by Minda Webber
She turned, moving past a massive pot of ferns, and found her husband’s eldest son, along with his pretty sister—Sylvia or Shavia something or another—and the little ankle biter, all playing with Alden’s much abused lamp. “You shouldn’t spy on people,” she accused.
“You shouldn’t talk to mirrors,” Nap responded.
Rae blushed. “I was only being a bit silly. I never talk to mirrors.” Then, seeing the derision in the boy’s laughing eyes, she added quickly, “In fact, I don’t talk to inanimate objects at all. I find it as enlightening as speaking to brats who belong in the nursery.”
The boy shrugged his shoulders, and his sister Shyla stared at her. “Napoleon’s right. Our mother was much more beautiful than you.”
Narrowing her eyes, Rae shook her head in pity. It would be terrible to lose a mother. But still: “You would think so. After all, she gave birth to you.”
“My sister doesn’t lie,” Nap vowed.
The little ankle-biter, with his wild mop of hair, lurched to his feet and nodded enthusiastically. “My mama pretty.”
Not about to be baited, Rae pasted a polite smile on her face. “As you say.” She hadn’t been born yesterday. The little mop-headed boy had a wicked set of teeth. She chose wisely not to dispute the facts of the matter with him, since she was partial to her ankles.
Shyla pointed to a door. “Go look and see. That’s Papa’s study.”
Rae sighed. Then, doing as the girl asked, she went over, opened the door and found herself in an elegant but definitely masculine study. Large oak beams crisscrossed the ceiling, and painted friezes with Cyprian nymphs adorned the stone walls a foot or so below the ceilings. Above the arched green marbled fireplace hung a huge portrait of a very beautiful woman with deep golden-red hair and greenish-blue eyes.
The woman was dressed in a regal-looking gown with inlaid emeralds. Her ornate emerald and diamond necklace was worth a queen’s ransom, Rae imagined, and she automatically wondered if she would look prettier if she herself wore such finery. But there was no question: The woman was beautiful, a true princess.
There was more to the painting than just the woman’s loveliness, however, and Rae felt the sharp sting of betrayal. You see, Fen’s late wife bore a strong resemblance to Rae herself. They both had the same expressive eyes, though the color was different. Their noses were similar, as well as the shapes of their faces. And their figures were very similar. This unwelcome discovery caused a flare of jealousy to shoot through her like a falling star: here and then gone before Rae had time to even recognize the green-eyed monster.
“That’s our mother,” Shyla said quietly. She had come to stand by Rae’s side. “Papa says I am as beautiful as my mama, for I’m his golden princess.”
“Beauty’s not everything, Shyla. Watch out, or you’ll grow too vain and no one will like you—like some other people I know,” Nap warned. “Besides, what Papa loved best about Mother was not her beauty, but her nature. Mama was sweet and kind and laughed a lot. She never judged anyone, and she loved us with all her heart. She made Papa feel like a king, and she was always proud of him and of us, even on our bad days. There was none better,” Nap boasted. His tone made it clear that his mother was an angel, while Rae wasn’t even in line for lesser sainthood.
Suddenly pensive, Rae managed a slight nod. Their mother did sound like a fine woman, even if it stung to admit it. Fiona’s children and husband thought the world of her. And that was a situation every woman could aspire to but few would reach, Rae mused dejectedly; most especially Rae herself.
Noticing the way Rae stared at the picture, Nap added, “Mama didn’t even mind that Father was an ogre on the nights of the full moon.”
Rae observed that the boy’s expression was serious. She began to become worried again. Nap acted like he believed what he was saying. But still, could the baron really be a real ogre? That was foolish nonsense, fairy-tale stuff. But then, the Black Forest was renowned for its dark legends…well, and cakes. She really needed to speak with her sister. She would send Greta a note immediately, and ask her to come posthaste; she needed an expert.
Shyla, previously rather quiet, remarked, “See those jewels on Mother’s gown and in her necklace? They’re part of Papa’s ogrish stash. He keeps it hidden away in the tower—where Englishmen can’t steal it.”
“Or a greedy English wife,” Nap added.
“I’m not greedy,” Rae replied. “As your father’s bride, I should be allowed to see what gems he has. I intend only to look—for future reference, for when I go to balls and such.” The jewels in the painting were magnificent. They would suit her admirably.
“I don’t think so,” Shyla said. “Papa wouldn’t like it.”
“He might grind your bones,” Nap warned. The ankle-biter, Alden, vigorously shook his mop of golden-brown curls. “It is verboten even for us to play there—even in the daytime.”
“Verboten?”
“Forbidden,” Nap translated, a superior expression crossing his face. It reminded Rae of Fen’s look last night when he’d mentioned he wasn’t interested in performing his husbandly duties.
Rae scowled; then, seeing the answering scowls on Shy-la’s and Nap’s faces, she decided to turn on her charm. She was after emeralds and diamonds, and she remembered her father telling her mother that one caught more “ice” with honey than vinegar.
“I promise not to tell your father. I only want a quick look,” she said. Sticks, stones and ogres would break bones, but an emerald necklace worthy of a queen was something one didn’t sneeze at. Besides, her husband couldn’t really be an ogre. That was impossible and foolish. How silly did these children think her?
Glancing at her big brother, who nodded rather reluctantly, Shyla answered. “Ja. I guess it would be all right. We’ll show you the way if you promise not to tell our papa.”
Keeping her exaltation to herself, Rae nodded. If her big oaf of a husband thought he could outwit her, he didn’t know Rae Grimm Schortz. She would look the jewels over and pick one or two, maybe even a dozen to wear, since she deserved to be decked out in them. Once the baron saw the pieces on her person, he’d recognize how they enhanced her beauty and how that same beauty was a credit to him. Even if he indeed was an ogre…Well, who if not an ogre—unless perhaps a troll—needed more credit? Yes, she decided, monsters truly did need the most beautiful wives to compensate for their monstrous selves.
With such thoughts filling her head, she paid little mind to the muskiness of the far tower to which she was led. As she and the children climbed the spiral stairway, so enraptured was she with her dreams of grand entrances, the dust and cobwebs filling many of the nooks and crannies didn’t disturb her at all.
At the end of a wide corridor filled with large vases and grandfather clocks, she waited impatiently while Nap unlocked a door. “It’s in there, he said, “by the golden hearth.”
“Golden hearth?” Rae asked, rather breathless. Surely the baron wasn’t so well off that he had a fireplace made of gold? She had married much better than she’d thought!
“Ja. It was done in my great-grandfather’s time,” Nap said, and he ushered her inside the room.
“I can’t see anything,” Rae complained. “It’s too dark.”
“Then open the shutters,” Nap replied. “You can open a shutter, can’t you?”
“Of course I can,” Rae snapped. She didn’t need to placate her stepchildren any longer; she had found their treasure.
She walked over and did just that. But as she opened the shutters, which revealed a large set of windows with beveled glass, she heard the slamming of the door and the turning of a key in a rusty lock. These sounds were followed by the thundering of blood in her ears and her heart. She suddenly realized she had made a very serious mistake.
Whipping around, Rae found that she was alone in a filthy room filled with cobwebs, broken clocks and furniture. She sneezed, looking around in dismay. Half the dust of the earth must be in this one room. She
sneezed again, then ran to the door and began to beat upon it, screaming shrilly.
“You hideous little savages! Let me out this instant! You lied to me! Your father isn’t an ogre, and there aren’t any jewels or even a golden hearth. Just wait till I tell the baron on you!”
Her cries met with resounding silence, so she resorted to more violent means: “You devil’s spawn, just wait till I get my hands on you!” Then, realizing threats might not be the best way to extricate herself from this fiendish situation, she changed tactics again. “This is a fine jest. Quite a jest!” She managed to laugh heartily, but it was interrupted by another bout of sneezing. No one laughed with her.
Over the next hour and more, she tried cajoling the children with promises of tasty treats and late bedtimes. Everything she could think of, she offered. But to no avail. And the time continued to drag along.
At last, the key in the lock finally turned. Rae had red eyes from sneezing by this time, and her fine new gown was now a dusty mess. And she was beside herself with rage. She was going to find the little terrors responsible and make them pay. Their little black hearts would soon fill with dread for their stepmother.
Violently Rae shoved open the heavy oak door, her eyes wild and red and her fingers clutched into claws. But as she charged out the door, a chamber pot filled with flour and suspended from a rope crashed down. The flour covered her from head to toe. This time when she sneezed, instead of dust bunnies filling the air before her, white specks fanned out. Her shriek could be heard throughout the tower, excruciatingly loud and banshee-like.
“Ach! You demon spawn!”
Rae shivered as she scanned the area. The halls seemed to have beady little eyes watching every move she made. Letting her fear show would be a fatal mistake—a mistake she would not make, having learned this particular lesson more than once from living with her demented little brothers. Or mayhap she had learned that time when she was fifteen and a huge vicious dog had chased her and Faye. Faye had fallen behind, due to her injured leg. Fear had almost paralyzed Rae, but somehow she had found a small bit of courage to stand and face the dog. She’d stood her ground with stick in hand, like a steadfast tin soldier, and kept the dog from doing damage until the gamekeeper arrived. She would find that same courage now.
“I will personally see to it that each and every one of you little demons is placed in the dungeon,” Rae shouted, fuming at the diabolical cleverness of the seven little Schortzes. Her face was scarlet and her eyes bulged. “I will make you bob for poisoned apples.”
A voice called out as she thundered down the stairs, “We don’t have a dungeon.”
“And we don’t like apples,” another voice shouted.
More mad laughter followed, along with the pitter-patter of tiny feet. It made Rae see red. These were the sounds of happy feet—demented, deranged, diabolically happy feet—because their owners had won this particular battle with a flair that would have done Machiavelli proud.
Rae scurried down the last of the staircase, then slowed in her chase of the maddening monsters. She hadn’t come close to catching even one of them, not even the littlest fiend, Alden. And alas for poor Rae, the shadows had another surprise in store.
Taking the last step, she felt insatiable little jaws clamp upon her ankle with sharpened teeth like those of a badger. Rae gave a startled yelp. Lifting her full skirts and shaking her leg, she screeched, “Let go of my ankle, you little mutt. Ouch! Alden!”
Flour filled the air, swirling off and around her as she hopped on one leg and shouted in pain. The boy with the teeth hung on like a persistent rat terrier, and suddenly Rae had visions of turning old and gray with this ferocious child still latched to her limb.
Just when she thought she would have to drag the youngest Schortz outside and into the main part of the castle, the little boy let go and lurched over, playing dead. Rae shook him once, but he remained silent, his beady little eyes closed, his mop of light curls falling wildly about his face. He looked like a fallen angel.
“You’re not dead. I didn’t hurt you, so stop scaring me!” she snapped.
Yet the child remained unnaturally still, which surprisingly caused her more than a moment’s concern. She might not like the ravenous little barbarian, but she didn’t want to see him hurt.
Pushing her floury, tangled mess of hair out of her eyes, she leaned over to pick up the ankle-biting demon, but was surprised to find the little body grabbed and pulled through a dark hole in the wall.
“Oh no, you don’t!” she shouted, grabbing the little child’s legs. But the stealthy little beasts on the other side of the wall were quicker. They spirited Alden away, then slammed a wooden panel in her face.
She knocked to no avail. She shouted curses at the demon brood. She tried threats, also to no use.
“Oh, go bite your bums,” she finally yelled, recognizing defeat. It was bitter ash in her mouth.
In the background, behind the wood panel and safe from her wrath, she heard whispers. “She said bum!” The voice was very young. Rae deduced it was that of the littlest Schortz girl, Poppy.
“I’m telling Papa,” another voice added gleefully. It was Merri, the contrary, Rae guessed.
“He’ll wash out her mouth with soap, like he did mine,” one of the twins said.
Rae shook her head. “Not if I get to him first,” she muttered. Then, without a thought for her appearance—a first for Rae Grimm Schortz—she practically flew out the tower door in a mad dash to find her husband. He really wasn’t an ogre, she knew, and he didn’t really own a golden hearth. But he did lay claim to seven villainous little dwarves.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The Snow White Dress and the Seven Little Schortzes
Up the stairs and down the stairs, Rae chased several scampering, shrieking children until she finally had to concede. As she bounded into Fen’s study, she halted abruptly. Determined to hold together the last shreds of her battered pride, she stood poised in front of his desk. Alas, the wrath in Rae’s bosom boiled over.
“Baron. I have come to discuss the disgusting and criminal behavior of Nap and his merry miscreants. Look at me.”
Fen glanced up from studying the estate records and took in her flour-streaked face and dusty, white gown, also spotted with smudges of dirt and ash. As the winter sun shone through his large leaded windows, he noted in an almost abstract way how the sun made her golden-silver hair shimmer. Even though she was grimy and her hair a tangled mess, even though her pretty blue (if red-rimmed) eyes sparkled with ire and her firm little chin trembled with rage, she was utterly lovely. He sighed softly. The woman would be beautiful even in a flour sack—which her dress resembled at the moment.
“Ja?” He was no fool. He knew a woman’s ire when he saw it. He also knew Nap, Merri, Shyla and Ernst’s handiwork when he witnessed it. He came out from behind his desk and braced his foot against the fireplace grate.
Rae actually screeched as she stomped her dainty foot. “Do you notice something different about the way I look today?” Her new husband needed to smother her with apologies and try to make amends.
“Why, I believe, I do. You are so…messe.”
“Of course I’m a mess. That’s why I’ve come to you!” Rae explained. How dare he sound so critical when her appearance was his fault! If he hadn’t played Sir Galahad and rescued her from that cockroach, she wouldn’t be here. Adding to that was the fact that he obviously hadn’t been able to quit doing his husbandly duties with his first wife, over and over and over again. The result? A castle full of Satan’s spawn.
Fen really tried to contain his mirth. “Messe means fair. You still look very fair, in spite of your less than pristine condition. I must say that I’m very impressed. I had no idea that I married such an inventive and clever puss. You have found a way to entertain my kinder since their governess left—shall we say for greener pastures?—and still manage to look lovely in the bargain.”
For a moment his words hung between them, a
nd he had the satisfaction of seeing her speechless.
Her husband had complimented her very nicely, and yet Rae could see mirth lurking in his eyes and in the twitching of his lips. Her eyes narrowed to mere slits, and she spread her fingers through her disheveled and gummy curls. “I was not, absolutely, in any way, in any fashion, in any manner, entertaining those unnatural little creatures! My brand-new gown is destroyed beyond repair by the vicious dwarves. They are a plague, a pestilence. As for your compliments, they are too few, too far in between and too late!”
He picked up the fireplace poker and jabbed at the logs burning in the hearth, his grin disappearing. “I forbid you to call my children unnatural,” he remarked. “It’s very natural to have high spirits and play pranks. Besides, there is no use in crying over spilt flour.”
“Pranks! Spilt flour!” Rae shouted, forgetting that a lady never shouted or told children to bite their bums. “‘Pranks’ is too light a word, sir. ‘Vicious, bloodthirsty and deranged shenanigans’ might be better. Attila the Hun would have run in abject terror from your children, and I wouldn’t have blamed her.”
“He.”
“He?”
“Attila the Hun was male.”
“Did his mother know?”
A bark of laughter was forced out of him. She was either totally witless or a total wit.
“I find no humor in this situation,” she remarked. “I feel like that old woman in the shoe, with all those screaming children hanging off her apron strings.” Glancing down at her ruined gown, she added sharply, “And I look like her, too.”
“I must say, you have been in better looks, but I rather like this grubby urchin style. Very natural.” Her beauty would have felled a giant, Fen thought in amusement, even covered in gook.
And his children could be a handful at times, but they were a delight and a challenge. All were clever, and they had good hearts. They had suffered terribly at the loss of their mother. It had taken over a year for the last of the nightmares to subside, and for Fen to finally sleep through the night without one of the children crying out for him. Though Fiona’s loss had devastated him personally, he had never allowed himself a collapse, since his children needed him desperately.