The Puppet Queen: A Tale of the Sleeping Beauty

by Mira Zamin

  ***

  I awoke with feathers of sunshine brushing my eyes. For a moment, I peered about startled, not recognizing my surroundings. Memory slowly trickled back as I changed into the wool dress from last night; the slippers were beyond repair. I may as well have gone barefoot.

  I opened my door only to be met by an incensed Gwydion.

  “What did you mean by not sharing a room? How dare you refute me in public! You shall not do so again.” The threat hung in the air.

  “Where is your lauded charm now?” I replied brazenly. “I do believe you forgot to ask me how my night’s rest was. Quite good thank you. And yours?”

  Gwydion’s face darkened. I inched away from him, but stars danced in my vision as his fist flew against my right cheek. I could only yelp in surprise. The world flashed distinctly black and white, and I cradled my throbbing cheekbone. Blood rose to hot my face, my vision fuzzed with fury.

  “Is that all? My nephews can hit better.”

  His hand thundered against my other cheek.

  Anger burned and a misty haze of fury descended over my eyes. I launched myself at him, heedless of the disparity of our sizes, our strengths. My nails drew fine lines of blood across his face. Each tear in his cheek, each sharp gasp of pain filled me with satisfaction.

  With cold ease, he tightly wrapped his fingers around my wrists. I was gratified to see that the cuts on his face flushed an angry red. Seasons, I hope he gets an infection. He threw me onto the bed.

  “I do not derive enjoyment from this. Do not give me reason to do this to you again. We will leave now.” His frosty nonchalance was inhuman, perhaps the most disturbing quality of the exchange. “The carriage is outside. You will tell the innkeeper you tripped.” He slipped his rings on.

  I buried emotion in my heart, and splashed my cheeks with water from the white washbasin. Without waiting for his say-so, I left the room, avoiding the innkeeper’s kind face as I left. Just thinking of him reminded me of my father, who had affianced me to this monster, but had no idea of what he had wrought. If my father knew, if the innkeeper knew, both would have done something to save me. I refused to weep. The innkeeper could do something to save me. Then, I looked around at Gwydion’s hardened companions. Once more, what could a group of untrained men do against them? I was the only one who could save myself now.

  My head drummed, light with anger. Dear Seasons, I was ready to tear Gwydion apart with my bare hands. In the carriage, I touched a cool hand to my puffy face, attempting to relieve the pain, to alleviate the heat.

  Gwydion jumped nimbly inside, and despite the scratches, his face was wreathed in excited smiles.“Today, we take Aquia.”

  I grimaced. And someday, I take your head.