The people in the room murmured, and Rachel heard the unmistakable shifting of feet. She saw people averting their eyes from her, and she lowered her head in shame, her cheeks flaming. She should be used to the isolation by now, but it still hurt.
Stepfather turned to her. “Can you tell us where you obtained this looking glass, Rachel?” he asked gently.
“A peddler gave it to me. I was visiting a fair. The peddler took no payment.” She turned to the crowd, glaring defensively. “I didn’t steal it.”
Whispers filled the room, and uneasy looks were exchanged. Rachel flushed with embarrassment.
“If any of you have something to say regarding my daughter, you should have the decency to say it aloud.” Barbara’s voice cut through the whispers, causing silence to descend. She scanned the room, her eyes alighting upon Snowdrop. “What did you mean by bringing this man to my daughter’s chamber?“
“A peddler gave me something, too. I gave a tart to my mother, and it poisoned her.” Snowdrop spoke flatly. She approached Rachel, placing her hand on her stepsister’s arm. “You saw him, too. I knew I wasn’t mad.”
“There’s no evidence, Snowdrop!” Stepfather glared at Snowdrop, blinking rapidly as if to contain tears. “You know she died of heart failure. Her death has tormented me for months, and you only add to my sorrow with your constant reminders of that day.”
Rachel watched as Snowdrop whirled to face Stepfather, her hand upraised in an accusing gesture. “Why won’t you believe me?” Snowdrop hissed. “Why won’t you try and find out what really happened to her? And, evidence? What do you call this?” Snowdrop gestured to Andrew’s lifeless form. “I’m telling you the truth.”
“Perhaps we can help?”
Rachel recognized the gentle voice, and she turned to see Esmond and his brother enter the room. The people shifted to make way for them. The men passed through the crowd, stopping before the body. Esmond’s eyes grew wide.
Feo bent down and held forth his hand, but Stepfather detained him. “Who are you?”
“I’m Feo. People call me the Painter of Sight and Sound. My brother and I are artists. Won’t you let me help?”
Stepfather frowned. “How can you help if you cannot see?”
Feo smiled. “If you’ll forgive my presumption, how can you help him when you cannot see?” he asked.
Stepfather frowned. “Mind your place, young man.” Despite the reprimand, he stepped aside, allowing Feo to approach. The painter bent down, groping until he found Andrew’s hand. He extracted the dazzling mirror from Andrew’s clutch. He seemed visibly shaken, and his hands trembled. “Great Egaphia,” he whispered. “I was right.” Then, speaking louder, he addressed Stepfather. “There was no weapon in the wound, correct?”
“No,” Stepfather said.
“It’s the work of Patrick.”
“Who? What are you talking about?”
“A man who destroyed my family, sire.” Feo’s voice trembled, and Rachel saw that he was indeed frightened. “Will you permit me to take this mirror to my home? It must be destroyed. My brother and I have journeyed far, and—”
“The mirror’s mine.” Rachel hurried to Feo’s side. She placed a hand on his arm. Anger and fear warred within her. “You have no right to touch my things.“
“Please,” Snowdrop said, her voice pleading. “I saw my own mother die. If it’s something that peddler gave you, then he means you harm.”
“Ayven’s my friend. He’d never hurt anyone! Give him back to me.”
“You’re in danger,“ Feo said gently.
“Enough!” Stepfather raised his hand in an imperious gesture. “We know nothing of you. Kindly relinquish my stepdaughter’s property. Come back tomorrow, and we’ll discuss this in my audience chamber.”
After a moment, Feo nodded and placed the mirror into Stepfather’s hand. “Yes, sire.” He turned and allowed Esmond to lead him to the door. When he reached the threshold, he said, “My family was cursed by a travelling peddler. If you’ll take my advice, sire, you’ll make sure that mirror is locked away.”
When the men had gone, Snowdrop turned to Stepfather. “Why didn’t you let him take it?”
“Because he’s obviously mad.” It was Mother who spoke. She glared at Snowdrop. “If you’re implying that Rachel is involved in witchcraft of some kind, I won’t stand for it, do you hear?”
“You’re an idiot!” Snowdrop hissed. “I saw Andrew pick up that mirror, and the next thing I knew, he’d fallen to the ground. No one else was here, and he was staring into the mirror the whole time.”
“That’s enough from you!” Stepfather’s voice cut like a whiplash. “You’ll speak civilly to your mother, Snowdrop. Apologize this instant.”
Rachel watched as a muscle jumped in Snowdrop’s cheek. Her stepsister marched toward the door, pausing just long enough to say, “She’s not my mother.” Then she was stepping over the threshold. Without stopping to fully consider what she was doing, Rachel turned and followed her.
Chapter Nine
R achel followed Snowdrop down the corridor. The princess was shaking, and her face was twisted into an angry snarl.
“You shouldn’t have let that man grab him.”
Snowdrop turned toward her, blinking rapidly. Her cheeks were flushed. “What do you mean?”
“Ayven deserves respect. You can’t just grab him. He’d never hurt anyone. All he does is help me.“ Rachel thought of Ayven’s gifts, of his gentle reassurances.
“That mirror’s evil,” Snowdrop said. “It’ll hurt you.“
“You don’t know him. All he does is give me the things I need. You’ve always been royal, probably always well liked. He’s my only friend.“
Snowdrop glared angrily. “You don’t know anything about me! A mirror’s your only friend? Then you’ve led a rather shallow life, haven’t you?”
Rachel winced. Anger rose within her, a scorching furnace. She should strike this superior wench, strike her again and again until that beautiful face bled and broke. She placed her hands on her hips. “We may be forced to live together, but that doesn’t mean I have to talk to you. Mother was a fool!” Rachel fled down the hall, yanking open the first door she came to.
“Get out of my room!” Snowdrop rushed in behind her.
Rachel turned to face her stepsister. “Pardon, Your Highness. I had no intention of entering your sacred chamber. Nevertheless, since you meddled with my things, I believe I’ll meddle with yours.” She thrust out her arms in a gesture of contempt. As she did so, her flailing hands swept a sheaf of papers from the vanity to the floor. She bent to retrieve them, heedless of Snowdrop’s indignant cry. “What’re these, anyway? Lists of engagements and—” Her voice stopped as she scanned the first paper she’d retrieved. Elegant handwriting spanned the page, and a poem took shape before her eyes:
Who Am I?
I am a whispering wind,
A droplet of water
Chiming a tune.
I am a troubadour
Singing a warning of doom.
A girl of beauty confined by poppy-colored spite,
A bird trapped in a cage of guilt,
A child bereft,
A flower that wilts
As swans fly by so swift.
I am a giver of poison
On a day of life,
A girl never heard
In a palace of spite.
Yet I saw him beside the stream,
A hart with cross-shaped mark and golden gleam.
He stood still,
He saw my tears.
He listened to my many fears.
I saw in his eyes
A gleam of grace
As water of life
Flowed down his sweet face.
“You wrote this?” Rachel gasped in awe.
Snowdrop glared. “That’s private. It’s not supposed to be read.”
“Why? It’s beautiful.”
“It’s nonsense! No one would believe me, anyway.�
�
Rachel blinked, her mind reeling with the words of the poem. A memory surfaced, one that she’d tried so desperately to forget. “This hart you described? Was the cross-shaped mark on his back?” she asked.
Snowdrop gasped. In a moment, she was at Rachel’s side. “How did you know? You’ve seen him, too? You’ve seen everything I’ve seen. You understand.”
Rachel shook her head. “Of course I don’t understand. How can I? But, yes, I saw a hart. He had the most beautiful gilded antlers. I was eight when I saw him. He led me to Mother. I cried, and he did, too.”
“Where did this happen?” Snowdrop asked gently.
“I was in the woods.” Rachel trembled, her limbs suddenly growing weak as memories invaded her mind. She sank onto Snowdrop’s bed, lowering her head in shame. The mattress sagged as Snowdrop sat beside her. “Mother and I haven’t always lived in Mondia. We used to live here in Swanvale,” Rachel whispered. She swallowed convulsively. “Mother sent me to the forest to gather strawberries. Now I know she only wanted me out of the way.”
“Why?”
“She was working. We’d had to move to a cottage because the inn had failed. You see, the Marked One came to the inn, and—” Rachel shuddered. Blinking back tears, she continued, “I saw my father die.” Then the memories rushed upon her, ruthlessly demolishing the walls of forgetfulness she’d erected.
Chapter Ten
R achel requested a white cake with pink roses for her eighth birthday. She knew her parents couldn’t afford the expense, but she could dream. She was overjoyed when Mother smiled at her request. “Of course you can have a cake. It’ll be small, but it’ll taste good, I’m sure.”
Rachel tiptoed into the inn kitchen. Cook often had leftovers, and since her own breakfasts were so meager, Rachel always hoped to find an uneaten roll or a rasher of bacon. As she entered the kitchen, she spied the birthday cake and gasped in delight. The cake stood atop a high shelf. The sugary frosting sent forth a tantalizing aroma. Pink roses gleamed against the snowy icing like the first flowers of spring. Rachel began to salivate, and joy filled her heart. Mother rarely ate sweets, saying they ruined a person’s figure, but Rachel was determined that Mother would taste this delicacy. The cake was beautiful; a slice of paradise. The family would eat it together. They would--
“I prefer chocolate myself, but that cake looks delicious.” A soft voice spoke behind her, and Rachel spun around. She gasped as she beheld a short man standing before her. He smiled and extended his hand. “You’ve grown so. Are you going to have a birthday celebration?” He leaned closer to her, and his face suddenly seemed to shift. Rachel opened her mouth to scream. A crimson, jagged mark covered the man’s left cheek. It stretched from his earlobe to the bridge of his nose. How could a face change like that?
Then the man’s face altered yet again, looking quite ordinary. He smiled reassuringly. “Don’t be frightened, child. I didn’t mean to startle you. It’s just that the masks—” He shook his head and stepped away from her. “Is your father here?”
Rachel swallowed nervously. “He’s in the tavern, sir. Wh-Who are you?”
“Patrick, although most people call me the Marked One.” He smiled strangely. “Enjoy that birthday cake, Rachel.” He turned away from her, and when Rachel blinked, he was gone. How did the man know her name? Curiosity whispered to her, insisting that she investigate.
Rachel made her way from the kitchen to the tavern entrance. Father was behind the bar polishing glasses. The tavern was not yet opened, which was why Rachel had dared venture there. Father strictly forbade her to go near the place during business hours. Rachel watched Father work. His features were drawn with fatigue. Over this last year, the inn had fallen upon hard times, and he often worked late into the night.
Rachel watched the stranger enter the tavern and stand at the counter. He was smiling. She ducked into the shadows to hide.
The stranger spoke softly but earnestly. “You must give me what I seek. I’ll return within a year, and you’ll allow me to take the child.”
Take the child? What child? Rachel’s heart pounded.
“You’re mad! My daughter is not some pawn to be used at your whim!”
“You’re mistaken, innkeeper. Have you forgotten a certain rainy night eight years ago, a night when a bedraggled stranger sought lodging? You were averse to me staying here, but your wife had a kind heart. She—”
“I know what happened. You stayed with us for four months, working as a servant.”
Rachel’s mind spun in confusion. She listened to the man’s amused response. “You remember quite well, but what you neglect to mention is that I gave you what you wanted. I give people their heart’s desires. You wanted this inn to flourish. I made it happen. I only ask for what I’m owed in return.”
“We’d never resort to magic to obtain what we want. Your bluffing is useless. Leave me in peace.”
“You wouldn’t resort to magic, perhaps.”
Thick silence descended. Rachel felt sick. When Father finally spoke, his voice was deadly. “What are you implying?”
“You know what I’m saying. Your wife asked for Success on your behalf. I granted her wish. Now I have come to obtain what I require. I will pay you any fee you ask.”
“Enough! My wife would never consort with a deformed freak like you. Leave at once.“
The stranger laughed. “Oh, foolish man. Desperate people do desperate things. Even deformed freaks are appreciated when they can fulfill desires. She came to me that day, her eyes wide with longing. Do you know that she sought comfort? Yes, even from someone like me! You were far too busy to attend to her, weren’t you? What pleasure we shared!“
Father cursed. A sound of shattering glass filled the air. A scream of agony was abruptly silenced. Rachel burst into the room. Father lay on the floor. Blood poured from a wound on his chest. The stranger knelt beside him. He clutched a bloodstained dagger in his right hand. He was shaking, and blood ran from a cut above his eye. A broken goblet lay in shards beside them.
Someone grabbed Rachel’s arm, and she smelled Mother’s rose perfume. Mother’s eyes were wild as she surveyed the scene. She whispered fiercely, “Get out, Rachel. Go to your room and stay there until I come for you.”
Rachel clutched the sleeve of Mother’s gown. Tears of grief and terror streamed down her cheeks. “Th-That man hurt Father.“
Mother’s face convulsed with pain. “Go now. Just go!”
As Rachel turned to leave, she heard the stranger speak, his voice a sibilant hiss. “Such a temper you have, innkeeper. Don’t you know when someone’s joking? I’d never subject your wife or any other woman to my company.?” He addressed Barbara. “I’ll return next year, woman, and you’ll give me what I want.”
Then Rachel ran. She fled to her room and crawled into the wardrobe that stood in the corner. Curling into a fetal position, she rocked to and fro, pressing a trembling fist to her mouth to stifle her whimpers. It wasn’t true! It was a dream, and she would wake up soon. She waited and waited, wondering when Mother would come.
When Mother finally came, she hugged Rachel close. “We only have each other now,” she whispered brokenly. She hugged Rachel tighter and tighter until the girl cried out in pain. Mother’s face was pale, and she was shaking.
After these events, the inn’s business grew worse. Soon, the establishment was sold. Mother and Rachel settled into a small cottage on the outskirts of a vast forest. Mother took in sewing, but her skill with a needle was paltry at best. Rachel helped any way she could, but little could be done.
One day, Mother took Rachel aside. Lines of weariness were etched into her skin, and her voice trembled when she said, “I wonder if you’ll do me a favor, sweetheart?”
Rachel nodded, eager to please Mother. “What is it?”
“Go to the forest and fetch some wild strawberries. I’ve a hankering for strawberry pie.” For a moment, the weariness vanished from her eyes. “It was your father’s favorite, remem
ber? We’ll not sell this treat. We’ll eat it all.” She smiled.
Rachel smiled, too. “With cream?”
“Dollops and dollops of it!” Mother laughed and patted Rachel’s arm. “We could make it tomorrow.”
Rachel grinned. “Oh, yes, Mother! I’ll go right now.” She skipped toward the door, and Mother called after her, “When you return, you’ll have to amuse yourself for a while. I’ve a sewing job, and it’ll take some time to finish. It’s a wedding dress. The poor bride!”
Rachel laughed. “I don’t think the last one looked bad, Mother.” This was not strictly true, but at least the garment’s stitches had been even. She waved and left the cottage.
Chapter Eleven
R achel entered the sprawling woods. Pine needles carpeted the ground, and the trees arched overhead in a graceful canopy of shade. She skipped, inhaling the rich aroma of well-watered earth and honeysuckle. Buttercups carpeted the ground beneath her feet.
As she walked along, a rustling sound suddenly made her uneasy. Rachel stopped and scanned the area. An elderly woman hobbled into view. She was stooped-shouldered, and her plain features wore a kind smile. In her right hand, she carried a wicker basket similar to the one Rachel held.
“Hello, dearie.” The woman’s voice was piercingly sweet. She drew abreast of Rachel. “A lovely day for a walk, isn’t it?”
Rachel smiled tentatively. “Yes, Grandmother,” she said, using the term of respect for the elderly. Her eyes strayed to the woman’s basket. Nestled within a flowered napkin was a profusion of ripe strawberries. They gleamed as red as blood. “Oh, I’m here to pick strawberries, too,” Rachel said impulsively. “Is a strawberry patch near here?”
“Yes indeed. Just traipse along a little longer. You can’t miss it. I make preserves, so I came out to collect some fruit. Nothing like sweet preserves on fresh-baked bread. I make them to sell, but I just might keep this batch for myself.” She grinned mischievously.
The Princess and the Invisible Apple Tree Page 4