Meredith Leigh Burton
Copyright © 2018 Meredith Leigh Burton
Cover Design by Kendra E. Ardnek
All rights reserved.
DEDICATION
To the One who inspires my creativity every day: Jesus Christ, the Artist who reveals what He sees in me, even when I don’t see it myself.
And, to the teachers who taught me self-expression through music, Judy Denning and Georgette Seay. Artistry of any kind involves exposing yourself for the world to see, and it takes dedicated and amazing teachers to help students realize their potential. Thank you all.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
EPILOGUE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing The Princess and the Invisible Apple Tree was a worthwhile, albeit emotional, journey. I would like to thank Kendra E. Ardnek for organizing the Magic Mirrors contest, designing the amazing cover, helping me with formatting, and being a patient and accommodating friend.
I would also like to thank Savannah Jezowski, founder of Dragon Pen Press, who assisted me earlier in the year to publish my anthology entitled Blind Beauty and Other Tales of Redemption. Her help with formatting, encouragement, and love for the anthology gave me the confidence to enter the Magic Mirrors contest.
I would also like to thank Rooglewood Press for the Five Poisoned Apples contest, without which this story would not have been written. In addition, I would like to express my gratitude to Rachel Kovaciny, the judge who gave me amazing feedback, and to Jenelle Schmidt, the beta reader who helped me with third person point of view and gave me invaluable advice.
Writing is a journey in which so many people do not receive the recognition they deserve, for writing is not a solitary art as some have claimed. Moreover, authors relish readers, for they are the reasons we continue to pursue our craft. I want to thank those who support me and who give me encouragement every day. Many of my readers are not fantasy lovers as a general rule, but they are willing to immerse themselves in my strange imaginings, and their support means so much. God bless you all.
CHAPTER ONE
I didn’t mean to kill Mother. Truly I didn’t.
The day had been a tedium of study. I’d spent hours in the stuffy classroom, for my tutor was from the old school of learning. My hint that I might concentrate better outside among the beauty of Egaphia’s creation had fallen on deaf ears. Now I relished my freedom.
I ran into the palace garden with a joyous shout. Mother’s handiwork was on full display. The spring buds were opening, and the scent of freshly turned earth made me sneeze.
“Beautiful things to sell.” A lilting call aroused my curiosity. The voice pulled at me.
There is a story about a mysterious piper who lures children to their doom through the use of music. The voice brought that story to my mind, but I followed the melodic sound despite my misgivings. No one should judge me if they haven’t heard that voice themselves. It tugged at my heart.
I entered a secluded portion of the courtyard. A makeshift table stood to one side, its surface strewn with trays and baskets. A short, plump man stood behind the table. He smiled, inviting me to come closer.
Multi-colored ribbons and laces unfurled from wicker baskets. Ornamental combs and other trinkets glimmered upon ebony trays. I turned away from the ribbons. As I did so, my eyes were arrested by an astonishing array of pastries. They sent forth tantalizing aromas that caused me to salivate.
“Ah, you have a sweet tooth.” The peddler extended his hand, gesturing to the pastries artfully arranged upon a tray. His apple cheeks flushed with a kind smile of inquiry. His voice called to mind the warbling of a flute. “A cream bun, perhaps?”
I surveyed the bounty before me, my eyes alighting upon a basket of tarts. “What kind are those, sir?”
“Apple. Quite delicious.”
I reached into the pocket of my dress where I always kept some coins. “I’ll take one, please.”
The peddler nodded but frowned at my coin. “I don’t require payment for a mere pastry. Now, if you were to buy the whole basket—” He grinned at me, his eyes twinkling. “Would you like something more? A comb for your hair or some lovely ribbons for your dress?”
I shook my head. I possessed many combs already. I had no interest in ribbons, for they always made me think of confinement. I placed my coin into his outstretched hand and took the pastry. He returned the money to me. “No payment,” he said firmly.
I frowned but finally shrugged. “Thank you,” I said. Mother was sure to be at the swan pool. Like me, her sweet tooth was immense. We both had a particular fondness for apple tarts. I nodded my thanks once again and skipped away.
I found Mother in her accustomed place beside the swan pool. Although there was a stone bench on which to sit, Mother sat upon the ground, her legs crossed. She was smiling as she watched the five graceful birds at play. The swans glided through the water. They shook their tail feathers, sending jets of water into the air. I laughed as I watched their antics. Mother smiled at me and reached into her dress, extracting crumbs of bread. She scattered the crumbs into the water, and I watched the swans congregate by the offering.
“What kept you?” Mother rose and planted a kiss on my cheek. I kissed her as well, relishing this time of togetherness. “I’ve been waiting for a quarter of an hour.”
“It was Andrew’s fault.” I hastened to convince her of my innocence. “He insisted I finish my essay.”
Mother smiled knowingly. “I see you’re holding something that is not a composition book.” She gestured to the tart in my hand.
I grinned and proffered the tart. “There was a new peddler today. You should’ve seen his wares!”
Mother took the tart from my hand. I plopped onto the grass, and she resumed her seat. It was unseemly for us to sit on the ground, of course, but Mother always said that what was unseemly to some was perfectly fine to others. “You can’t please everyone, so only please Egaphia and yourself.” This was a saying that Mother always loved to recite, particularly when the palace councilors lectured her on decorum.
I loved when the social conventions could be ignored. This time of day was precious to me. It was the only time I had Mother all to myself.
I watched Mother break the tart in half. We always shared our afternoon snacks. “I remember when I was a girl,” she said pensively. “I once shared an apple tart with a special friend.” For a moment, her face grew sad. She blinked rapidly. Then she brusquely shook her head, her smile returning. Mother held forth the tart for me to inspect. Chunks of apple nestled in a vanilla-scented syrup. Flaky crust cradled this heavenly filling. I salivated with hunger.
Mother handed me my half and took a large bite from her portion.
The next moment was a blur of confusion. Mother gasped, placing a hand to her throat.
“Mother!” I snatched her hand and was shocked to feel heat radiating from her skin. She crumpled to the ground and lay still. I screamed.
Mother died because of me. I can never escape from that truth. It stalks me day and night. How ironic that in the s
eason of life, I brought my mother the gift of death.
I told Father about the peddler, and a search commenced to locate him. Yet I was the only one who saw him. I was the only one who heard his melodic voice.
The palace physicians attributed Mother’s death to heart failure. Yet I know what I saw and heard. I know what I did.
To prove to them I wasn’t mad, I showed them my portion of the tart. Mother had dropped the rest of her portion, and I had watched it crumble into the dust. Father took a specimen of my portion to the local apothecary for analysis. The apothecary found nothing amiss. I tried to make everyone understand, but no one listened.
PLUNK! The princess started, looking up from the paper upon which she was pretending to take notes. She glared when she saw the flushed face of her tutor. His hand clutched her composition book, and she surmised he had closed the book after reading her private thoughts. “That’s mine,” she said harshly.
“Very well written, Snowdrop.” Andrew’s dry, crackling voice resembled the embers in a nursery fire. “Your descriptions are vivid, and I enjoyed the reference to the Pied Piper tale. However, your content is quite disturbing. I hardly think this piece is appropriate given the recent circumstances.”
The plump girl blinked, her cheeks flushing with anger. “No one believes me, so I thought if I wrote it down—”
“You must stop this fantasizing. It’s been a year now. We’re distressed enough without you adding burdens we cannot bear. His Majesty arrives today with the new queen and her daughter as you know. He was quite distressed when he left and hoped that you’d come to your senses while he was away.”
Snowdrop leapt to her feet, snatching the composition book from her surprised tutor’s hand. She fled the classroom, little knowing or caring where she went. Her ebony hair flopped into her eyes as she stumbled into the palace gardens. Tears scalded her cheeks. She realized even as she ran that she was making a fool of herself. Father would arrive at any moment, and how would she appear? Like a bedraggled urchin unfit for anyone to see.
But it was so unfair! A year had passed, twelve months of nightmares. She clenched her teeth in fury. Worried whispers and patronizing placations from well-meaning servants offered little comfort. Father had been gone so very long. Nearly twelve months with never a missive. He had even had the gall to marry without consulting her. Snowdrop shook her head with weary regret. Of course, her opinion wouldn’t have mattered. Still, it would have been nice to be asked. She couldn’t face two total strangers today. She simply couldn’t.
“Your Highness, wait!” Andrew’s voice filled her ears. He panted and puffed as he neared her, sounding like a rusty teakettle. Grudgingly, Snowdrop halted her run and turned around.
Andrew finally drew up beside her. “Gracious, girl! My bones aren’t what they were. Why ever did you run like that?” He raised his hand in a placating gesture as he tried to catch his breath.
Snowdrop stared into the old tutor’s flushed face. A lifetime of study left little time for exercise and much time for sweetmeat sampling. Despite his brusque manner, there was no denying his compassionate gaze.
Guilt patted Snowdrop on the shoulder. Her anger, abashed, slunk into its den to hide. “I just thought I’d write it down,” Snowdrop said, bowing her head sheepishly. “Just to sort out my feelings. I told you not to read it. It was private.”
Andrew raised his hands in a gesture of surrender. “You were using class time to write. My mellifluous voice was growing hoarse from lecturing about dates and dead kings, and then to discover you weren’t even listening? What else could I do but investigate?” He sighed, and his expression grew serious. “I apologize, Snowdrop. I shouldn’t have read it. Let’s sit. Perhaps we could talk.”
Snowdrop nodded and allowed Andrew to lead her to a nearby bench. She plopped down and waited for him to sit. He did so with many rheumatic creakings. Leaning back, he placed his hands beneath his triple chins, waiting expectantly. After a long moment, he said, “Shall I start or shall you?”
Snowdrop swallowed. “I swear there was a peddler here that day. He spoke quite loudly. Even if no one else saw him, why didn’t anyone hear him?”
“An astute question.” Andrew shifted on the bench. His expression grew pensive. “I’ll hunt out answers for you. Will that satisfy?”
Snowdrop’s eyes widened. “You’ll help me?”
Andrew frowned. “I’ll not promise anything,” he said. “I’ll just see what I see, hear what I hear and report my findings. Meanwhile, you stop believing this nonsense about killing your mother. It’s not true, do you understand?”
Snowdrop blinked rapidly, trying to contain tears. It was true. Why could no one see that? But, Andrew had finally listened. Surely that counted for something. “I won’t bring it up again,” she said.
“Shall we shake on it?” Andrew smiled as he rose, extending his hand. Snowdrop stood as well. She flushed with embarrassment. She was fifteen now, after all, and the handshaking ritual was something she and Andrew had done when she was little. He had always been indulgent when she was younger. He had allowed her to smuggle sweetmeats into class. He had also read her fairy tales when he was supposed to be teaching her sums. Her secret would be safe with him. Snowdrop held out her hand. They shook.
Andrew turned from her, only to turn back with a smile. “I suppose you’ve observed that your essay achieved one other outcome?”
Snowdrop frowned in confusion.
“You point out that I’m averse to change in learning environments. I believe you said I was from the old school of learning? Well, we’re outside, are we not? Make the most of it.” He walked away, pausing to call over his shoulder, “Egaphia will help you as well. Ask him.” Then he was gone.
Snowdrop stared after Andrew for a moment and then shifted her gaze to the palatial gardens. Flowers burst from their beds, fountains of daffodils, roses and other blooms. Egaphia, Swanvale’s Creator, had been hard at work. He had painted a marvelous picture to delight the eyes and bring comfort to the soul. Snowdrop felt more at peace than she had in months.
It was then that the clatter of carriage wheels arrested her attention. She immediately stiffened, her peaceful mood melting like marzipan. She trudged toward the palace entrance. Her stepmother and stepsister had arrived.
CHAPTER TWO
R achel stared out the carriage window at the beauty surrounding her. The noonday sun was already causing her face to droop.
“Rachel!” Mother’s voice cut like a knife, and Rachel turned from the window in surprise. Mother rarely raised her voice. The harsh tones must be an indication of her nervousness.
“Yes, Mother?”
“When we arrive, you’ll present yourself to the princess with the proper decorum. A simple curtsy, and—”
“I know. You’ve told me a million times.” Rachel clenched her trembling hands with impatience and shifted on the carriage seat. Her head ached.
Mother’s dazzling features softened. “We want to make a good impression. There’s enough scandal as it is, and we cannot allow more embarrassment to befall your father.”
Rachel’s face burned with indignation. “He’s not my father.”
Mother blinked rapidly. Her voice resumed its lecturing tone. “Remember, at the feast tonight, you must eat one sweetmeat only.”
“But—”
“One, Rachel. Pudginess is not permissible.”
Rachel lowered her head in shame, her hands instinctively fingering her stomach through the many layers of clothing. She searched for the bulges of flesh she knew must have sprung forth within the last five minutes. She knew the time span exactly. Five minutes earlier, she’d asked Mother if tea would be served upon their arrival. The inquiry had brought a recitation of the hated alliterative proverb. Pudgy? Why, she was thinner than Mother, and that was saying something. Her mother constantly fretted about appearances. Rachel thought guiltily of the custard tart she’d wheedled the kitchen boy into procuring for her from the inn this mornin
g. She thought of the subterfuge in which she had consumed the treat; hunkering in her chamber’s wardrobe, shoveling sweet bites of shame between chomping, eager teeth. Each bite she swallowed burned like acid. Yet the hunger never left her. It bayed and growled like a chained dog, striving for satisfaction that could never be fulfilled.
“You weren’t listening. I said, did you pack the floral print in your valise?”
Rachel gritted her teeth. “Yes.”
“Excellent. You’ll wear it tonight. It becomes you best.”
Rachel nodded. She turned back to the window. To distract herself, she focused on the surrounding beauty. There was no denying the grandeur of this country. She’d missed living here terribly, and despite the present situation, she relished the familiar sights. Swanvale was far more beautiful than Mondia. Flowers adorned the roadway in dazzling profusions of pinks, purples, yellows and reds. The sweet fragrance of honeysuckle and roses filled her with delight. These scents were a welcome relief from the sewage, strong drink and spoiled food she’d grown accustomed to smelling. Birds trilled cheerful greetings, a welcome change from the harsh voices and raucous laughter.
The carriages slowed down. Soon the company turned into a vast courtyard. A group of men and women stood expectantly. Rachel’s palms began to sweat, and her stomach plummeted.
In the carriage ahead of theirs, she saw Stepfather raise a hand and bestow a smile upon the people.
“Welcome home, sire.” A stout, balding man stepped from the crowd and bowed.
“Thank you, Andrew.” King Lawrence gestured for a servant to assist Rachel from the carriage. “It’s been a long journey. We’ll take tea in the garden.” He stared around the assembly of servants and frowned. “Where’s my daughter?”
Andrew grimaced. “She insisted on retiring to her chamber for a moment. I’m sure she’ll arrive soon.”
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