Charming, Volume 2

by Jack Heckel

  “It’s his damnable butler,” Grady groused, seemingly having exhausted himself on the topic of horses.

  “He has no artistic soul,” Sneedon agreed.

  “Last time, he set the dogs on us,” Sloane said between snores.

  “But this time will be different,” Dorian said, trying to rally the other dwarves. “You’ll see. This time, we’ll give the man a performance that will knock him out.”

  Grady grunted, “How? This time we’ve got nothing. Neither Sneedon nor I have had a decent idea for months. We don’t even have enough material for a one-­act, much less a proper play.”

  A deep silence fell on the room.

  “I have a story,” Elizabeth interjected. “A story that might melt even the butler’s heart of stone.” She looked about the room, “Did you find a bag with me?”

  Dorian nodded and brought it to her. She rummaged through it, and then, with a flourish, she pulled out the crystal slipper and held it in the air for a moment, so that it flashed in the sun. It was an act of unconscious stagecraft that worked magic on her audience. The dwarves sat staring dumbly at the little sparkling shoe.

  “How did I get here?” she said in a faraway voice. Liz cradled the shoe in her lap, remembering the only night she had worn it and the man with whom she had danced. Tears rose in her eyes. The shining image swam and wavered, and she whispered, “I suppose you could say I am here because my family has, for generations, believed in Happily Ever Afters . . .”

  The dwarves exchanged collective glances. Grady opened his mouth to say something and the other dwarves silenced him with a simultaneous hiss.

  Liz shook away the sadness and smiled. “Well, my own little fairy story started the night the dragon attacked our farm. We had doused all the lights when we heard, on the night air, its first cry, and then saw the sky light up with its fires.” She was staring out the window at the trees beyond. “Well, we were sitting there, in the dark, and Will grabbed my hand, put a book in it, and said, ‘Liz, you sit tight. I’ve got to go do something.’ And off he went, just like that.”

  Liz blinked, and the gathered tears streamed two-­by-­two down her cheeks. “By the moonlight, I could see that the book he’d given me was the Dragon’s Tale, and I knew he had no intention of coming back. He was going to try and do something heroic. All he ever really wanted was a chance to do something noble.”

  “Holy hell!” yelled Grady. “You’re the dragon slayer’s sister?”

  The other dwarves whistled in unison.

  “I suppose,” she responded, “but that night we were just William and Elizabeth Pickett.”

  “Mmmhmmm,” the dwarves hummed together. “And?”

  And so, Liz told her story, and the sun rose high as the dragon died and Will journeyed to the dark tower. Lunch was served, and, over bowls of steaming soup, they listened, enraptured, as she danced with Prince Charming at the ball. And, as the sun began to dip again toward the horizon, she was finally riding her horse into the dark wood with the bewitched valet. When at last she stopped, dark shadows had crept across the room. At some point in her telling, a fire had been laid in the deep stone hearth, and the dwarves were sitting in its orange glow, staring at her with rapt attention.

  She blinked at them and wet her lips. “Well, what do you think? Is it a good story?”

  “Good?” Grady crowed. “Sister, with a few rewrites it could be a sensation!”

  “Rewrites?” she asked.

  “Sure, sure,” he said smoothly, and nodded over to Sneedon, who pulled a pencil and pad of paper from the open cuff of his sleeve. “A little tweak here or there for drama, you understand, and to smooth out the rough spots in the narrative.”

  “Rough spots, but—­but all that was the truth. What really happened.”

  Grady waved her to silence. “Now, now, the Seven Players have no use for pride of authorship, Liz. It’s about creating the best theater possible. That means writing rich characters, providing those characters with the right dramatic arcs, putting them in appropriate settings, and so forth.” He ran a hand through his hair and snapped, “I’ve got it! Squash . . . no, pumpkins! A metamorphosis of mice and pumpkins. I mean the symbolism . . .” He turned to the door, spun on his heel, and called out, “Well, come on, Sneedon. We’ve got work to do.”

  Liz looked at Dorian in confusion, “Pumpkins? There were no pumpkins in my story.”

  He reached across and patted her hand. “My dear, that is what we call artistic license. Let them work. Perhaps a little poetry would help you fall asleep.”

  Dorian retrieved his book from where it had landed after thumping Sneedon as the remaining dwarves slipped quietly out behind him. Even the birds on the window dispersed in a sudden blur of fluttering colors. Alone with her poetic tormentor, she groaned in defeat.

  “I see the pain is growing worse,” he consoled. “Don’t worry, Liz, you’re in good hands.” Dorian positioned his glasses on the very tip of his nose and opened his book. ­“Couplet will take your mind off your body’s agonies.”

  THE NEXT MORNING the sun rose, and with it so did the curtain on what Grady had entitled, Ash and Cinders: The Elizabeth Pickett Story. He and Sneedon, his co-­author, had worked on the play all night and were anxious for an audience. So, with the hearth as a backdrop and the foot of the bed as a stage, Liz watched as the dwarves ran through a marionette production that resembled her and Will’s story in almost no respect. There was a wicked stepmother instead of the Princess, the dragon seemed to have fallen by the wayside (apparently the puppet proved too challenging to construct); there was a kindly fairy (mostly because they had a fairy puppet on hand from an earlier production), a pumpkin carriage, and a disappearing gown. It was all wrong and she might have said so, except that somehow they had managed to capture her emotions, with such perfection, particularly during the ball scene: her terror at the beginning, rising elation as she danced with the Prince, and then despair as she fled up that long stair. When the curtain fell (quite literally, as it had been strung between the bedposts with a particularly dubious length of string), she found herself in tears.

  “Well, what do you think?” Grady asked with none of his usual growls. All the dwarves poked their heads above the foot of the bed and waited eagerly for her review.

  Liz wiped her eyes dry and smiled at the little group. “I think the butler would have to be a fool not to let you see his master.”

  The dwarves gave a huzzah, broke out a large crockery jug of ale, and after a few rounds began dancing about the room. Elizabeth clapped along with them until Grady stopped the frivolity with a shout—­“HEY! What are we doing? We need to get this stuff packed up, you guys. It’s off to the Beast’s we go! On foot, it’ll take us a day or two at least to get there, so we have to get started.” There was another shouted cheer and the little group danced out the door in a clatter of boots and caterwaul of off-­key singing.

  Liz beckoned Dorian to stop, and the elderly dwarf, still red in the face from the dance, puffed over. She put a hand on his head. “Thank you, Dorian, for doing me this favor. You cannot know what it means to me.”

  He blushed. “Don’t think anything of it. To be truthful, we haven’t had a good story to tell for years. Our last few have been . . . well, awful. We’ve needed some inspiration, and”—­he paused and winked at her—­“it doesn’t hurt that our new muse is easy on the eyes.”

  She smiled sweetly. “Oh, how you flatter, Dorian, but thank you.” Then she straightened her face. “Now, remember, if you manage to see your Patron, you must ask him to take my warning to Lady Rapunzel.” The dwarf nodded seriously and she continued. “And if he is in any doubt as to the truth of my existence and need, you should give him this.” She handed him the slipper.

  “I—­We can’t . . . No!” the dwarf spluttered.

  “Please take it, and use it to the best effect. I shall always have th
e memory, and trust me when I say that the memory is all that will ever come of my time with the Prince. If this silly glass shoe can help my brother and the King and my friend escape the Princess, then I will be happy.”

  Dorian raised himself up to his full height, all two feet and nine inches, put a hand over his heart, and bowed deeply. “I swear to you, Lady Elizabeth, we will return, and we will bring help.”

  She bent down and kissed the top of his head. “Thank you. Oh, and Dorian, the humerus is up here.” She pointed to the unplastered part of her arm above the elbow.

  Dorian blushed from the top of his ears to the tip of his nose and scurried to the door.

  “One last thing,” she called to him. “What did Grady mean, ‘It’s off to the Beast’s we go’?”

  The smile on the dwarf’s face faltered momentarily, and then he said with affected lightness, “Don’t you worry yourself about that, it’s just a little inside joke. You know Grady.” Before Liz had a chance to say anything further, he slipped out the door.

  Chapter 2

  At the Crossroads

  THE KING’S PARTY slept one miserable night at the Cooked Goose, which should have been a great boon to the inn’s reputation, except that a fierce attack of bed bugs roused the monarch in the wee hours of pre-­dawn, and put him in a terrible rage, which he directed entirely at the proprietor of the Cooked Goose. The result of which is that, despite the truth of the matter, the Cooked Goose is the only public house in the kingdom that does not profess to have hosted the King.

  The King’s early morning meant that His Royal Majesty, Will, Tomas, and the Royal Herald were already on the road south to Castle White by the time the sun had risen. It was a silent and mournful ride. The King, wrapped heavily in his grief, said not a word, and the others did their best to match his mood. Even the weather fell into line, alternating between driving rain and drizzle.

  Midday found them eating, if not enjoying, a damp luncheon at an overgrown crossroads. They had taken shelter under a dripping hawthorn tree, which was terribly uncomfortable. The low branches forced them to constantly hunch and offered dubious defense against the rain. And so, when Lady Rapunzel’s carriage arrived with a shout and whistle from her driver and a clatter of ironclad wheels, it was welcome relief from what had become a rather moist and depressing journey.

  A pale, delicate face framed by the hood of a red riding cloak emerged from a paneled window. “Your Royal Highness?”

  All of the men looked up, and the Royal Herald, seizing the opportunity to practice his craft, called out, “Presenting the Lady Rapunzel!”

  The King sighed. He began to rise slowly and stiffly. Beside him, Will stood to attention with a start, smacking his head hard on one of the low branches. A shower of raindrops and a muffled curse followed. Will’s squire, Tomas, muttered in a low voice, “Watch your language, Lord Protector, there’s a lady present.”

  Will flushed, and the King lowered his head and grinned. The squire had been the perfect companion for his son.

  The thought of Edward wiped the smile from the King’s face, and his black despair descended again. He rose, shaking, and felt Will’s strong hand on his arm. The lad was a comfort, but the King wanted to suffer. He shook the hand off and moved unsteadily to meet the lady. Will stepped forward beside him, and he felt Tomas and the Royal Herald fall in behind them.

  Lady Rapunzel watched their approach behind a handkerchief, which the King suspected was there to hide the smile he saw in her eyes. The King reflected that, as wet as they were, they probably looked a bit ridiculous—­pathetic—­but also ridiculous. Still, when she spoke, her voice held the proper note of respect. “Your Majesty and Lord Protector, well met.”

  The King bowed in return. Will started to wave awkwardly before stumbling to perform his own bow. Rapunzel’s eyes lingered on Will a moment longer than strict propriety would have deemed appropriate. The King noticed and sadly recalled the competition to marry he had started between Will and Edward. It hardly mattered anymore, but he couldn’t help wondering if it—­if he—­had played a role in his son’s fall. The King cleared the lump that had formed in his throat and spoke. “Lady Rapunzel, well met. If you wouldn’t mind, might we conduct the remainder of our conversation inside your coach?”

  Rapunzel pulled her gaze away from Will, blinked, and lurched into speech. “Of course, Your Majesty. Please, come in and accept whatever small comfort I may offer. I also have urgent news to convey.”

  The King stepped into the carriage and said in a firmer, more commanding tone, “Urgent news from Castle White? Is all well there, Lady Rapunzel?”

  He took a seat across from her in the plush coach as she hesitantly lowered her scarlet hood. She reached a hand up and tucked the ends of her short blond hair behind her ears before she answered. “I fear not, Your Majesty. I bring dark tidings from the court.”

  The King held up his hand to stop her. Will was backing away to join the squire and the herald in the rain. The King silently cursed Will’s unwillingness to take the role history demanded, but aloud he said, “Lord Protector, Lady Rapunzel has urgent news from the castle. Please join us. I require your counsel.”

  Will hesitated, but then bent his massive frame through the door of the coach and into the tiny compartment. He stood, awkwardly bent over and looked between the two benches. Lady Rapunzel gracefully resolved the point of protocol by sliding to one side and gesturing to the bench next to her.

  “Please, Lord Protector, be seated and be welcome,” she said.

  Will mumbled a thanks and sat. The quarters were close, and Will had to cram himself against the wall to avoid having his legs brush against Lady Rapunzel’s skirts. She smiled at him in that knowing way only a woman can when she knows a man’s discomfort. The smile broke as she reached up to touch the ends of her hair again.

  Normally, the King would have found diversion in the scene, but he was in no mood today. “Lady Rapunzel, you mentioned urgent news from Castle White?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty. It began the day after you and the Lord Protector left.”

  Rapunzel told them about Princess Gwendolyn seizing control of the court, her humiliation of Lady Elizabeth, their flight from the castle, and her suspicions concerning the Princess’s designs on the throne. The King listened silently behind steepled hands.

  Will blurted out, “What? You can’t be serious.”

  Rapunzel turned to face Will and, between pursed lips, said, “I am perfectly serious, Lord Protector.”

  Will mirrored her movement, turning in his seat to face her. “Princess Gwendolyn? What could she possibly have against us . . . against Liz, Lady Rapunzel?”

  “You can’t be that naïve. She wants the throne.”

  “That’s absurd. She’s the princess and a princess wouldn’t engage in such schemes, Lady Rapunzel.”

  “That’s your argument?” she said in a voice rich with sarcasm. “That she’s too much a lady?”

  “Kind of,” he said lamely, but with conviction.

  “Like any other lady, Princess Gwendolyn is perfectly capable of being a conniving, backstabbing schemer.”

  “Now you’re just being mean, you have no evidence that Princess Gwendolyn is any of those things. Apart from a ­couple of slights against my sister, it doesn’t seem to me she has done anything wrong.”

  The King barely heard a word of their back and forth. His mind was filled with black thoughts, and it took all of his courtly skill not to show his grief, but to instead keep his face frozen in an expression of mild disinterest. Fortunately, he had many long years of practice at this so he wore the look quite naturally. “I am inclined to agree with the Lord Protector in conclusion, if not reasoning,” he finally opined. “With all due respect to you, Lady Rapunzel, and to your fair sister, Lord Protector, it sounds like the Princess is guilty of little more than being a poor hostess and badly overstepping her st
ation. I think jealousy—­yes, Lord Protector,” he said, forestalling Will’s nascent protest—­“jealousy rather than ambition is the likely culprit behind Princess Gwendolyn’s behavior.”

  Rapunzel tried to keep her face respectful, but the King could see that she did not agree with his conclusion. Visibly gathering herself, she said, “Your Majesty, I hate to be contrary, but . . .”

  “But you’re going to be anyway,” he replied, and admired the lady’s resolve on the subject.

  “Yes, Your Majesty, I am,” she said with a hint of rebellion in her tone.

  The King held up his hand, cutting her off. “Lady Rapunzel, I understand that Princess Gwendolyn can be cold and haughty, and I know better than most that her temper can be downright nasty, particularly when she feels she has been slighted, but it is my opinion that you and Lady Elizabeth have overreacted.”

  Will, who had been listening to the debate in silence, now dropped the finger he had been chewing—­a nasty habit he needed to be broken of—­and leaned forward. “Sire, are you absolutely sure there is no danger? I do not worry about myself, but I do not want Liz placed in any harm.”

  The King paused, surprised to hear Will speak at all. He saw the color rush to the lad’s cheeks as he realized that he was, in effect, contradicting his monarch. Lady Rapunzel used the moment to renew her assault. “Indeed, Your Majesty, Will should be with his sister. Besides, you and Prince Charming should be able to handle the Princess.”

  The King felt the warmth drain from his face, and Rapunzel’s voice trailed off as she recognized that she had said something very wrong. An awkward silence followed, and no one seemed to wish to be the first to break it.

  Finally, Lady Rapunzel spoke, but in a much softer tone. “Where is your son, the Prince, Your Majesty? I should have thought he would be at your side.”

  Where was Edward? He felt old and tired, and responded in a voice that seemed to come to him from very far away. “Prince Charming is no more.”