by Jack Heckel
Gwendolyn felt the anger rising in her blood. She stood, and her sister stood with her, and the two siblings glared at each other across the barrier of the glass. “I know true love, Rosslyn, and this wedding will prove it. If William and I were not meant to be, then the curse would not allow it. If this is not true love, then how did I cast off the fairy’s magic? If this is not true love, then I would still be locked in that accursed spell—half dead.”
The sadness came back to the face in the mirror and the voice that spoke was full of grief. If the spell is broken, if the curse is lifted, then why do you still fear the fairy? If you are free, then cast her and her power away.
Gwendolyn rose and grabbed the glittering ball in her hands. As she was about dash it to the ground, she stopped and placed the fairy ball back on the table in its cradle of flowers. “No. Not until I am queen. Not until I have shown the fairy that I have won.”
The Princess looked back up and her sister’s eyes were full of pity. Oh, Gwenie, I am sorry, I did not know that you were still lost in a dream.
“NO I AM NOT!” she screamed.
In a fit of anger, Gwendolyn pushed the mirror onto the hard stone floor. It splintered and cracked, and, for a moment, the image of Rosslyn’s sorrowful face was duplicated in each of the hundreds of fractured facets. Gwendolyn kneeled to the floor again and a hundred voices, including her own, whispered, “I am sorry.”
There was a knock at the door, and nervous voice called out, “Princess Gwendolyn, are you all right?”
The minds that she had been keeping at bay came crowding back in on her thoughts. The shadows that had vanished during her talk with Rosslyn now crowded about, pawing at her. The images of Rosslyn wavered and disappeared, and Gwendolyn found that she was kneeling on the cold stones of the little room staring down now at her own tear-streaked face in the broken glass pieces. She searched for the sad face of her sister in the shattered panes. But Rosslyn was gone. All that remained was Gwendolyn—a haggard, wan, and haunted Gwendolyn, repeated over and over.
“It was nothing,” she whispered to herself. “Just an illusion, a trick of the light, and the jitters of a new bride.”
“Your Highness? Are you there?”
Her head radiated with pain, and she put a hand to her temple in an attempt to soothe it. She frowned at the closed door and shouted harshly, “OF COURSE, I’M HERE, YOU IDIOT. Where else would I be? What do you want?”
“I beg your forgiveness, Your Highness,” came the frightened reply. “Your Highness, I’ve come to tell you that the guests have assembled. All is in readiness.”
The guests have assembled. The pain in her head was momentarily forgotten. She rose to her feet and straightened her dress. All is in readiness. She felt a cold confidence fill her body; and when she spoke, it was with the authority that only absolute certainty can provide: “Very well, tell the musicians to begin my march.”
She looked back down into the shattered mirror. Her face was a ruin. Her cheeks were sunken and white from lack of food. Her eyes were haunted from lack of sleep. Her face was heavily lined as though the shadows had hidden themselves there. For a moment, her confidence wavered, and she felt the souls she had enthralled pushing back at their bonds, but then she heard her wedding march—the notes rolling and echoing through the stone chapel like a force of nature.
It is time, the cold and confident voice in her head said. Nothing can stop us.
“I can’t be seen like this,” she whispered in horror and growing uncertainty. “They will know.”
Don’t worry, the voice reassured her, nobody will see you. They will see only a bride. Her shaking hand lowered the veil into place, obscuring her face and all the evidence of her grief and doubt and madness. By the time we are revealed, we will be Queen.
Beneath the veil, she felt herself smile. The pain in her head was still there, but it was a remote thing and the voices were gone. The cold bodies of the shadow people fluttered about her face, but were obscured by the layers of white cloth. She gathered her bouquet with the fairy glass into her arms, and, fully encased in her lace and silk armor, she strode through the door to the waiting chapel beyond.
CHARMING STOOD AGAINST the wall of the chapel just behind the bridesmaids, one in a row of dozens of fit young men dressed in identical pink uniforms. He was supposed to be watching the gilt door where Gwendolyn would eventually emerge, but he couldn’t stop himself from glancing at the line of bridesmaids, studying with particular intensity the two at the end. He was worried about Liz and Elle. The ladies were tense, and Elle had nearly rushed to Will when he and Charming’s father marched rigidly to take their place on the chapel’s raised dais, next to an expressionless priest. Only a restraining hand, and a hissed “we must wait until the moment is right” had kept her from ruining their disguises.
The notes of the wedding march interrupted his thoughts. He turned his head in time to see light flood through the chapel doors, highlighting the golden rug and mingling with the towering flower arrangements that lined the central aisle. Along with the rays of sunlight came the strong smell of nutmeg, and Charming had enough time to consider that it was an odd choice for a wedding as a phalanx of elfin girls came through the door, dancing with cold perfection and tossing handfuls of rose petals into the air about them. Close on their heels came a quartet of identically stone-faced little boys. Each carried a satin pillow with a jeweled ring. When the children reached their positions on the dais, the music swelled. A massive shadow filled the doorway. Princess Gwendolyn, in a veiled dress that could only be described as epic, strode down the aisle with grace, a glowing bouquet held in her arms. Charming frowned at the shining glass ball half-hidden among the flowers. There is the source of her power.
He heard Elle hiss from the far end of the line, “Now?”
He leaned slightly over and whispered, “Not yet. We must wait for the right moment.”
PRINCESS GWENDOLYN SURVEYED the church and smiled beneath her veil. It was perfect. The flowers, the afternoon sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows, the wall of statuesque footmen, the line of bridesmaids on one end of the dais—she was glad to see that they had managed to round up five of the six—balanced by the two kings on the other and the head priest waiting patiently for her before the altar. She frowned at the man’s stony face. After a moment’s concentration, his mouth turned up into a broad smile. Better.
She reached the bottom stair of the dais. Rupert, her former love, stepped forward jerkily, and, putting out a hand, led her to the top of the platform opposite her future husband, King William. She made Rupert bow to her, and then dismissed him to his position several steps below her. Then she turned her focus on Will and nothing happened. He stood absolutely still, his face a blank mask of concentration. Beneath the veil, she frowned. He was being difficult. She focused harder on the commands, and, ever so slowly, he moved forward to stand next to her. In unison, they clasped hands and turned to face the priest. Gwendolyn smiled grimly as she felt William’s fluttering pulse through his clammy palm. He will learn his place. In time, they all will.
WILLIAM PICKETT HAD never felt more drained. He had tried to resist Gwendolyn’s commands with every ounce of his willpower, and still he was here, standing hand-in-hand with her as the priest discoursed on the sanctity of marriage in the strangely stilted monotone of one of Gwendolyn’s thralls. The homily ended, and, in a sudden movement, he swiveled to Princess Gwendolyn, her face a collection of shadows beneath the lace veil. Will braced himself, knowing what she would make him do. The Princess ended her recital of the vows and the whole of the assemblage focused on him.
Will felt the words she wished him to say rolling through his head. He locked the muscles of his jaw until they hurt with a painful intensity. With each second that passed, the urge to speak grew, and the words echoed louder and louder until he thought his head must burst. The standoff lasted
a few seconds, no more. His strength gone, the words issued from his mouth one at a time—emotionless—until he had spoken them all.
With another rigid swivel he was, once more, facing the priest. He would resist to the end, but he knew that the end was coming, and William Pickett had little hope that he would succeed at anything. His only happiness came from knowing that at least his sister and Elle were well and truly clear of this. He would be a puppet-king for Queen Gwendolyn until she was done with him, and then, perhaps, she would let him die in peace. He tried to smile at the thought, but could not. Even this was not allowed.
BENEATH HER PINK VEIL, Liz clenched her teeth in rage as she watched the Princess pull the strings on her collection of human puppets. After Collins and Alain, she could spot the telltale signs, and smells at once. The priest thrall was speaking now, explaining monotonously, one last time, that the union they were forming was not to be entered into lightly or under pretenses false. Elle quivered beside her.
Please keep hold of yourself, Elle, she thought with a silent shout to her friend.
Almost in answer, she heard Elle whisper fiercely, “Now! We must move now!”
Charming replied from behind them in a soft calm tone. “Not yet. The moment is not right. When the time comes, I will distract the Princess. You will seize the bouquet. That is where she is hiding the fairy ball.”
Liz heard an echo of that old annoying confidence in his voice. Despite herself, she smiled. She did not know what he had in mind, but she was past doubting. She had entwined her destiny with his, and she would share the consequences if they failed.
The Princess said, “I do.”
Liz’s throat went dry and she whispered a prayer meant only for herself. Please let Charming know what he is doing.
IT TOOK EVERY ounce of willpower in Elle’s body not to leap forward as the priest asked King William, her Will, if he would marry Princess Gwendolyn Mostfair. Her whole body quivered in impotent rage. What are we waiting for? Why am I listening to Charming? The man is a fool, and he ripped out my hair!
Rapunzel’s throat went dry and she whispered an oath meant only for herself, “So help me, if Charming screws this up I will cut off his . . .”
“BEFORE-THIS-ASSEMBLAGE-and-knowing-the-vows-to-which-you-have-both-spoken,” the priest said, “-do-you-King-William-Pickett-Lord-Protector-and-Dragonslayer-take-this-woman-Princess-Gwendolyn-Mostfair-to-be-your-wedded-wife-till-death-you-do-part?”
King William, stood at apparent ease atop the dais, but in his mind, William Pickett desperately fought the answer screaming “no, no, no and no!” in his mind. He tried to form that simple word—“N-O”—but the Princess’s command was an overwhelming force. It was as though everything he had known was wiped from his memory, and all that remained were two words—“I do.” Unable to speak, he resolved to keep his mouth shut.
Silence interrupted the ceremony, and the crowd murmured and shuffled. Whispers crept from the back of the chapel. Tension filled the air like a fog. The priest smiled stiffly and asked, “King-William?”
Will felt the Princess’s being slip into him like a stain, and heard himself say, “I-do,” in a high-pitched voice that was nearly a squeak.
He felt the Princess slip back out the way she had come. He slumped his shoulders and grief washed over him. Despite Gwendolyn’s power, a single tear escaped, running down his cheek in impotent rebellion.
“NOW!” ELLE HISSED to Charming, and she took a half step forward before Liz’s hand clasped on her own like iron.
Behind them, Charming whispered, “Almost . . .”
Gwendolyn and William were facing each other again on the dais. The priest held up his hands, “If-anyone-present-here-knows-of-any-reason-”
Charming whispered, “Almost.”
The priest continued, “-that-this-man-and-this-woman-should-not-be-joined-by-the-holy-bonds-of-matrimony-let-them-speak-now-or-forever-hold-their-peace.”
Charming’s voice, with a power honed by years of oratorical training, echoed like a thunderclap through the chapel, “I DO!”
He stepped from behind the bridesmaids and down onto the main floor of the chapel at the foot of the dais. Then, with a movement of pure grace, unclasped his pink demi-cape—and with a swirl of fabric, he shed the footmen’s uniform like a cocoon, emerging in a brilliant blue-and-gold satin doublet and matching breeches that complemented his eyes, showed off his muscular body, and displayed his hair to perfection. The sword remained, a dangerously virile slash of pink and silver against his leg.
Only Liz’s very discerning eye caught the little hitch in his unveiling and the gasp of suppressed pain that told the story of what that flourish cost him. Her face curved into a hidden frown, and she added another grievance against the Princess to her growing list.
Stunned silence filled the chapel. Then the Princess, in a fraught voice, a mix of fear, anger, and wonderment, sputtered, “Charming? It can’t be. You are supposed to be dead.”
Charming kept his gaze on the Princess, but out of the corner of his eye he saw two of the pink puffs slip along the line of bridesmaids toward the back of the altar. His job now, he reminded himself, was to keep every eye in the chapel on him—he had never been more in his element. Charming took another step forward, ran a hand through his auburn hair, and embraced everyone in the room with his most charming smile. “I cannot die. I am Prince Charming.”
There were a few sighs from the ladies, and one even swooned, but on the stage the Princess said, “But you’re not Prince Charming, you are just Edward Charming. Seize him!”
Almost as one, dozens of guards clad in pink stepped away from the walls and advanced. He thought about using the sword at his side, but then remembered Liz’s admonition at the cottage and took his hand away. In an instant, the guards surrounded him, and two on either side grabbed his arms and forced him to his knees, causing the wound in his side to stretch and tear.
Regarding Charming from beneath her veil, Gwendolyn yelled, “I WILL HAVE YOU SENT TO THE GALLOWS FOR THIS OUTRAGE. YOU HAVE NO AUTHORITY. NO VOICE IN THIS COURT. YOU HAVE BEEN DISOWNED, DISCARDED, THROWN OUT BY YOUR FATHER.” She waved vaguely down the stair to where his father, the former King, stood in frozen silence. “YOU ARE NOBODY.”
Charming let the words wash over him as he watched, surreptitiously, as Elle and Liz slipped behind the altar. He only needed another few minutes. When the Princess was finished, he smiled even more brightly up at her and said, “But that is why I am here, Dear Lady. I am Prince Charming. I have been destined since birth to marry you, Princess Gwendolyn Mostfair, and to rule this Kingdom.” He let the smile fall on the audience again to a chorus of “Ohhhs” and “Ahhhs,” and then dropping the smile, he nodded his head over at Will. “I declare that this peasant is not and cannot rightfully be King. That crown is mine, and I am the only one in this land worthy of you, Princess.”
“But—but,” the Princess stuttered, “what about your peasant girl, Elizabeth Pickett? Have you not declared your undying love for that tramp?”
The attention of everyone in the room, Gwendolyn included, was totally focused on him now. He risked a quick glance at Liz and Elle, who were now, step by ever so cautious step, creeping closer to the Princess. A minute, no more, and they would be ready. “Elizabeth Pickett?” He said the name with derision and prayed that Liz would understand. “She was a tryst, a conquest of no consequence. A man of my position and stature is expected to have many such adventures. True, I thought if I wooed and disgraced her that it would prove once and for all the absurdity of William Pickett’s fraudulent claim to nobility, but to believe that she meant anything to me is laughable.” He laughed—a playful sound that titillated the assemblage with its delightful wickedness and hidden suggestio
ns.
“I don’t believe you,” she said harshly. “Take him away!”
The guards seized him roughly and pulled him to his feet. Gwendolyn began to turn back to the priest. He needed more time, just a little more time. A sudden, wicked thought came to him. “Before you throw me in the dungeons,” he said in his most Charming voice, “I have a last request.”
“And why would I grant a last request to the man who tried to ruin MY wedding?” Gwendolyn asked.
“Because if I cannot have you, then at least I wish to give you a wedding present.” He swallowed as the shadowy face beneath the veil stared at him suspiciously. “I wish to grace you with my final couplet.”
Elle and Liz were now just behind her.
“Couplet?” said Gwendolyn. “Fine, make a fool of yourself. It will be good to remind everyone of who you really were.”
At an unseen command from the Princess, the guards released him and he fell to one knee. He cleared his throat to hide his gasp of pain. He placed one hand over his heart and with the other gestured grandly.
“Never have I seen such beautiful eyes,
Or woken to discover such pure bliss.
Not for riches or titles would I exchange,
That timeless moment of true love’s first kiss.”
Gwendolyn fell silent. “That wasn’t couplet.”
Charming smiled back, dropped one hand to the hilt of his sword, and tensed his body. “And it wasn’t for you. Now!” he shouted.
A screech came from Gwendolyn as Liz and Elle sprang at her, clawing at the bouquet. The flowers flew apart in a rain of pink and red and white, and, for a second, the three women disappeared into a confused wash of pink and cream satin. Charming tried to jump to his feet and felt something tear in his side, and then a brilliant light flared and Gwendolyn’s voice rang out, “STOP!”
The struggle was over. A strong smell of burnt spice hung in the air of the chapel. Charming looked about in disbelief. Everyone but he and the Princess had simply frozen. It was as though the entire chapel was a painted canvas that the two of them were walking through. The Princess gathered herself and threw back her veil, revealing a hag’s face of creases and shadows, in her hand the fairy ball glittered like a torch. She reached down with her other hand and ripped the veils off Elle and Liz and chuckled to herself. “So, this was your plan—pathetic.”