“You do speak a language. And you can hear, just as I thought. Isn’t that interesting? Get up. We’re leaving.” His voice was as hard as his face.
“Who are you?”
The man straightened, and she saw four of her father’s personal guards and one of his game trackers standing next to their horses. They threw confused glances between her and the man.
“I am the librarian from the nearby town. I happened upon the prince’s guards searching the streets and brought them here to find you. Now they’ll take you home to your father, and I will be paid handsomely for my good deed. I may even instate myself as the royal witch and finally burn that wretched library to the ground.”
“No!” Adira was on her feet now, the hunting knife in her hand.
“Easy,” the knife whispered in silver. “Don’t grip too hard. Relax. I will stab all the faster. Stab, stab, stab.”
The knife always talked her through using it, even when she was doing something as simple as prying a rock out of her boot. But now it wanted to cut, to cause pain, to know blood.
So did she. Nobody burned down a library.
“I could melt that knife with a snap of my fingers,” the man scoffed.
“No, he can’t.” The pea said from her pocket.
The man’s eyes widened and he swallowed hard. His face went a deep shade of red and he lifted a hand, pointing at her. “Give me the pea.”
“No.”
“Adira,” the pea said as if there was nothing unusual about the morning. “This is the witch I was telling you about. He can break your curse.”
“I will do no such thing.”
“Oh, but you will, brother.”
Brother? Adira took a step back. The story had not been a story. The man beside her had not been a dream. This son of a witch had hurt the librarian. The real librarian, who was a pea.
And if the pea was this man’s brother, that meant that he was also a witch.
Didn’t it?
“Listen to me, Adira,” the pea said quickly. “I have a very small amount of magic left to me. Magic I have been keeping very carefully for the last three years. It is not enough to break a curse.”
“Magic!” the man snarled. “You don’t have enough magic to do anything.”
“I have enough magic to fuel a single wish.”
“You can’t grant your own wishes.”
“I know. I give that wish to you, Adira. Promise me you will use it to break your curse.”
Adira didn’t want the pea to spend the magic on her, but before she could say so, magic was all around her, gentle, warm, soft, sinking down deep into her bones like a welcome fire in the winter.
“I despise you.” The man stared at where the pea was hidden.
She slipped her hand in her pocket to protect the pea.
But something about the pea was different. It was still small and round but now it was ice cold.
“Is he dead?” Adira pulled the pea out and cradled it in her palm. She tipped her gaze up and snarled at the witch. “Did you kill him?”
The witch, wisely, took a step backward. “He killed himself. He gave you the last of his magic, the fool. It was all that was keeping him alive. He got what he deserved.”
Adira’s throat was thick and painful. Tears of anger and sorrow stung behind her eyes, but she would not let them fall. “If I make a wish, it will be granted. Is that right?” The strength of command rang in her words.
“Yes.” His mouth was a sour twist, his shoulders stiff with disgust.
“I wish for you to break his curse.”
The witch jerked as if she had slapped him. “No.”
“Do it or I will carve your heart out.”
In her hand, the knife whispered of flesh and fat and bone. “Carve, carve, carve.”
“You can’t harm me. I won’t let you touch me.”
“I don’t have to touch you to hurt you. Belt, bind. Clothing, snare.”
Being able to speak to inanimate things was not magic. Or at least Adira had never thought of it as magic. But she had always been kind to the things around her, and they had always been willing to help.
The witch’s tunic, belt, and pants all constricted, the neck of his undershirt squeezing his throat.
“Ho-ho!” the belt chuckled, creaking loudly as it pulled smaller and smaller.
“Shame, shame,” muttered the shirt and tunic, scrunching and rippling as they drew tighter and tighter.
The guards were seasoned warriors. Even so, they were surprised to see a man’s wardrobe turn vengeful.
Adira did not spare them a glance. She stepped closer to the witch and pressed the tip of the knife over his heart.
“Cut, cut, cut, cut,” the knife chanted.
“I wish for you to break the spell you cast over your brother. Now.”
His nod was jerky, his breathing short, his eyes watering.
“Let him breathe,” she ordered the clothes. “But only as long as he does as I say.” The clothing relaxed. The witch gulped air.
She held up the pea, her arm stretched away from him so that to reach it he would have to step into her eager knife.
He didn’t step. He raised his fingers and said words that had no meaning.
The pea trembled and fell from her fingers. When it hit the ground, it was no longer a pea. It was the man she had seen in her dreams, the man who had told her stories under the stars.
His chest rose and fell with breath, and his eyes opened. He blinked several times, confused, then pushed up until he was on his feet.
“What did you do? Oh, Adira, what did you wish?”
“I wished for him to break the spell he cast on you. Did he? Are you well? Is this who you really are?”
“He did. I am. It is. But you didn’t break your curse.” He looked truly distraught, his smiling mouth turned down, his eyes—green and brown like the forest—were sad. “I gave you all my magic. I have none left to break your curse.”
She had made that choice with her heart. She had given away her chance for a normal life. The chance for her parents to understand her, the chance for people around her to know she was well, whole, and good just how she was.
Instead of sorrow, she felt a growing sense of rightness. It did not matter if other people thought she was whole or broken. She was content. More than that, she was happy.
She loved being able to speak to inanimate things, loved reading books, and making the hall mirror laugh. She loved being strong enough to take her own adventures, to choose her own life, her own language, and even her own wishes.
And looking into the man’s soft eyes, the librarian who was no longer a pea or a witch, she knew there was more to discover. More adventures to take.
“I will force my brother to break your curse,” her librarian said.
“No. You told me a witch knows the price of a heart’s desire, and I will not have you indebted to him.” She sheathed her knife and stood next to the librarian.
“We don’t need you or your magic,” she said to the witch. “If you come anywhere near us, or return to the library, I will show you no mercy.”
The witch’s shirt tightened around his throat for just a moment, and his eyes went wide.
He licked his lips, his narrow gaze flicking between her face and his brother’s. “This isn’t how it ends. You’ll come to me. You’ll want my magic.”
The librarian laughed, and it was a cold sound. “You know I have never wanted your magic. I don’t want it now and never will. Go away, brother, and stay away.”
The witch shook his head in disbelief. Then he turned and stormed away, muttering dark things about something his mother had told him about curses and love.
The prince’s guards came forward at once, gesturing and speaking to Adira, though she still couldn’t understand or hear them.
“They want you to go home with them,” the librarian said softly. “They say your father and mother are very worried about you.”
Adira liked
that the librarian could interpret their words for her. It gave her an idea.
“Could you teach me to write words they would understand? Or to say them in a way they would know?”
The librarian lifted one eyebrow, a trick that matched his smile, both of which she found very charming. “I’m sure that I could, yes. But it might take some time.”
“I want it to take some time.”
“Then shall we return to your home?”
“No.”
“No?”
“I want to see your library. I want to read the books that have always been yours to look after, the books you love. Reading them might take me many years.”
“Oh.” The word was a breath of desire. “Yes. Stay with me. For however long you wish, Adira. Yes.”
She held out her hand, and he took it in his own. His hand was warm and strong and steady, and his arms, when he pulled her close were even more so.
“I’ll write a letter telling my parents to come visit,” she said.
“Yes,” he murmured softly into her hair.
“I’ll tell them I refuse to marry Prince Chadwick.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll tell them I love you, and am going to ask you to marry me one day. But only when you love me too.”
“Yes.” He pulled away and smiled in adoration. “I love you now and I will love you forever.”
“Happily?” she asked.
“Ever after.”
He drew forward, closing the slight distance that remained between them. His lips were soft and warm and a new wonder for her to discover.
This was the first kiss of many kisses they would share throughout their long lives. It was gentle and cherishing and filled with the language of love and joy. As warmth kindled her heart and grew into a sweet fire, she knew there was another kind of magic in the world. A magic she would always find here, in her librarian’s arms.
* * *
Author’s Note
Of all the fairy tales in all the books, why did I choose to retell one as silly and slight as The Princess and the Pea? Because ever since I read it as a child I’d always felt it was, at best, half of a story.
At worst, the idea that a princess was made of such delicate stuff a pea buried beneath a pile of mattresses could bruise her skin, offended me. In my mind, a princess was more than delicate skin. A princess was smart and kind, clever, strong, and tough. In my young, stubborn heart, I thought a princess should be able to sleep on a field full of peas, get up in the morning, dust herself off, and go about ruling her lands unbruised and unconcerned with her sleeping conditions.
Princesses were meant to look after the people they loved. To be curious and thoughtful and maybe even funny. Princesses were more than their skin. Princesses were more than a judgement of their body and their worth for marriage.
So when choosing to retell a fairy tale, a romantic fairy tale, I decided to give the princess a chance to be something more. To be brave and quick-witted and resourceful. To perhaps even find her own love and live her own happily ever after, no bruises required.
* * *
Devon Monk is a national best selling writer of fantasy. Her series include Ordinary Magic, House Immortal, Allie Beckstrom, Broken Magic, and Shame and Terric. She also writes the Age of Steam steampunk series, and the occasional short story which can be found in her collection: A Cup of Normal, and in various anthologies such as this one. She has one husband, two sons, and lives in Oregon. When not writing, Devon is either drinking too much coffee or knitting silly things. More stories? You bet!
Keep up with Devon on Facebook at: https://www.facebook.com/DevonMonkbooks/ or check out her blog and sign up for her quick and fun newsletter at: http://www.devonmonk.com
Once Upon A Kiss: Seventeen Romantic Faerie Tales Page 48