The Prince and Her Dreamer

by Kayla Bashe

  "Mathilde?" Clara said tentatively.

  "Mmm?"

  "I don't know if you like it here, but I think it's beautiful." Her smile was tentative yet magnificent, like a crocus blooming in the snow.

  "I do like it. Or at least, I used to." Mathilde took a few deep breaths, looked again—at the kingdom of snowflakes, and at Clara.

  A cloud faded, and Mathilde noticed a small cluster of huts. She focused her senses, sharper now that she was home. One crystal child was singing: her voice high and sweet on the wind, a song Mathilde knew. The Rat King’s army could never change the way the snow shone like diamonds or the pattern of the stars.

  Clara's pure joy in the clearness of the mint-frost air, the sparkling cottages, made the kingdom of snowflakes seem already whole. Her happiness was a beautiful gift.

  One good thing that's come out of my reign, Matilda thought. One person I've saved.

  She uncurled her hand and rested it palm-up in the margin of space between her and Clara. At once Clara's own hand was in hers.

  *~*~*

  Clara had seen the palace in her book. Onion-style dome towers enameled in silver and blush-pink and violet, gold gates glittering in the sun. But she hadn't known how such a grand building could dwarf her, or how very loud it was when thousands cheered. As they walked into the palace, she did her best to just focus on Mathilde.

  "If you're nervous, just remember that you already have my good opinion, and you'll do fine."

  Clara smiled back. "I'm not terribly nervous. It's just like Joan of Arc meeting the Dauphin, or Alice meeting the Red Queen, or any number of books—and they can't be very different from the royals I've read about in biographies, can they? Besides, there was a great deal about your court in the Tales of the Red Prince."

  Trumpets and violins serenaded them. Noble after noble, enchanter after enchanter, bowed to the ruler who'd returned to them and the young human girl who'd defeated the Rat King at last.

  "I'm sorry I don't have anything nicer, but there was a war on until five minutes ago," the palace cook said apologetically, bringing them an apple galette.

  "It's splendid. Thank you ever so much," Clara said, and rose to curtsy.

  "I haven't had food in twenty years. As far as I'm concerned, this is the most marvelous thing I've ever tasted," Mathilde added with her mouth full.

  "Why! Miss Clara—my prince—" And then she had to leave, as she was too overcome with emotion to say anything else.

  "Good. If she's still how I remember her, you've got a friend for life," Mathilde whispered, and Clara grinned back.

  "Anyone who can cook like that ought to be my friend. My parents keep trying to teach me to eat small portions, ‘like a lady’."

  "What a realm you live in! But magic and good sense will return to it eventually, I'm sure of it. They always do."

  After the cook, they greeted the other servants of the palace.

  "It must be terribly difficult serving during wartime, especially in a castle in danger. You've all been very brave to remain at your posts."

  Clara never felt disdainful around servants, as so many of her peers did, and she listened happily to Mathilde's statement of gratitude.

  "I think that's almost everyone," Mathilde said after they'd said hello to umpteen people. "The portal will stay open an hour past dawn, so we still have quite a bit of time—"

  "Herr Drosselmeyer, formerly Ross, Court Enchanter of the High King and scion of the true fae," a deep voice boomed out. It was Drosselmeyer, introducing himself. He took a trumpet from a startled servant and played a quick descending riff before handing it back.

  Mathilde rose, shocked. "Ross?"

  "As pretty as ever." He unfurled his arms for a hug, but Mathilde just prodded him combatively in the bulk of his stomach.

  "You're a wizard. You can't get older. What are you doing puffing up like a Christmas turkey? Who'm I supposed to go hunting with now?"

  He shrugged, making the lining of his cloak shine under the chandeliers. "That world has had a way of aging one. As soon as I can shake the dust off my feet and fake my own death, I'll be a great deal younger. Thirty, maybe."

  "See this, Clara?" Mathilde muttered. "He can be any age he wants, and he always has to be older than me, just so he can seem smug about it."

  Drosselmeyer, Ross, already ascending the steps to the throne, scoffed and pretended to ignore her comment. Clara had never expected her beloved uncle to be the heroic, funny wizard of her storybooks. But now that she knew the truth, she wondered how she'd ever believed anything else. When he held out his arms, she flung herself into them.

  He picked her up and twirled her around, and she felt his tears of relief and joy on her cheek. "Oh, Clara—when I heard the Rat King had attacked your home, I thought the worst. I should have been there for you."

  Clara shook her head. She didn't want him to feel guilty. "Mathilde protected me. But I wish you'd told me the truth…even if I didn't believe it at the time, I wish you'd warned me. I'm sorry for saying your stories were made up."

  "It's all right. You had no way of knowing and judged by the evidence available to you at the time." He kissed her hair and set her gently back down.

  The trumpeter whose job Drosselmeyer had usurped cleared his throat. "Now presenting the Sugarplum Fairy, heir to the kingdom of sweets."

  Beautiful, graceful music emanated from the air, swirling around the brightly decorated grand hall.

  Funny, though. That was one aspect of the storybooks Clara couldn't picture coming true: Ross being wed to the Sugarplum Fairy. Her confirmed bachelor of an uncle, who always said he had no need of a wife and scoffed at the very concept of marriage, and the graceful, lilac-haired fairy who embodied the essence of glamor and charm? Still, his ignoring women as her uncle could be due to his faithfulness to the Sugarplum Fairy…

  A man swept into the room, glitter following his footsteps; he wore fine white boots and a formal suit of lavender silk. He sprinted towards the throne—but it wasn't Mathilde he addressed first. "Ross, love, I've killed a hundred Rat soldiers every year for you—are you finally going to make me that coat of starlight I've been wanting?"

  "Anything for you," Ross replied and placed a lingering kiss upon his smile.

  "But I thought—" and Clara was too shocked to finish.

  "That the Sugarplum Fairy was a woman, like in my book?" Ross chuckled and shook his head. "Of course I had to change a few things. Your grandmother would never have let any of her relatives read the book otherwise."

  "What a strange world you come from," the Sugarplum Fairy remarked.

  Clara bounced up and down, wiggling her hands in excitement as if shooting sparks out of her fingertips. "So—you and my uncle—both of you—oh, Uncle Drosselmeyer, no wonder we've always been such good friends! I've always felt 'that way' about other women, but even after I read about the Ladies of Langollen, I didn't know—not for sure, that is. "

  "There are plenty of people like us in any world, Clara, darling," the Sugarplum Fairy said, with a smile like he was telling a secret.

  And Ross, with that old inscrutable satisfied look in his one blue eye: "Of course. Why did you think I insisted on you reading all of Oscar Wilde? I'll find you a copy of Goblin Fruit when we're back in England."

  "Shall we, Sir Sorcerer?" the Sugarplum Fairy said, extending his hand with arch fake formality.

  "Indeed," Ross said, taking it, and the pair vanished in a whirl of his cloak. Mathilde doubted she'd see either of them again for days.

  While she was distracted by their magical disappearance, a new visitor had approached the throne.

  Beautiful dark skin, greying hair pulled into long braids speckled with flowers. "My prince," the woman said, dropping an elegant curtsy. Still kneeling, she looked up, expectant.

  *~*~*

  Mathilde's mind was blank as fresh snow. Those brown-gold eyes. She should have recognized them. But this woman might have been a total stranger or a close ally. Helplessness cre
pt down the back of her neck. She shot a glance at Clara. The girl had appeared to recognize everyone else in her court, thanks to Ross’s book. Would that be the case in this instance also?

  "Theodora!" Clara practically jumped out of her chair. "I read about you—the sorceress with all the magnificent gowns. Are you still brewing those herbal potions for everyone?"

  Theodora shook her head and smiled ruefully. "Green tea or hot chocolate, more likely. Whatever keeps people awake."

  Clara curtsied back. "Ross said you were a magnificent cook and an even better healer. I'm sure it must be exhausting to have so many people who rely on you."

  Mathilde’s mental image of Tea was a young woman, barely twenty—fearless, tireless, her braids flying around her head as she whisked up magic to keep soldiers in the fight. The sedate, regal matriarch she’d become had such a different energy. It felt difficult accepting that everyone except her had aged and grown. "I know the kingdom would never have been able to keep fighting without your help, Tea—Lady Tisane. You've been truly magnificent."

  "Call me Theodora, at least." Mathilde knew what she meant: We can't be Tea and Mattie anymore, but at least keep the memories of my youth alive. At least remind me of when we were not comrades-in-arms, but friends.

  The next few to draw near were high-ranking military officials. Mathilde could identify them by their badges, but one seemed more familiar.

  "That man after the general. Who is he?"

  Clara frowned. "He's drinking from a hip flask…no, it's not a hip flask, it's steaming. Looks like coffee. With that curly hair and the embroidered scarf he's wearing, he might be—" Putting the details together, Mathilde realized who he was.

  "Admiral Evans," Mathilde said as he approached the throne. "Still drinking five cups a day, then? I remember when we had our first command together."

  "Six, on average. Even since I retired."

  Do you remember, though? Mathilde wanted to ask. They called you Commander Coffee because you wouldn't stop drinking it, even wanted to break the blockade just for a shipment. I pawned my rubies to get you the last bag in the harbor.

  Of course, they'd been young people together, convinced the war would be over by Christmas.

  A thin-lipped smile. "I'm afraid my sons have developed a taste for it as well—I keep catching them sneaking mouthfuls during breakfast."

  "You have sons?" Mathilde remembered him as a reckless young man racing her to adventure. Impetuous, bold, so caffeinated he practically trembled.

  "Mathias, my oldest, will be fifteen this summer. We call him Mattie." And, holding her gaze in a way that would have seemed like insubordination from anyone else: "In my family, we have a tradition of naming our children after the dead."

  "I'm…" What could she say to that? What was there to be said? Clearly she wasn’t dead, though they had thought her to be. "I wish all the happiness of the realms to you and your spouse."

  "My wife died in war five years ago. A Rat mine caught her, even though she was but a nurse. You might have liked her if you'd been around, Red Prince. She had a kind and loyal heart."

  With the lowest bow protocol permitted, not turning away from her, he backed away.

  He had never called her Red Prince in the old days. Nor Mattie—they'd met too late in childhood for nicknames—but she was the Red Prince only when he thought she was getting a swelled head. Now the title was practically an insult, a way of hurting her for perceived abandonment.

  "In the book, he had a short temper. Remember when his ship sank because he couldn't stand waiting? He blamed you first thing, before even looking at the tide charts," Clara murmured.

  "But he came around eventually," Mathilde remembered, smiling at the memory. Clara knew just which parts of the past would instill her with hope, not loss or nostalgia.

  "And you gave up everything for the fight—for survival. You're the only person who could have killed the Rat King. He will remember that," Clara said, leaning close. Her blonde hair fell like a curtain; no one would have been able to read their lips. "Everyone does."

  "A drink for the earth-child," Lady Tisane announced, drawing near. The overlayer of her gown caught the chandeliers' light.

  Clara carefully picked up the iridescent glass teacup from its saucer and took a rapturous sip. She sighed in happiness before taking a larger gulp. "Rosebuds and lemon and lavender and…" This time, she practically slurped. "Lady, is this your magic garden blend? I always wanted to know what it tasted like! Uncle—Ross, that is, never described it properly, just the way he never described anyone's clothes. I could drink this forever.”

  The Lady smirked. "Where did you find her? Now this one knows how to appreciate a good drink."

  "A country called England. They love tea so much, they conquered the world for it."

  Lady Tisane perched on the edge of the thrones' dais. "That's horrifically excessive. Still, this girl…I like her. She's like a more appreciative, less sarcastic version of Ross—although don't you dare tell him I said that.

  "Remember when we used to make fun of him behind his back? God, that was ages ago. I can barely think of how ridiculous we were as young people without flinching all over." She shook her head. "I'm off to see to the rebuilding effort. The distribution of supplies and all that. You know where to find my office, Prince Mathilde."

  I don't remember, Mathilde wanted to say. I spent twenty years asleep, this palace feels like someone else's home now. She felt lost. But her friend had already curtsied and disappeared into the crowd. From the back, she could see the silver-grey streaks in her braids even more clearly. Why had so much happened while she was asleep? Everyone had given their youth to the war except for her. Less than a decade ago, less than the lifespan of Coffee's youngest child, she was teasing Ross for his stuffiness and academia.

  Everyone else grew up. Everyone else moved on with their lives. I stayed asleep, barely holding onto myself and sanity.

  Clara took one more ostentatious slurp of her drink like she was trying to catch Mathilde's attention, and set it down, pinkie out. "They called you Mattie when you were younger?"

  "Everyone did. My father, my mother…Ross, when he wanted to tease me, right up to the moment of my coronation."

  "You know, there's a great deal about your childhood in Adventures of the Red Prince."

  "What did Ross say about me?"

  "That you were a little hellion, even worse than my brother Fritz. Terrorized your governesses, rode your crystal pony in the palace hallway, brought snowballs into your bedroom."

  Mathilde chuckled. "And he let you read about me when you were little? I must have been a terrible role model."

  "I didn't fit in when I was young—maybe I would have fit in better in this world, though. Personally, I saw you as an inspiration." Clara tucked a loose lock of sunshine hair behind her delicate ear. "I bet Mattie will be proud of his namesake, too."

  Just then, several young, clear voices piped up from near the back of the room.

  "Let us through!"

  "We're here to see the Prince—"

  "Should we introduce ourselves by name, or all at once?"

  Those uniforms, those uniforms…Mathilde knew she should remember them. Luckily, Clara helped her.

  "You're the shepherds! The sledge pilots! Exploding candy canes, sleeping gas…I wanted to be one of you when I was little."

  She could see the kids they'd been in their older, war-hardened faces.

  "Most of you were barely old enough to help in the mechanic shop when I was here last," Mathilde recalled out loud.

  "We had you to look up to," said a girl with long braids the color of honey.

  Mathilde didn't recognize her face, but there had only been one young pilot apprentice with hair that long. "Little Lia! What have you done, getting taller than me?"

  Lia's braids shone as she curtsied. "I prefer to think of it as aerodynamic." This was clearly some sort of inside joke because the other pilots laughed.

  The pilots
seemed more changed than any of her old friends, especially Lia. "I remember when you were dragging around that wrench nearly as big as you were. And now you're all mechanics and pilots."

  Lia nodded. "Mother Ginger trained us all in her own sledge. She swore on its wood that she'd keep us safe."

  Mathilde half-rose from her chair, looking around. "Where is she?"

  The flock of well-dressed young pilots seemed incomplete without its incomparable leader: her hoop skirt that could fold out into a parachute or a boat, her petticoats woven with maps and chemical formulas.

  "She died in a bombing run the night after you left." Lia bowed her head. "I'm sorry." Of course, she would never have said anything about grief making their mentor careless. All the little shepherds were too polite for that. They'd been taught too well.

  Mother Ginger had taught Mathilde to fly a sledge when Lia and her cohort were still learning how to polish enchanted pine wood with snowflake glitter. Had given Mathilde tea spiked with bourbon when she was a young woman crying over her first broken heart, spurned by an aloof snowflake diplomat. Mother Ginger, returning from a strafing run with smoke trickling from her madness-red curls.

  Lia and her hard-edged siblings had seen more war than Mathilde, in terms of years. They'd grown up in the war that Mathilde failed to end before she’d been wounded.

  How was this possible? How was this right?

  How had she aged only five minutes while all around her people died and changed and grew?

  Mathilde drew on every remaining scrap of her royal bearing and made a short statement that adhered perfectly to protocol. The Shepherds smiled and bowed and left. Inside, she remembered the Rats' gray poison eating at her flesh. The crawling, gnawing pain that had made her close her eyes and hope to die.

  She reached across the gap between their chairs and squeezed Clara's hand, the way they'd reached for each other in the sledge.

  Help me. Please.

  Suddenly Clara's hand loosened and she half-fell over. She straightened up with a look of shock and let out an enormous yawn. "I'm so exhausted," she said, turning imploring eyes on Mathilde to check and make sure her behavior was appropriate.