Charming, Volume 2

by Jack Heckel

  Elle cleared her throat and hissed, “I asked if this is the way to the chapel,” she repeated.

  Charming gave one last suspicious glance at the armor and said, “The chapel? No, we are miles from there. You, my dear Lady Rapunzel, are looking at the door to none other than the Royal Tailor.” He grinned.

  “WHAT?” Elle shouted, and then slapped a hand over her own mouth. “I mean,” she said in a violent whisper, “What? My God, are you mad? We’re going to miss the ceremony.”

  “Nonsense,” he said. “By my reckoning, we have fully three hours before the wedding begins.” At this, there was a loud gong that reverberated through the castle. Charming frowned, “Hmmm, the noon chime. Okay, I stand corrected, two hours. Still plenty of time.”

  “For what?” Elle asked in dismay.

  “Why, I thought that would be obvious. We are here so the tailor can make us proper clothes.”

  Liz shook her head.

  Elle whispered, “Clothes! You have gone mad. Why in the world do we need clothes?”

  Charming paused for an instant and the hint of a grin tugged at his mouth as he suppressed the obvious answer, but he composed himself. “If we are going to be servants to a queen, we must look the part. As I always say, clothes make the man. Of course, it goes without saying that the sentiment applies to the fairer sex as well. Now, quickly, the hall is empty.”

  With that, Charming grabbed Liz’s hand and pulled her across the passage. Elle followed red-­faced with anger and bewilderment. He paused for a single heartbeat to listen at the door and then, opening it, ushered both women in. He glanced up and down the corridor, shut the door softly behind them, and threw the bolt.

  It was as though they had stepped inside a kaleidoscope. The room was a fractured riot of colors and textures. Bolts of cloth, rolls of ribbon and lace, boxes of beads, buttons, and bangles lay in heaps and drifts across a massive workspace that was divided into a series of rows by enormous worktables, that were themselves littered with bits of half-­finished pieces and, of course, the tools of the trade. Liz and Elle were still looking around in wonder when they realized that there was a short man, impeccably dressed but having the disheveled appearance of someone that has just completed a footrace, standing in front of one of the tables, talking to Charming.

  The two men looked up from their private conference. A man they assumed was the Royal Tailor swept the women with an appraising glance and shook his head. “It will never work.”

  “I’m sure it will. Dressed as servants no one will look at us twice. We can walk straight into the chapel.”

  “No, you don’t understand,” the Royal Tailor said with a dismissive flutter of his hands. “The Princess has forbidden any of the female servants from entering the chapel during the wedding. There will only be footmen. She says that the men will present a more aesthetic backdrop for her wedding party, but everyone knows it is because she is terrified of being upstaged. I mean, look at the bridesmaids’ dresses she dreamed up.” He flicked a pointed finger at three puffs of pink standing in the corner.

  “Those are the bridesmaids’ dresses?” Charming choked. “But, they look . . . they look . . .”

  “Like clown costumes for a group of flat-­chested fat men?” the Royal Tailor said with disdain. “Yes, I know. Worse still, the Princess made me add a pink veil. The poor ladies will look like they’ve been encased in a virulent pink cocoon. It is—­”

  “PERFECT!” Charming said with a shout.

  “What?” the Royal Tailor, Elle, and Liz all said together.

  “They are hideous,” the Royal Tailor protested.

  “Revolting!” spit Elle.

  “Disturbing,” Liz added.

  “All true, but they are perfect disguises,” Charming persisted. “With the veil, it will be impossible for anyone to know who is beneath the dress.”

  The tailor cocked his head in thought.

  Liz said, “You aren’t suggesting that Elle and I join the wedding party. Don’t you think the Princess will recognize that something is amiss when two extra bridesmaids show up to the chapel?”

  The Royal Tailor shook his head. “No, not really. The number of bridesmaids in the wedding party has changed more often than Charming changes clothes.”

  Liz and Elle giggled as Charming spluttered; the tailor smiled at him and winked. “Don’t take that as a criticism. I love you for it. Anyway, let me explain about the bridesmaids. At first all the ladies of the court wanted to be in the wedding, and, after a fierce competition, Gwendolyn selected the six ugliest. Then the bridesmaids saw the dresses and they began to fall ill, or break limbs, or simply disappear. Last time I checked, we were down to three ladies that were either too obsequious or too stupid to flee. I doubt even Gwendolyn knows how many are going to be there, so a ­couple extra won’t raise one eyebrow on her demented, but perfectly formed, head.”

  “Then you’ll do it?” Charming asked.

  “I should refuse,” the Royal Tailor said with a frown.

  Charming’s face fell. “Why would you deny me this? Is it because I have been renounced?”

  The Royal Tailor said with sudden passion, “Of course not, I should refuse you because to put you in pink, and these beautiful ladies into the abominations dreamed up by that cow, Gwendolyn, is a sin against fashion and good taste.”

  Charming put a hand to his chest. “I understand. You know I would not request such a thing if it were not essential. But we have two hours to stop the Princess from marrying Will . . . er . . . King William, or she will define style for the next fifty years.”

  The Royal Tailor shuddered and put a fluttering hand to his head. For a moment, he seemed close to fainting, then he took a few deep breaths and fanned himself. “Please, no more. I will do what I must.”

  Charming put an arm around the man’s shoulder. “Thank you. Now, if you have a little extra time, could you see to a few modifications on my outfit?”

  “Extra time?” Elle erupted from across the room. “We now have less than two hours before Princess Gwendolyn will be Queen Gwendolyn for all time, and you are talking about extra time! There is no way he can make three outfits in two hours.”

  Both Charming and the tailor shared a chuckle together. “Is she always this emotional?” the tailor said with a snort of laughter.

  “Always,” Charming said, “but in this case, she has reason. She wants to marry King William herself.”

  “Ahhhh,” the Royal Tailor exhaled. He crossed to Elle and bowed briefly. “My dear, I once made a hand-­stitched couture gown for the Duchess of Dearly, who is a woman of formidable dimension, in a half hour. I can fit two bridesmaid dresses and put together a footmen’s uniform in my sleep. In fact, over the last week I think I have. Now, please, place yourself in my hands, and all will be well.”

  The Royal Tailor was as good as his word. In less than an hour, and a little more than an hour after making several modifications to Charming’s outfit—­a demi-­cape to hide his sword, a few tucks and pleats for better fit, and several other custom refinements—­the three were dressed, hideously dressed, but dressed.

  Elle and Liz helped each other adjust the veils that encased the top-­third of their bodies with matching giggles. But the moment their costumes were complete, Elle turned to Charming, who was evaluating himself critically in the full-­length mirror. “Now what?”

  “Well, I think if we tried a slightly more subdued shade of pink, or something with more of a sheen, we might have something here.”

  “No!” said Elle.

  “Actually, I think he has a point,” the Royal Tailor said between pursed lips as he studied Charming’s behind in the tight-­fitting breeches.

  “No,” she said again. “I mean what do we do now to save Will? Remember him? Liz’s brother, the man who is going to be married in less than an hour?”

  Charming tor
e his gaze away from the mirror. “We walk down to the chapel and wait for the opportune moment to seize the day and rescue poor King William, and the Kingdom of Royaume itself, from the Princess.”

  “That’s it?” she asked incredulously.

  He nodded. “Yes. With those dresses and my uniform, no one will question us.”

  Elle spluttered about needing more of a plan, but Liz shrugged her shoulders. “It sounds reasonable, Elle. We won’t know what the Princess has planned until we get down there and see for ourselves.”

  Charming embraced the Royal Tailor and smiled. “Thank you, I hope to see you again.”

  “And I you, Edward Charming, but next time in something blue.”

  “Agreed. Adieu, dear friend! You have my thanks!”

  The three stepped out of the door and right into a group of nobles. After untangling the ladies dresses, there was a beat of confusion in which the nobles stared uncomfortably at each other and Charming. Elle took a step forward so that Charming was beside her and kicked him surreptitiously in the shin. “Bow!” she whispered from beneath her veil.

  Through teeth gritted in pain, Charming executed a shallow bow. Elle made a sweeping curtsy that was half-­heartedly copied by Liz, and answered by bows and curtsies from the other nobles. From beneath Elle’s veil came an unrecognizably shrill voice. “Excuse us, Duchess and Duke Faircourt, Lady Greenleaf. We must make haste to the chapel. Footman, lead on.”

  Charming bowed again and walked quickly down the hall and away from the party of still-­murmuring courtiers. Elle and Liz puffed to keep up. Finally, they turned a corner and Liz hissed, “Edward, slow down! ­People will find it highly suspicious if they see two bridesmaids and a footman sprinting through the halls of the castle.”

  “Right, sorry,” he said, grabbing his wounded side and gasping for breath. “I guess I panicked a little. I’ve known Lady Greenleaf since I was five, and the Duchess of Faircourt and I, well, we’re familiar.”

  Liz stroked his cheek. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine, just fine,” he said with a broad smile that was ruined only by the beads of sweet on his brow.

  She tenderly wiped his forehead dry and then gave him a playful slap. “We shall talk about your ‘familiarity’ with the Duchess some other time. For now get us safely, and slowly, to the chapel.”

  He bowed as gracefully as his body would allow and smiled. “As the Lady commands.” Then he turned on his heel and, at a stately pace, led the women through the castle and the growing crowds of nobles and courtiers to the sanctuary of the ancient chapel of Castle White.

  Chapter 10

  Or Forever Hold Your Peace

  IN A SMALL, sunlit chamber behind the chapel, Princess Gwendolyn stood alone, frowning at the image in a large gilt-­framed looking glass. The woman in the mirror was a vision. The dress she was wearing was not fairy made, but it could have been. It was a delicate affair of lace and silk layered like the petals of a flower. Her golden hair was arranged in an intricate coif of spirals and waves and curls that seemed lighter than air. From head to toe, jewels sparkled here and there, drawing in the light and casting it out like stars.

  And yet, Gwendolyn was not happy.

  Something wasn’t right. Around her, the shadow handmaidens swirled, straightening her veil here, fixing a loose strand of hair there. Inside her head, other minds—­Will’s, Rupert’s, the priest’s and dozens of others, crowded for attention. They would give her no peace, no rest. At one time either or both would have driven her to distraction, but she was used to them by now: the feel of the cold shadow hands, the clamor of other ­people’s thoughts. It was the woman in the mirror that disturbed her. She saw a sad woman with soulful eyes, and it was not her.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” Gwendolyn asked the phantasm.

  Don’t you recognize me? came the answer in a voice that was as soft as the whispered wind.

  Gwendolyn stared into the glass and gasped. “Rosslyn?”

  She grasped for the glass ball partially hidden among the flowers of her wedding bouquet and shook it. “Fairy, if it is you conjuring this image . . .”

  The orb swirled with a jumble of rapidly flickering and confused images, but the light of the pixie shone only dimly. A weak, bitter voice floated through the air to her: “Thou thinkest much of me, if thou believes that I canst bend the wills of thy groom, thy King, thy priest, and a score more so that thee can control them and still defy thee. Thy vision is thine alone, Mistress. Live it thyself and leave me in peace.”

  Though hateful, the words rang true. In disgust, she dropped the bouquet on the vanity.

  Gwenie? came the spectral voice from the mirror.

  It was a nickname only her sister had called her. Gwendolyn felt her hair rise and her flesh crawl. She turned slowly back to the mirror. There stood Rosslyn, dressed for her wedding, the wedding that she never had a chance to celebrate. Gwendolyn’s legs gave out and she fell to her knees. Behind the glass, Rosslyn mirrored the movement so that they knelt face-­to-­face.

  Why did you do it?

  Gwendolyn sobbed. “You can’t think it was on purpose, I only meant . . .”

  The image in the mirror was crying as well, tears of silvered water running down her face. Meant what? To steal my love?

  “No! It is just that I—­”

  Yes, Gwenie?

  Gwendolyn could not bring herself to look into her sister’s eyes, so she stared down at her white-­gloved hands. “I remember that day. I ran into the forest and called for the fairy. I thought she was my magical godmother. I thought she wanted to help me. You were going to marry Rupert, and you didn’t love him, not like I did. When I traveled here with you, attending you, hovering in the background, I saw everything. You just wanted the kingdom. You wanted Castle White. I wanted Rupert to be my prince. I had dreams, Rosslyn, my dreams. All I did was wish. I wished that you would not marry Rupert, that I would be with my true love, and that I would be a princess remembered like no other.” Gwendolyn looked up into her sister’s eyes. “I swear, I did not mean for you to die.”

  I know you did not mean it, the voice said sadly, but I did die. Your wishes killed me, Gwenie, and now you are wishing again to satisfy your desire for the Crown. You must put a stop to this madness.

  “But this time is different,” she pleaded.

  Why Gwenie? Why is this different?

  “Before I relied on the fairy, and I was selfish and full of pride. But I have changed.” She clasped her hands in front of her, begging. “While I was locked away with the dragon, I had time to think, to dream, about what I would do to make things right. I realized that the only way I could redress my wrongs would be to reclaim everything that I had lost with the force of my own will. I promised myself that I would marry the King, and I would claim the throne that was meant for you, and I would have the wedding and the love I . . . We lost to the fairy’s curse. Rosslyn, I am doing this for us. I’m doing it for you.”

  You are doing this for me, Gwenie?

  “For you, Rosslyn. I swear it.”

  Her sister’s piercing green eyes bore into her. Then stop, Gwenie. Stop before it is too late. You have lost yourself in hatred and insanity. It will not bring me back, and it will destroy you.

  Gwendolyn shook her head throughout her sister’s speech—­“No, no, no, no, no. This one last thing and all the wrongs we have suffered will be avenged.”

  Gwenie, I can understand and forgive your anger toward the fairy and the King, and even the Prince, but these things that you have done, they aren’t you. You never wanted to hurt anyone. She gave a tender, sad smile. Even me, dear sister. Can’t you see what this magic is doing to you? It is driving you mad. You don’t even look yourself. You look like a wraith—­so tired and haunted. Stop this now.”

  “No!” she shouted. “I’ve come too far. I am so close to my happy ending.”<
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  She began to pace back and forth in front of the mirror, her sister following her movements in silence behind the glass. “Maybe I’m not doing it only for you. Maybe I am doing this for me. But don’t I deserve it? For everything that has been done to me. For all the years I lived in silent guilt unable to make amends to you. For all the torment I suffered at the hands of the fairy. For being abandoned by the man I loved.”

  She stopped and once again faced the mirrored image of Rosslyn. “I have waited a lifetime to be saved. I have waited patiently for my knight to come and slay my dragon. And, what did he do? He left me to rot. I will not wait anymore. I will not leave anything to fate or chance. I have been given . . . no, I have taken the power to set things right, and I am going to use this power, this magic.”

  Revenge will not bring you the peace you seek, Gwenie. Only true love can do that.

  The Princess felt her whole body stiffen in rage. “True love? You speak to me of true love? You who would have married a man that you half-­despised . . .”

  This time the voice was angry and it roared in her ears. I MAY NOT HAVE LOVED RUPERT AS YOU DID, BUT I DID LOVE HIM.

  Gwendolyn shuffled back from the mirror.

  Her sister’s voice softened and whispered now, soothing or trying to sooth. You saw only what you wanted to see, Gwen. You admitted into your heart only the good things about him. I loved him for the man he was and is. A man, like any other, that has flaws and weaknesses and vices, and, yes, I made fun of him for those. Yours was the love of youth—­pure and blind—­mine was the love of truth—­real and accepting. I know you do not understand, you were, you are, still so young, Gwenie.

  “Stop saying that,” Gwendolyn shouted. “You may have been older then, but I am older now. I have lived and suffered like you never did, and I escaped. And I will marry William and we will be happy.”

  A cloud came over her sister’s face. Her eyes grew stern and her voice hard. Believe what you will of me, but know, Gwendolyn Mostfair, that what you are doing is wrong, and the strength of your convictions cannot make it right.