The Puppet Queen: A Tale of the Sleeping Beauty

by Mira Zamin

For three weeks, I waded through homesickness in Clemen, renting out a long-term room at the King’s Crown under an assumed name. Sometimes, I would wish my family would come and take me home, but my heart still turned to guilty mush whenever I thought about the curse—and of course, there was so much life to live here. Luckily, not a party of searchers had wound their way through Clemen yet. Unfortunately, I was running out of money. My optimistic forecast of having enough money to last me years, proved just that: optimistic. I had run through two months allowance in three weeks and I knew that I needed to replenish my funds as well as decrease my spending, but I had a definite lack of experience in suitable work.

  Discussing my financial woes with Abarta, I had subtly hinted that I would not mind working as a maid here and she caught on quickly, offering me work at a decent wage. Despite the menial nature of the position, I was thankful for her offer, but then I was struck by the idea to apply as a governess for some merchants’ children. Clemen was a booming mercantile town, and merchants, unlike the nobles of the area, would be unlikely to recognize me as Selene Khamad of Aquia. I could read and write, I had extensive knowledge of Ghalain’s history, could do sums and equations in my head with a lightning speed that had awed my siblings and surely my tutors had said something about the economy? I ignored my general antipathy towards children. Well, I supposed, I made this decision to start a new life and with that comes certain consequences. With Abarta’s help, I lined up interviews with several respected, prominent Clemenite families.

  Clad smartly, I stepped off the narrow cobblestone street and knocked at the door of a richly appointed marble house. A dour-looking servant opened the door.

  “Good day, sir,” I chirped brightly. “Is your mistress within the home?” The man stood silent, staring. “I am here for the governess’s interview,” I explained.

  Without smiling, he let me in. Well, I certainly can’t say much for their hiring tastes. It was a large home, as far as townhouses went, but would not have comprised even a tenth of the many wings of the Mehal. The servant led me to a gilded sitting room, where my prospective employer, an older woman with a lined but garishly made-up face, awaited me.

  “Hello, Miss…I do apologize. I appear to have forgotten your name.” She smiled coquettishly, smoothing down the gaudy pink gown and adjusting the large silk rose on her sleeve.

  Ignoring how odd it felt to curtsy to a commoner, I bent my knee. “It is Roselyn, Roselyn Dula.” I had been utilizing Auralia’s middle name for a pseudonym and although I knew the risk, it felt right. I felt closer to my family each time someone called me by my sister’s name.

  She smiled and indicated that I seat myself. “Well, Miss Dula, you may call me Madame. Will you have tea?” She gestured for a maid to pour me a cup of hot tea. “I must say that I am quite surprised to see that someone so…young has tutored Princess Selene!”

  Sipping the tea, but finding it bitter, I cringed. “Oh yes Madame. I even have a letter in the Princess’s own hand recommending me.” I brandished the note which I had dashed off immediately prior to coming here.

  “Let us see it then.” She plucked the note from my hand and began reading aloud. “…Miss Dula was by far the best governess I have ever had. It was an honor to know such a young woman so accomplished and I learned a great deal during her tutelage. Her teaching is flawless.” Madame appeared unsure whether to doubt her good fortune or to grasp at it, like a beggar reaching for gold.

  Perhaps it had been a bit over the top.

  I suspected that Madame was the sort who would enjoy bragging that a governess formally employed by the Emir of Aquia was in her employ so I said nothing, letting the letter in her hand do its work. It read as follows:

  Roselyn Dula is an exemplar of a woman, a wonderful instructor who can impart her material in a way that the knowledge lives and breathes before her student. She holds her degree from the university in Bahart and her knowledge is vast and her impulse is to educate—it speaks of the generous, giving spirit that lies within.

  Miss Dula was by far the best governess I have ever had. It was an honor to know such a young woman so accomplished and I learned a great deal during her tutelage. Her teaching is flawless. All I know, all I understand, the very manner in which I think, can be laid at Miss Dula’s worshipful feet. A brighter, kinder governess will very likely never be seen by Ghalain again.

  Signed,

  Her Illustriousness, Selene Lilah Khamad of Aquia, Marquise of Carez, Princess of Aquia

  “What do you think of the Princess’s most sudden and scandalous departure?” she asked, eager for first-hand gossip.

  I vaguely considered obliging her. It might sweeten her towards me, but I rejected the notion. “I make it a point to not speak of my students once I have left their employ. Discretion, you see,” I said demurely.

  “Ah, yes, of course!” She smoothed her expression, immediately adopting an equally proper air. “Are you experienced with handling older children?”

  “Oh yes!” Well, I thought, when I chase my nieces and nephews with slippers I do “handle” them…in the broadest sense of the term.

  She questioned me further, but finally her black eyes gleamed and she announced, “It appears that you come with the highest of credentials and it would be a crime not to hire you. Therefore, consider yourself the recipient of this post, should you choose to take it of course. If you do, and I hope you do, my dear, one of the servants should be well able to direct you to the governess’s rooms, let as part of your salary.”

  “Pardon me, but what sort of curriculum do you want for your children? And might I meet them? Before I make a final decision that is.”

  “Nothing too complicated,” she replied blithely. “A smattering of reading, a bit of writing, just a tad of history, a dose of arithmetic. Nothing a girl of your standards cannot handle. Now, as for children, I have one child.”

  Hearing footsteps on the stairs, we both turned to see who had entered. “And as if on cue, he enters!”

  I peered around the tall young man who had just entered. “Where is your child?”

  “Before you, my dear!” she tittered.

  I stared at the youth who had just entered. A well-made fellow, he was certainly not the child I had been expecting. In fact, he must have been several years older than me.

  “He is twenty as of three weeks ago,” Madame explained.

  I overcame the urge to snort, rising to curtsy in response to his bow. “Good day, sir. My name is Roselyn Dula.”

  Genteelly, he lowered himself over my hand. “Corec Wiqf, madame. Pleased to meet you.”

  “The pleasure is mine,” I murmured politely.

  “Now,” proceeded Madame, all business, “besides room and board, the rest of your salary shall be fifteen gold denars, paid at the beginning of every month. Is this acceptable?”

  Fifteen gold denars is the monthly income of a moderately prosperous farmstead.

  “Perfectly,” and we sealed the deal with a handshake.

  “Well then, we shall see you bright and early tomorrow!”

  Madame gestured for the grim-faced servant to lead me to the door. Madame’s home was not too far from the King’s Crown so I walked back, feeling at turns exhilarated and overwhelmed by the bustle of the crowd. Unlike Aquia, which was largely farmland, Viziéra made good use of its ports with a booming merchant population and as such, Clemen was always brimming with business and bazaars. Slipping out of the flurry and into the relative quiet of the inn, I could not help but feel relieved although that soon evaporated when Abarta pulled me aside.

  “What?” I asked, perplexed.

  She spoke in hushed tones. “You recall when you asked me to tell you if any knowledge came from Aquia concerning the noble family or if any Aquians rode into Clemen?”

  My stomach collapsed into itself. “Yes…” My fingers curled so tightly that my nails bit into the soft flesh of my palm.

  “A riding searching for Princess Selene entered the town to
day. They are staying at The Lemon Branch, but the innkeeper there told me that they plan to search every inn in the town for her.”

  My palm was red with tiny scarlet crescents, imprints of my fingernails pressing into my hand.

  She stood in silence for several seconds, but her rotund body could not long hold her thoughts. “Roselyn, please forgive me, but I could not but notice the striking resemblance you bear to the description of Lady Selene being bandied about...and you claim to have worked for her...”

  My mind made an attempt at working furiously, yet it could produce nothing to make my likeness plausible. “Yes…well…” I knew I should not have claimed to have been my own bloody governess!

  Abarta leaned towards me, speaking urgently. “Roselyn…should I be curtsying to you?”

  Internally, I debated the benefits of telling Abarta the truth, but decided that leaving her in nominal ignorance would be best for her safety as well as mine. I hoped I could trust her. “I would be much obliged if you could keep me out of sight while the riding remains in Clemen.”

  Just as the words left my mouth, we heard the heavy tramp of feet behind us.

  “Excuse me, may we speak to the owner of this inn?” questioned the man crisply.

  My neck and back prickled with fright and my knees turned to water. Abarta smiled at the men behind me, whispering, “Hide in the kitchens. Constanisa will aid you.”

  Drawing a deep breath and not daring to look back, I walked calmly towards the kitchen. Constanisa, the head cook at the King’s Crown, was standing over a boiling pot of stew, and I quickly approached her to ask her help. Sensing my steps, she twirled around and stuck the hot spoon in my mouth.

  “How does that taste, love?”

  The stew dribbled down my chin, as I gasped. “Hot!” My scalded tongue formed the words with some difficulty. Fanning my mouth furiously and checking the door for any sign of entry, I mumbled, “Abarta wants you to hide me!”

  Without question, as if it were not a strange request, Constanisa took a bowl of flour and began patting it over my hair, face, hands, and garb. She swept it gently from my lashes.

  I brushed excess flour off my once-red dress. “What will this do?”

  “Make you look like a kitchen wench. Hide in plain sight, you see. Now, there’s a bowl of dough that needs kneading in the back. Get at it.”

  Thankful for something to do, I submerged my hands into the sticky dough, rhythmically pushing and pulling. I kept an ear out for heavy footsteps.

  The fine hairs of my neck stood as the door swung open. I kept my face bowed, but a nervous flush rose to my face. My pulse pounded in my ears until I could feel nothing but my burning skin and hear nothing but the thundering of my heart. Although I was concentrating on my dough, from the corner of my eye, I picked up a glimmer of blond hair and a man disinterestedly surveying the denizens of the busy kitchen. Not finding what he was looking for, he turned on heel, burgundy cloak flashing through the door.

  PART TWO

  Moonrise

  Chapter Seven