?” Aunt Gerlind asks as she heaps sausage and tangy braised cabbage with beets on the plate in front of me.
Surprised, I look up from my spot at the table. “Starry-eyed?”
I don’t dislike Aunt Gerlind, not exactly. She’s older than I am by eight years, far younger than my father, and she nursed my mother when she grew ill. But I suppose I’ve never forgiven Gerlind for letting Mother die, perhaps even wondered if she didn’t hurry the process along.
However, the truth is Gerlind’s a pleasant woman, and when she’s visiting, Father ignores me for the most part—which is always a blessing. And besides Millicent, she’s the only female companion I have.
Gerlind smiles and brushes her chestnut-colored hair back. “There is someone, isn’t there? Is it Sigwald? Barnhard’s son? I saw you speaking to him the other day, and he seemed quite taken—”
The door opens and then slams shut, and Father comes traipsing into the room, cursing the storm that moved in with the night. Aunt Gerlind drops the subject, wise enough to know it’s best not to speak of romance when Father is about.
“Wretched weather,” he mutters as he kicks off his boots and tosses them toward the hearth. He yanks off his drenched hat, revealing hair that’s more gray than brown, and throws it in the boots’ general direction. “I told you, didn’t I? The geese moved out too early, and mice are in the grain—winter’s coming early, and it’s going to be harsh.”
I frown at the bits of caked mud that have fallen on my newly-swept floor. “Yes, Father.”
He follows my eyes and scowls at the mess. “How many times have I told you, Greta? I expect the cottage to be clean when I return.” And then he starts muttering about how much time I spend in the meadow.
The cottage is clean. I’m careful to keep it as lovely as it was when Mother was alive, back when we were—though not rich by any means—doing well.
It’s a pretty home, far nicer than most near the village, even if it’s small. The floors are inlaid with slats of wood, and the windows, which are fitted with real etched glass, aren’t marred by a single smudge. A quilt lies, nicely folded, over the upholstered window seat, and candles burn on newly-polished silver dishes. I’ve even arranged fresh flowers and scattered them about in vases, making things look merry.
Everything is more than tidy.
Just when I open my mouth to argue, Aunt Gerlind catches my eye and subtly shakes her head. Turning to Father, she says, “Your supper is ready, Hans.”
She pours him a tankard of ale, the quality kind she buys him in the village. He glances from me to the table and then decides his belly is more important than arguing. “Very well.”
He sinks into his chair, and he and Gerlind share a pleasant conversation that I am thankful not to be included in. If I time it right, I can sneak off to bed before Gerlind leaves for the evening, and I won’t have to speak with Father again until morning.
It’s not that I don’t care for him—I do. But he hasn’t been the same since Mother died. He’s gruff now, impatient. There was a time he used to smile, but those days are long gone.
Just like Mother.
“Did you sell any flowers today?” Father asks me, unfortunately drawing me into the conversation. It’s not surprising he forgot about the wedding.
I shake my head. “It’s gotten too cold. My garden has gone dormant for the season.”
He gives the flowers in the vases a pointed look.
“Those are wildflowers. No one will buy those—they’re everywhere.”
Father grumbles under his breath and then points the tip of his knife at me. “What about those dried things you make? Do you have any of those to sell? We can’t pay Hendrick with pigs anymore, and he’s demanding money.”
It was a lean summer, and our pigs were stolen by cave trolls that live high in the rocky cliffs. We don’t usually see their type in our dark forests since they dislike the reclusive elves. Sadly, the trolls were feeling brave, and our pens were not as secure as they should have been.
“I’ll make some and take them to Nanette next week,” I promise.
He nods, satisfied for the time being, and turns his attention to Gerlind.
“I have an audience with the king next month,” he says.
That explains why he’s in a fouler mood than usual. We won’t have enough to pay our taxes.
Subtly, I tuck Mother’s golden locket under my bodice and slide the hand that bears her ring under the table and onto my lap. I won’t lose them to our less-than-beloved ruler.
Father shifts his eyes to me, and I go cold. Did he notice? His expression turns calculating, and he tilts his head as he studies me. I squirm under his gaze, feeling like a mouse who’s caught the unwanted attention of an owl. “The king is still unwed,” he finally says.
Startled, I frown.
“Perhaps he will forgive us our debts if I were to offer your hand.”
I clamp my lips together, knowing I’ll regret it if I laugh out loud—even if the idea is absurd. What would the king want with a peddler’s daughter?
“And why not?” Father demands, reading my incredulous expression, and then he turns to Aunt Gerlind. “Is she not beautiful?”
Aunt Gerlind looks concerned. “Greta i
s very beauti—”
“And he is not aged.” Father turns back to me. “It’s not as if I would be offering you to an old man.”
No, the king is not old, but he’s been engaged four times and found fault with every one of his future brides—none of whom lived to see the day of their wedding.
Fortunately for me, this is not a bargain His Majesty will accept, whether he is sane or otherwise.
I look away, push the stained red cabbage and beets around on my plate, and let my thoughts drift back to Rune, where they are the happiest.
Chapter 3
“Rumpelstiltskin, where have you been?” my mother demands as I walk into the throne room, my footfalls echoing off the gleaming marble floor.
I stop in front of her, bowing over her hand. “In the forest.”
“Eva arrived over two hours ago.” Her melodic, rich voice is tinged with irritation. She leans forward. “If you were with that human girl again, I swear I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” I stand, refusing to cow to her.
She purses her lips. I am not a boy, and she no longer holds the throne. I answer to my brother, and my brother alone.
After a moment, she stands, beckoning me to follow her. There are too many ears here.
Her long white gown glistens like stardust, and people make way for her as she strides down the halls. She leads me into the sitting room off her main chambers and closes the door behind her. Her hair is long and golden, and it falls far past her waist. The elves of the forest are fair, every one of us, but Mother is exceptionally so.
As she turns, light from the perimeter torches glints off the diamonds in her circlet. “An engagement with a duchess of Ivalta would buy us time—you know that. Why won’t you give her a chance?”
“You know why.”
“You are not in love with that girl,” she snarls, her beautiful face shadowed with something wicked. “And even if you are, I will not have my son marry a human.”
“That is not your decision to make.”
“You’ll be banished from Tillendall. Is that what you want?”
I hold my hands out, silently telling her I’ll do what I must to be with Greta.
Queen of Gold and Straw: A Rumpelstiltskin Retelling Page 2