That’s happened too.
The courtiers in attendance murmur to themselves, all wondering if the wedding will truly come to pass. Heaven knows it will be a miracle if it does.
Greta will be different, I swear to myself. I intercepted my advisors, announced my wedding before they could declare Greta dangerous and demand her head. They’re livid, have tried to strengthen my poison so they could intervene, pushing goblet after goblet of wine at me. I refused to drink, made up a bunch of nonsense that I was fasting before the ceremony.
They stand to the side of the room, scowling. They never meant this union to come to pass. They toy with people, and then they kill them. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were all at fault.
I’d let them go, send them packing, but I’m afraid they’d just hire an assassin to kill me in my sleep. At least with them close, I can keep an eye on them.
But now I have Greta. I must find the viper of the group and take off his head. It was one thing when they were playing with my life; it’s another matter entirely to threaten hers.
The orchestra begins to play, alerting us all that the wedding is about to start…which means Greta is there, just outside the door, alive and well. Hating me. I saw it in her eyes when I collected her. Whatever affection she might have had for me in the woods is now dead.
I stand straighter as the doors open. Several young girls walk down the scarlet carpet, dropping flower petals as they go. Guests begin to crane their necks, waiting for a glimpse of the future queen.
Unable to fathom how Greta was able to turn the straw to gold, they’re calling my bride a witch. It’s absurd, but they don’t know about her pet elf.
I watch, growing nervous, my doublet’s collar growing tighter by the moment. I sweat under my many layers, and the gleaming ceremonial sword at my side doubles in weight. If we don’t get on with this, my clothing will suffocate me.
And then she appears.
I inhale sharply, for a moment feeling like a young man unmarked by the cold world. Greta was beautiful before, but now that she’s dressed like the queen she’s destined to be, she’s almost unsettling. Her sable hair is loose, falling down her back. The gown she wears is pure gold, crafted from the delicate strands her elf created. It hugs her curves before flaring at her waist, trailing into a train that’s ridiculously long.
Even though the golden fabric is whisper thin, it must be heavy. Still, I don’t think that’s why Greta stares at the ground, her face whiter than the pearls that adorn the gown’s neckline.
I watch her, frowning. It’s not supposed to be like this. She looks like a woman being led to her death, as though I am the human equivalent of a guillotine.
My stomach sinks, but I keep my face impassive, pretending I don’t care. Pretending it matters not that the woman I’m going to spend the rest of my life with looks at me as though I’m a dark reaper.
The ladies who trail behind her adjust her train when she reaches me and then take their places at her side. Still, Greta’s eyes are on the floor. She looks two seconds away from fainting.
The preacher frowns but clears his throat and begins, speaking words about forever, about love, about cherishing. I watch Greta from the corner of my eye, wondering what’s running through her head.
Is the idea of spending her life with me, becoming queen, that abhorrent? Am I that vile?
She didn’t think so in the forest. But that was before I trapped her in a tower full of straw and told her to do the impossible.
No wonder she hates me. I’d hate me too.
“I do,” I say when it’s my turn to speak. Part of me is horrified by how much I mean those two words. I do intend to love her. I do intend to cherish her. I do intend forever.
When it comes to her turn, Greta is silent, almost as if she’s tempting my advisors to call her a witch right here and haul her away. Giving them an opening.
I nudge her, making her look at me for the first time.
Her beautiful eyes hold no emotion, none at all.
“They’ll kill you,” I plead with her, my voice not even a whisper.
Greta parts her lips, about to respond, but then turns to the preacher and lowers her eyes to the floor once more. “I do.”
She voices the words like she’s admitting guilt to a crime she didn’t commit, like she’s doomed anyway, so she might as well go along with the charade.
I look past the preacher, at the stained glass behind him. I’m empty, broken, cracked and faulty. Maybe I am mad. It was foolish to think Greta would be the one to make this cold, drafty castle feel like home.
You saved her, a voice whispers in my ear. They wanted to kill her; it’s true. Perhaps I can focus on that, the fact that she’s still alive, still breathing. Yes, she’s miserable, but at least she’s not dead.
Surely that’s something. Surely some kind of affection can grow from that? Even the grudging sort.
I will make her love me, somehow, someway. Even if it kills me, there will be a day when my queen looks at me and doesn’t see the mad king who ruined her life.
“You may kiss the bride,” the preacher says, and I turn my eyes on the man, startled.
I’d forgotten that part.
I look at the grieving girl beside me, feeling like a thief. She’s not mine, but I stole her. Hating the eyes on us, I touch a finger under her chin and gently force her to face me.
Our eyes meet. Hers glisten, but she doesn’t cry.
I won’t kiss her for the first time in front of these people, not when she hates me.
She closes her eyes, waiting. A single tear runs down her pale face. I wipe it away with my thumb and close the distance between us, brushing my lips against her cheek. It’s a soft gesture, all I have in me.
Her eyes fly open, pinning me with their surprise.
The crowd claps politely, thinking the ceremony complete. Only the preacher was close enough to see that our lips never met, but he stays silent.
Kiss or no, for better or much, much worse, we are wed.
Chapter 17
I barely make it into the forest before I collapse. I fall too close to the edge of a hill and roll, unable to catch myself, stopping only when I smash spine-first into a boulder nestled amongst the evergreen needles. Something snaps—an unnatural sound. Fire spreads through my core, but it doesn’t matter.
My magic is spent, gone. I used every last bit of it to turn the straw to gold and save Greta’s life. And now I’m done.
As the world grows hazy, as black clouds mar my vision, I pray the king will take care of her. Let her be safe. Let her be happy.
Let her forgive me for leaving her.
A soft, feminine voice wakes me, but not the one my soul craves.
“What did you do to yourself?” the woman murmurs. Something cool dabs my face, and I force my eyes open, cringing. The forest light is dim, but it stings. I blink, attempting to clear my vision.
Ice blue eyes, raven black hair.
Not Greta.
“I’m supposed to be dead,” I manage. The few words tear my throat, causing indescribable pain.
The Ivaltian elf gently lifts my head and places a cup at my lips, urging me to drink the liquid it holds. “Not yet, though a troll would surely have found you if I hadn’t.”
I clear my throat and try to sit only to find I can’t move. My limbs won’t respond. Everything feels too heavy, too stiff.
“Where are we?” I manage to ask Eva, pushing back the panic growing in my chest. I’d be better off dead than paralyzed.
“Somewhere safe.” She glances around our sanctuary, sending a wayward strand of ebony hair over her shoulder. I stare at it, mesmerized by the way the light plays on the soft curl. “Far enough from Castle Tillendall,” she adds.
I pull my eyes away from her hair and look at my shelter. It’s an ancient elven structure, the kind built by a ring of trees. The leafy canopy makes the roof, and light filters through. The walls are trunks, the floor is made of tightly fitting, smo
oth, flat rocks. The perimeter shimmers with magic, though I have no idea if it’s a lingering spell of old or Eva’s creation.
“Why away from Castle Tillendall?” I ask.
Eva laughs, an almost scoffing sound. “If I had brought you back in this state, your mother would blame me and declare war on Ivalta.”
The duchess is right. Our people are absurd.
Eva continues to dab my brow with the cold, damp cloth. Her frown deepens when a sudden shudder travels through me, making me hiss in pain. “I’m attempting to fix your spine,” she says, “but it’s a slow process. Please lie still.”
“I’m freezing,” I admit, my teeth nearly chattering. I turn my head away from the cool cloth.
“You’re running a fever.” She places a cloak over me. “I think your magic is trying to return.”
“It’s gone.” My words are bitter, hard. “Spent.”
“I’m not so sure.” She returns to her seat by my side, setting the cold cloth aside for the moment. “What did you do?”
“Made far too much gold.”
“Were you trying to kill yourself?”
I let out a sharp, painful laugh. “No, but I figured it was inevitable.”
And if I died, perhaps Greta’s promise would be null and void. Does the council know about it yet? Is it logged in their book, written in the gold ink that seals the contract?
Eva’s quiet for several moments. I can feel the tendrils of her magic working deep in my core, wrapping around my spine, gently coaxing the bones and nerves back into place.
It hurts like nothing I’ve ever felt, but I grit my teeth, breathing through the pain.
“The first night will be the worst,” she says softly, her words an apology and a promise.
When she finally draws the magic back, I exhale.
“We’ll do more in a bit,” she says, rising. “Rest for now.”
“Your Grace.” I’d pull her back if I could use my arm, but it lies useless at my side. “The human king. Have you heard? Did he marry the peasant girl?”
She meets my eyes, her expression solemn and achingly knowing. “You mean the girl who somehow managed to turn three towers filled with straw into gold in the span of only three days?”
She knows.
I manage a nod.
“They were wed this morning,” she says gently.
A new pain takes me, one that sears my heart and makes me genuinely sorry I’m not dead. Why am I not dead?
I turn my head from Eva as real, unadulterated despair wells in my core, destroying me from the inside out.
The dark elf hesitates only a moment before she sinks into her seat and places her hand in mine, twining our fingers together when I cannot, offering silent comfort.
After several long moments of leaving me to my grief, she places her other hand on my chest. “Sleep,” she whispers, giving me much-needed respite.
As I drift, I see Greta at our creek, waiting for me. She turns, smiling, her face lighting as it always does when she spots me.
And then she vanishes before my eyes. There’s nothing left but the bubbling water, a pile of sand, and years’ worth of bittersweet memories.
Chapter 18
I stare out the window at the last of the sun’s rays as night falls on the forest. Behind me, the ballroom is filled with people. People who are pretending to be happy—happy for the king, happy for me, happy to be here. I feel…empty.
Numb, perhaps.
I see Conrad approaching in the reflection of the glass. The king is striking in his fitted trousers, high boots, and scarlet doublet. He sets his hands on my shoulders, and we study each other in the reflection. “You’re hiding, my queen.”
“The coronation isn’t until tomorrow,” I remind him.
For now, I’m just the peasant married to the king. Tomorrow, I’ll wear a crown.
Conrad catches a strand of my hair, which the maids curled with irons heated in the fire before the ceremony this morning, and twists it around his finger. “I’m sorry.”
I meet his eyes. “For what, Your Majesty?”
“Don’t call me that,” he pleads, his voice soft. “And I’m sorry for giving in to my advisors. We didn’t need more gold. It was a show of power.”
How am I supposed to answer? Since I have no idea, I stay silent.
He runs his hand down my bare shoulder. “Please don’t be angry with me. Not tonight.”
Tonight. Our wedding night.
My wedding night.
How did this happen? It was so fast.
I draw in a long breath and then let it out slowly. I study the people in the window’s reflection, watch them dance. They’re all birds, strutting about in their colorful plumage, putting on a show.
Father and Gerlind stand to the side, looking overwhelmed. Like me, they marvel at everything. The ballroom is gilded and bejeweled, and the ceiling is painted—by the hand of a master, no doubt. It’s a whole different world.
“What can I do to cheer you?” Conrad asks, practically begging.
I’m about to tell him there’s nothing, when I notice something odd in the reflection. The portly advisor stops a servant who appears to be headed our way with a silver tray holding two chalices of wine. He takes the tray, waving the confused servant away. He pauses when he believes no one is looking and pulls a small vial from his doublet. With a quick glance to the right and then the left, he pours several drops into one of the cups.
Several seconds later, the advisor continues his course to us and very carefully angles the tray so the altered wine is closest to Conrad. “Refreshments, Your Majesties?”
I snort, not feeling at all noble, and nod toward the man. “Here’s your culprit, Conrad. I wouldn’t drink the wine if I were you.”
Conrad’s eyes widen with shock. “Herman?”
“I saw him slip the poison in your goblet just now—in the reflection of the window.”
The overly plump advisor stumbles back, accidentally dropping the tray on the ground. The goblets topple, and deep red wine spills at his feet like a pool of blood. “Your Majesty—”
I don’t linger to watch the rest. I sweep from the ballroom and make my way up to one of the towers. I’m not picky—I know Rune will find me no matter which one I choose. I find the closest room, throw open the windows to the night, and wait.
Rune never comes.
At dawn, without a word or a question, Conrad collects me, and I begin my new life as the queen of Morgenbruch.
Part II
New Love
Chapter 19
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but as I understand it, a person must eat to live,” Conrad says as he joins me on the bench in the tower, the one that looks out over the forest. “Tell me, are you trying to starve yourself?”
I turn to him, listless, too broken to breathe, much less eat. For the third day in a row, I’ve done nothing but shuffle things around on my dinner plate.
“He left you, didn’t he?” the king says matter-of-factly, looking down at the thick forest below.
“Who?” I ask, playing dumb.
Humor shines in his eyes as he turns back to me. “Your elf, the man who saved your life—the man who spun the gold. You don’t really think I’ve mistaken you for a witch, do you?”
I stare at him for several long minutes before I finally give in. “You know.”
“It’s the only logical conclusion to draw when three rooms full of straw were turned to gold, and you’re here, acting as if your heart has been ripped from your chest.” He shrugs. “And there is the small detail that we had the pleasure of meeting in the forest that evening you found the troll.”
“You are callous,” I say softly, looking away, not even caring if he puts me to death for the insult. After all, what do I have to live for?
The king sighs, a soft sound of resignation. “And yet, that is not my intention.”
I turn back to him, my eyes flashing. “You knew I loved him, and you chose to keep me here as
a prisoner?”
“What kind of life did you expect to lead with him, Greta?” He cocks his head to the side, narrowing his eyes, his tone calm enough I want to slap him. “Did you think his people would embrace you with open arms? They wouldn’t.”
“We were going to run away,” I admit, but I don’t know why. The words sound foolish to my own ears. I look down. “Travel to the far north, make a life for ourselves.”
“A cold life.”
I whip my head back to him, pinning him with my gaze. “A happy life.”
He studies me for several moments. “And you don’t think I can make you happy?”
I’m opening my mouth to respond when I pause. There’s something in the king’s expression, something painful underneath the nonchalant mask. I’ve hurt him, though why my indifference should mean anything to him, I don’t know. But I can’t tear him down just because I am torn. I can’t wound him just because he’s wounded me.
Taking a deep breath, I rein in my temper.
The castle has been in a state of turmoil for the last week, and not just because the king has a new bride. Several advisors were put to death, others were sent to the dungeons. I’m still trying to work out for myself how much of my time in the towers was the king’s doing and how much was the men who had him under their thumbs.
Because I don’t know, I can’t destroy him—no matter how I hurt.
I stand, needing to put distance between us. Tentatively, I drop my hand on Conrad’s shoulder, a friendly gesture that rankles me in the worst way. “You can force me into marriage, but you can’t expect me to love you.”
The words are gentle but truthful. I won’t lie to him; there’s no purpose in that.
The young king studies me for several moments, his dark eyes unsettling. “Your father gave me your hand. Forgive me, but I assumed you’d be just as well off with me as you were with a man who would willingly give his daughter to a king who had his last several brides-to-be put to death.”
Queen of Gold and Straw: A Rumpelstiltskin Retelling Page 10