“What’s wrong?” Remi asked in an undertone as the applause continued.
“I’m stuck,” she murmured into her lap.
Remi wiggle a webbed foot from her skirts and lightly touched the bench, his pads coming away covered in goo.
“Oh no.”
Lord Smithson was making his way toward them on the dais, still clapping—Lady Wellington and Coriander in tow.
“Marvelous! Please, take a bow ladies.”
Portia hadn’t stopped doing so. Cynthia smiled up at him, her mouth twisted in an apology.
“I’m afraid I may have turned my ankle on one of the pedals,” she said in an undertone.
“Really?” He blinked at her in an owlish way and looked lost a s t what to do about her. “Perhaps I could assist you to stand?”
Over Lord Smithson’s shoulder, Coriander’s grin was full of malice.
“I— ” Cynthia had no idea how she was going to get out of this situation without a spectacle. At this point she was just hoping for the least embarrassing solution possible.
“What is it now?” Lady Wellington had plastered a smile on her face for the audience, but her words were needles of fury.
“She’s twisted her ankle,” Lord Smithson said in an attempt to be helpful.
“Ridiculous drivel! Stand up!” Lady Wellington hissed, her false smile slouching.
They were now attracting a lot of attention. The royal family took notice and rose from their seats. They climbed onto the stage. The small space was now crowded with people.
Cynthia considered faking a fainting spell. That might be less humiliating at this point.
Lady Wellington was at the end of her rope. She curtsied low to the king and queen, murmuring, “Your majesties.” Her hand latched onto Cynthia’s upper arm and jerked her to her feet.
Her stepmother’s grip was like a manacle on her arm. The strength that desperation gave her lifted Cynthia bodily to her feet. The bench lurched up with her, launching Remi into the air like a catapult.
Every eye in the palace was on the small, green frog summersaulting through the air. Cynthia wondered if anyone else noticed the look of utter terror on his face. He arced high, but not far, coming down in a windmill of legs directly on P rincess Snowdrop’s crowned head.
As he landed, the back of Cynthia’s dress finally gave way with a loud RIP and the piano bench clattered to the ground. The only good thing about the situation was most everyone was watching with fascinated horror as the princess whacked her own head and shrieked. There was too much going on to really take in Cynthia standing there with no back to her skirt. The thought of how clean her underwear was flashed through her mind. She jolted into action, closing the back of her skirt the best she could with one hand, bounding the few steps to the princess, plucking Remi off her head and dashing down the steps of the stage. Commotion exploded behind her, but she refused to turn around. A loud chuckle rolled over the top of the sobs and angry voices—and somehow Cynthia knew it belonged to the crown prince.
A sea of faces turned to her, blocking her exit through the ballroom. She clutched Remi to her chest one handed and ran in the only direction open to her. She dashed through an archway, past passed yards of tables laden with covered dishes in preparation for the feast, and through the first set of doors she came to.
Cynthia burst into a kitchen that the entire downstairs of the manor house could have fit in. An army of servants in white aprons buzzed around the stainless steel tables and cook tops in a wash of noise. Chopping, frying, dishes clattering, and instructions being meted out like a whip cracking from a diminutive woman who was clearly in charge and on a war path. She took one glance at Cynthia and bellowed to a nearby pastry chef, “Get her out of here!” in a thick German accent.
The pastry chef passed her tray of profiteroles to the apple cheeked girl next to her with a, “Here, Molly,” and hustled Cynthia away from the frenzy.
The woman was about the age Cynthia’s mother was when she died. She had a friendly, open face, and striking green eyes.
“You can’t be back here, dear.” She took in Cynthia’s strange one-handed posture and glanced behind her. “What have you done to your dress?”
“Please, just get me out of here,” Cynthia said. Here eyes darting to the swinging doors she’d burst through.
The pastry chef sighed and studied Cynthia 's panicked face a moment. “Here, put this on.” She took off her apron and tied it around Cynthia’s waist backward, covering the missing portion of her skirt. She hustled her to a small wooden door set in the back wall of the kitchen. “Keep going up the stairs to the very top. There’s a roof access up there. You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”
Cynthia shook her head no.
“There’s a fire escape attached to the side of the castle that should get you back on ground level.”
“Thank you,” Cynthia whispered before swinging through the door and closing it on the woman’s look of pity.
Cynthia tripped up the deserted servant’s staircase in the low flickering light of the sconces set at intervals along the wall s . She uncupped her hands from Remi, who was still trembling slightly.
“Want to ride on my shoulder?” she asked.
He nodded and climbed up to grip her ruined dress with the sticky pads on his feet. She felt his chin burrow into her shoulder.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.
“Not your fault, Remi.”
She was out of breath but the stairs wouldn’t end. The steps spiraled up and up . T he occasional landing would appear , but there were always more stairs beyond it. At last the steps ended in a blank stone wall. A ladder had been propped against it, leading to a wooden hatch in the ceiling. The rungs creaked in an alarming way when she put her weight on them. She pushed open the trap door and pulled herself into the cool evening air.
She stood on top of one of the flat stone turrets on the south side of the castle. The sun had just set, and the land still clung to the dwindling light. The wind was stiff this high up, and it tugged at her hat and at Remi still clinging to her shoulder.
“Nice view,” he commented.
A low shed stood in the middle of the circular space. The cooing call particular to pigeons wafted to her on the wind. This must be the messenger birds’ roost. On the other side, the edge of the fire escape stuck above the stone ledge.
A door creaked open and Cynthia ducked behind the coop.
“Now what?” Remi muttered.
There must be more than one way to access this tower. She didn’t know who would be up here during the feast, but she didn’t want to see anyone just now.
A heavy tread scuffed against the stones, heading straight for the shed. She skirted inside the opening. The pigeons started, flapping and calling in alarm.
“Shhh,” Cynthia soothed in a whisper, “nothing to worry about.” The birds immediately calmed. She peered through the slats at the unknown person, and almost yelped.
Remi felt her tense. “Who is it?”
“The prince.”
What in the world was he doing up here? Was he looking for her? No, that was absurd.
He rounded the side of the coop and with horror, Cynthia realized he was heading inside the little shed with a tiny roll of paper in one hand.
What in the world did the prince have to communicate in the middle of his own party?
She had only seconds to act. “Fly!” she told the roosting pigeons. They stirred on their perches and blinked at her sleepily.
Outside, the prince paused. “Who’s there?” he called, suspicion heavy in his voice.
“Danger!” Cynthia called to the birds in desperation. That got them moving. In a flurry of wings and high-pitched keening, they dove for the door in a rush. The prince staggered back, raising his hands to block his face. Cynthia darted out of the shed in the midst of the pigeons and straight for the fire escape. She swung a leg over and was thundering down the steep metal steps two at a time.
“Stop!” the prince called from the top of the keep. Cynthia didn’t pause and didn’t look up. She prayed the dying light and the distance kept him from getting a good look at her. The pigeons flocked around the turret, confused. She hopped on the retractable ladder at the end of the fire escape and rode it to the ground, jarring herself badly as it stopped a few feet short. She stumbled off and ran for the edge of the woods. It was fully dark under the evergreen canopy of the forest and she tumbled along, tripping over roots and staggering through low bushes.
The heel of her shoe snapped, sending her flying to the ground. Remi tumbled off her shoulder and landed a few feet away. Her hands prickled from the dry pine needles shoved into her palms. She collapsed and buried her face in her hands, letting loose all the tears she’d kept at bay throughout the evening. She sobbed, feeling as if a plug had been pulled on her emotions and they were spilling out all at once. She cried for her wretched life and her dead parents. She cried for the constant loneliness and hatred she felt in her own home. She cried for the helplessness she felt. She tore off the broken shoe and hurled it into the dark woods. She ripped the hat off her head and it followed the shoe. She screamed into the night like some wounded animal and curled into a ball on the hard ground, tears still leaking down her cheeks, chest heaving with pain and rage.
She felt Remi land lightly on her knee, but didn’t look at him. She was ashamed she’d lost control and a little angry he was there to see her suffering.
He wrapped his tiny, webbed arms around her knee and sighed. “I hate not being able to give you a proper hug.”
The sob that was working its way out of her chest changed to a half laugh and a strange sound came out. She sat up, careful not to throw Remi off again.
“It’s all my fault,” he sighed moaned .
“It’s not your fault,” Cynthia cried hotly. “You and I both know it’s Coriander’s fault. Lady Wellington didn’t help either.”
“Well, that’s that I guess,” Remi said, laying his chin down on her knee like a pitiful puppy. “The one princess I saw I didn’t exactly make a stellar impression on.”
Cynthia couldn’t help it, she let out a low chuckle. Remi’s short flight and Snowdrop’s overreaction was a little funny in retrospect. “But at least you made an impression.”
“It’s good to see you laugh,” Remi said, smiling at her.
“Come on,” she said, holding out a hand so she could transfer him back to her shoulder. “It’s going to be a long walk home.”
Chapter
10
“M y love for him was lost when he tried to quarter me. ”
SHE TOOK OFF HER OTHER shoe and left it wedged in a nearby tree. She hoped someone would stumble on it someday and be puzzled. She tracked along the edge of the forest, keeping off the road until she was well away from the castle. Unused to going barefoot, her feet were torn up from walking over every pine needle and stick in the forest. She finally emerged from the trees to walk on the side of the road, telling herself everyone would still be at the castle for several hours.
The dusty road was a lot more forgiving on her feet as she limped along, emotionally and physical worn out while Remi worried in her ear.
“Enough!” she finally told him. “Unless you can figure out a way to carry me home, why don’t you just distract me.”
“I could have carried you home in my human form,” he grumbled.
“Really?” Cynthia asked, wondering for the first time what he really looked like. “How old are you anyway? I never asked.”
“About your age. I’ll be eighteen June eighteenth,” Remi said.
“Hunh. That’s next week. I wonder how you celebrate a frog’s birthday?” she mused.
“I love how you assume I’ll still be here next week.” They exchanged a smile, but Remi’s was tinged with sadness.
“Is it such a bad place to be?” Cynthia asked and then immediately wished she could take the question back.
“Of course not, it just means, if I’m still here, I’m still a frog.”
A beam of light silhouetted her from behind. She shaded her eyes against the headlights as she turned, regretting her decision to walk on the road. She prayed it was no one she knew and they would just drive past.
“Remi,” she whispered. “There are pockets in the apron.”
The little frog hopped into the apron covering her ripped skirt without complaint, but let out an odd sound when they both recognized the car. If he’d been a dog, Cynthia would have called it a growl.
An all too familiar Model T convertible pulled alongside her. Cynthia attempted to duck her head and shuffle past, but Todd still called out to her.
“Cynthia? Is that you?”
She sighed before turning to him and pasting on a smile. Christina was in the passenger’s seat, a gleeful look on her face. She’d so thoroughly delighted in Cynthia’s downfall after her father died, it felt like she should be an honorary stepsister. Cynthia wasn’t sure why, but they’d never gotten along, even as children. She had a distinct memory of Christina calling her stuck-up shortly after her mother died.
“Hey, Todd . , Christina.”
“You—you want a ride?” Todd’s offer had a grin behind it, and his eye raked her up and down, taking in the torn dress, bare feet, tumbled hair—everything. It was still over two miles to her house and her feet felt like ground beef.
“No thanks.”
Todd put the car in park and opened his door. He snagged her hand before she could shy away. “There’s blood on your feet. Just get in the car.”
Cynthia allowed him to tug her to the car. He twitched his head at Christina, who pouted, but climbed into the backseat. He handed her into the passenger’s side and Cynthia was careful to scoot the apron to the side slightly so she didn’t squash Remi flat. Todd put the car in drive and they bumped down the road in uncomfortable silence.
Christina leaned her arms over the back of the front seat. “That was quite a concert you gave tonight.” Her words were nice enough, but the tone and the body language clearly said Cynthia should have died of embarrassment right up on the stage.
“Christina,” Todd said in an undertone.
“No, she’s right. It was a musical number to remember,” Cynthia said with a small laugh. She didn’t have much dignity at this point, but if she showed how much she was hurting right now, Christina would chew her up and spit her out. “Don’t you play, Christina? Maybe we could do Fantasie together sometime.” If memory served, Christina had been abysmal at the piano, way worse than Coriander.
Christina sniffed and tossed a lock of hair over her shoulder. “I haven’t played lately. I’ve other projects to pursue.” Then she clamped her lips shut and wouldn’t say another word, which is exactly what Cynthia preferred.
They pulled up to the manor house and Todd hurried around to open Cynthia ’s door . Normally she would have been horrified at his attentiveness, but she was too weary to argue. He walked her right up to the front door. She wanted nothing more than to fall into bed and turned to tell him thank you and good night, when he grabbed her hand and wouldn’t let it go.
“I could help, you know,” he said, his voice low and intense. “I know you’re not treated well here. I mean, look at what they did to you tonight.”
An unreasonable anger flared up in Cynthia. “Help how? ” she snatched her hand away. “ My life’s been this way for over six years. Where were you when my father died? My mother?” she asked, shocked at his sudden concern.
“I was a kid, what could I do?” Todd asked.
“I could have used a friend,” she said. “Someone to talk to.”
“I tried a few times,” Todd said, digging a hole in the dirt with his toe, “but your stepmother always chased me away.”
Cynthia sighed. She didn’t really have energy for this conversation right now.
“Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you.” She slipped inside and bolted the door after her.
Remi immediately poked
his head out of the apron pocket and resumed his seat on her shoulder. “Good riddance.”
“What, you don’t like Todd?” Cynthia asked, stealing into one of the bathrooms for a few supplies. She grabbed bandages and antiseptic before wobbling down the stairs to her room, dead on her feet.
“Really, my love for him was lost when he tried to quarter me. Do you like him?” Remi countered.
Cynthia shrugged. “I don't know. He said he tried to come over before. And he didn’t laugh at me tonight.”
“You do like him,” Remi accused.
Cynthia opened the door to her room and plopped him in his bowl of water, mostly to shut him up. She lit the fire, filled the kettle and put it over the flames.
“Why do you care so much?” she asked Remi, watching him float on his stomach.
“I don’t trust him.”
“I think all boys tease frogs. Didn’t you?” she asked with a ghost of a smile.
“Well , I won’t after this experience.”
Cynthia bathed, washed her hair, and did her best to banda ge her feet before she crawled onto her pallet. When she closed her eyes, she still hadn’t heard the Wellington’s come home. Maybe that meant she could sleep in tomorrow.
That night, Cynthia had a nightmare. She didn’t often dream, but after the day she’d had, even her dream self was resigned to being chased by an army of violins and showing up naked at the feast.
Then the dream—shifted. It became vivid and tangible in a way Cynthia couldn’t explain. People she didn’t know that had nothing to do with her awful day appeared. A smiling man with broad shoulders and dark hair and a woman—his wife—with curls like her own. Snatches of emotion she couldn’t pin down floated in her dream with their faces. And there was a girl, a miniature version of Cynthia. It was her family — , but it wasn’t. A mother, father, and sister that clearly weren’t hers, except her brain seemed to think they were.
A Grimm Curse: A Grimm Tales Novella (Volume 3) Page 7