by Laura Kenyon
Question three: If released on bail, in her honest opinion, would Donner pose a danger to himself or to others?
Belle thought for a moment. She didn’t want to look at him again, but couldn’t help it. His reaction to the question might help her answer. And in her honest opinion, he looked like someone who would await his trial in the basement of Braddax Castle—possibly chained by his own hand to the cellar wall.
“I don’t think so,” she said, following Rapunzel’s advice to talk as little as possible. The pens took off again.
“How can you possibly say that?” the prosecutor hollered.
“Objection!” declared Donner’s lawyer.
“Sustained,” agreed Judge Ford. “I haven’t set a date for the trial yet, Mr. Garrett. This isn’t the time for cross-examination. At least not by you.” She cleared her throat, intertwined her fingers and focused on Belle once again. “Now, Mrs. Wickenham. Given the charges and what you experienced Friday night, what makes you so sure the defendant is not dangerous? Let me remind you that nothing is being decided right now except the wisdom of setting Mr. Wickenham free on bail. You simply need to convince me one way or the other on that point.”
Belle’s heart was beating so fast, she feared it might take flight any minute. Between the wheelchair and the wide open room and the lack of a witness stand, the only way she could feel more vulnerable was if she was stark naked. Ironically, aside from Kirsten, the greatest comfort she could find came from Donner.
Their eyes locked once more, and this time she didn’t let go. She swam in them, needing to know whether it was him or the curse that lost it the other night, needing to know whether he would lose it again.
Suddenly, the scribbling reporters disappeared. The pearly white teeth faded away. The crinkling of papers and shuffling of chairs and hum of the air vents dissipated into nothingness. All that remained was Belle and the man who both tormented and loved her—for better and for worse. The man who, to her, was gentler as a beast and more beastly as a man. He was a lost soul from the moment she met him, always struggling to make up for something—his appearance, his impurities, his inability to father a child.
She couldn’t blame the neglect on the reemergent curse, or the repression. The curse hadn’t made him hop into bed with her sister and then skewer Belle’s reputation while she grieved. But deep down, she believed it was the driving force behind what happened Friday night—much more than jealousy towards Gray or the fear of losing his family. Sure, he would have taken a swing at Gray even without magical interference. He might even have broken his nose—or his arm. But he would have backed down after a quick pop of anger, just like he did at Letitia’s party four months earlier.
Belle continued to stare as Donner pressed his lips together—two light pink pillows with a line carved down the middle—then let them spring apart. His dark curls shook ever so slightly as he clasped both hands together and leaned forward onto his table. The metal from his handcuffs clinked against the wood, and she thought about how he’d always wanted to introduce them into their foreplay.
I always wanted to break out the handcuffs with you, she could hear him thinking, but this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.
Why couldn’t you just be good? she thought back, knowing this was happening entirely in her head. Rich. Powerful. Gorgeous beyond description. The perfect fairy tale prince. But so, so troubled. So dark.
As she focused, one of his curls fell, obscuring his left eye. He didn’t bother to shake it off. She felt her throat tighten.
“Mrs. Wickenham?” The judge’s tone was impatient. Donner leaned back in his seat, shackles in his lap. “Do you two need a room or would you mind answering the question?”
Belle panned the audience again. None of the Riverfell royals had come out. Nor had Gray.
“I’m sorry,” Belle said. “What was the question again?”
All eyes focused on her. Pens clicked expectantly. Cameras prepared to flash.
Judge Ford sucked her cheek inward. “I said it’s easy to sit there and release a potentially dangerous man to the public knowing you’ll be safe behind the walls of this hospital, with thirty-five floors of guards between you and the outside world. What are your plans for r—”
“Oh,” Belle interrupted, prompting a soul-melting scowl from the woman in charge. “Sorry. I expect to be discharged tomorrow afternoon.” A deep breath came. Then a frigid, camouflaged panic. “Does that make a difference?”
* * *
No sooner had Judge Ford’s gavel smacked the wood than Belle was zooming back down the hallway, hanging onto both the armrests and Kirsten’s promise that she’d get them back upstairs before the media caught up.
“I know a shortcut,” Kirsten huffed, her breath already short. “We can take the staff elevators. There’s one just around this—”
“Belle!”
Kirsten gasped and sped up, taking the corner like a twelve-year-old with a shopping cart. But her pursuant was about ten years younger and fifty pounds lighter. Belle heard her name again, then pant legs scraping together. She saw the flash of a neck lanyard. A press pass. Frizzy brown hair. The chair screeched to a halt.
“Wow, you never get tired of running, do you?” Matilda Holt gasped, wilting over her. She was clutching a notepad, which gave Belle an instant feeling of déjà vu—only instead of Second Avenue, they were in a hallway. And instead of being secretly pregnant, she was … secretly not.
“Wow. You have no idea how happy I am to see you,” Matilda continued, mistaking their one previous encounter for a lifelong friendship. “I was so scared when the news broke Friday night. But I knew you’d be okay. She’s stronger than she looks, I said. Delicate but rock hard, I said. And now here you are, once again showing the world how much better you are than that brute in there. But really—forgiving him like that? After what he did? How did you come to that conclusion?” Matilda paused, waiting for an answer worthy of the front page. Waiting for Belle to contradict everything she’d just told the judge.
But Belle wasn’t in the mood for granting exposé interviews at the moment—even ones that had been prearranged by a devious, conniving fairy. She was too busy coming to terms with what she’d just promised. She was too busy trying to figure out how she could still be there for Rye if the sun rose tomorrow and Gray hadn’t yet found those rings.
“Are you going to breastfeed?”
Belle balked at the strange question. “Excuse me?”
Matilda lowered her notepad. “Too personal? Sorry. I thought you might prefer to open with baby plans.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Hazel did talk to you about the interview, right?”
“She did,” Belle replied, giving an apologetic smile. “But I’m sorry, I—”
“Dr. Frolick is expecting to see her at ten o’clock,” Kirsten interrupted, adjusting her grip on the wheelchair. “Perhaps you can arrange a time to talk after her discharge.”
“Oh,” the reporter said, her eyes bouncing up to meet Kirsten’s but her face still pointed at Belle. She looked confused. “Okay. But my editors are expecting an exclusive interview.”
Belle tried to sweeten her voice. “And you’ll get one. Just—”
“Today?”
Belle smiled but made a fist beneath her blanket. The other reporters were going to come flying down that hallway any minute, and it was clear Matilda wasn’t going to back down. She’d tasted the glory of a front-page scoop and she wanted it again.
“How do you account for your husband’s curse coming back after all this time?” Matilda tried again, hijacking Belle’s full attention. “Do you think it’s because of your separation? Do you blame yourself at all for what happened Friday night? What do you say to those who believe you should be prosecuted for keeping Donner and Hazel’s powers a secret? If the monarchies fall, how much of that do you and Donner take responsibility f—”
“The monarchies aren’t going to fall,” Belle snapped, her head spinning.
&n
bsp; Matilda smiled and circled something in her notes. “So you don’t deny the rumors about Donner’s curse being back.”
“Look,” Belle said, giving Kirsten the eye. “Matilda, I’m happy to speak with you after I leave the hospital, but—”
“Where? When?”
Belle ignored the question. “But for right now I’d appreciate a little—”
“I know about your baby.”
Belle froze. She felt the entire universe suck in at lightning speed and then freeze in a bubble around them—holding on for the final implosion.
She forced a laugh, but not before her eyes began blinking twice a second. “What are you talking about?” she asked, trying to sound unfazed. “What do you know?”
Matilda looked around, then leaned in to answer. But before she could get a word out, a trio of voices sent all three women into a silent panic. In one fluid movement, Kirsten grabbed both the reporter and Belle’s chair, pushed them into a storage closet, and shut the door.
So much for acting nonchalant, Belle thought as her chair bumped into a group of covered bassinets with giant circular holes on each side. She recognized them as neonatal incubators. Cinderella’s youngest, Gregory, had spent nineteen weeks in one a few years ago. He’d arrived five weeks premature, and Belle had never seen her friend so terrified. She and the rest of the girls took turns sleeping at the hospital and planning outings so Cindy and Aaron would never be alone and their three other kids would never be idle enough to wonder what was going on.
As everyone squeezed in between the incubators and a mountain of cardboard boxes, Belle couldn’t help but think about her own son. Incubators were miraculous for infants born after barely twenty-six weeks of gestation. But Belle had barely made it to twenty-three. Without the curse, he wouldn’t have stood a chance. Talk about irony.
Matilda cleared her throat and looked around. “Well, I’m either on to something or you really hate talking to the press,” she said, tapping the side of a box labeled “sterile gauze.”
Belle tried to soften her stare of contempt as she whirled her head around. Matilda had seemed so nice back in May. What happened? Give a girl one big story and she becomes a bloodthirsty addict?
“Look,” Matilda said, lowering her voice and turning away from the door. “Don’t ask me how. I value my sources. But I know you’re having a boy and he’s been measuring off the charts.”
“Off the charts in what way?” Belle took a steady breath and crossed everything she could—fingers, toes, brainwaves. “Is the Mirror soliciting prenatal approval ratings for the election? How does that work? What’s next, a delivery room spread in Maxistam?”
Matilda cracked a disapproving smirk and shook her head. “Please don’t make this any harder than it has to be, Belle. I know he’s growing like you’ve been eating steroids for breakfast every morning. I know he was measuring thirty-three weeks last Thursday—you know, when your coworker rushed you here for ‘food poisoning.’”
Belle cringed. She didn’t want to relive the night she and Gray finally kissed. It was two minutes of bliss followed by days of heartache. And for all she knew, it was also the trigger that bought her husband’s curse back. Allowing herself to fall in love might have knocked her hope for a better life to the ground—and Gray’s refusal to let her go had set the remains on fire.
Finally, Belle pushed herself out of the wheelchair and straightened up on two wobbly legs. “Matilda,” she said, suddenly wary of the entire hospital—Kirsten included. Matilda had gotten her information somewhere, after all, though at least she only seemed to know about the curse—not the birth. “I understand you think you have a huge story here, but I can promise you an even bigger one if you just hold off for a little bit.”
Matilda crossed her arms and squinted. “How big and how long?”
Belle smiled. “The biggest one Marestam has ever seen.”
Matilda hesitated. She bit her bottom lip. She shifted her weight. She surveyed Belle once, then twice, then a third time.
“It involves kidnapping and magic and every level of government—all the way up to the prime minister’s office,” Belle added, laying it on thick.
Matilda’s lips curled involuntarily, but she forced them back down. “An exclusive?”
Belle nodded. “Of course.”
“How long a delay are we talking here?”
Belle thought for a moment. Assuming Rapunzel found Grethel right away and Dawn took—what? a week to bring in Elmina?
“Ten days,” she said.
“Three.”
Belle cringed, but what choice did she have? “Five,” she said. “Five days and I’ll hand you a story that will redefine Marestam forever.”
A cluster of voices passed by the closet as the reporter thought. “Okay,” she finally said. “I think I can hold my editors off for a few days. But they’re going to need something to tide them over.”
Belle sucked on the inside of her left cheek and locked it between her molars. She sat back down and wracked her brain for another juicy secret, but they were all too intertwined to spill. Ruby’s lack of magic would require a massive explanation, and even telling her about Gray would jeopardize Hazel’s involvement with the triad. There was only one that would work—as much as it gutted her.
“What if I told you that Snow White was going to be a mother after all?”
Matilda snickered. “Sure. Maybe when this Monarch Morality movement dies down, but—”
“No. I mean now,” Belle said. “I don’t know all the details, but someone finally came to their senses. She’s getting a baby boy. A sweet, adorable baby boy.”
Matilda’s lips spread wide. Her eyes lit up as she stared at the far wall. “Redemption at the hands of a child,” she said, already brainstorming headlines. “That’s a great story. I always rooted for her, you know. When’s it happening?”
Belle took a deep, shaky breath, and made a mental note to call Snow immediately. “Tomorrow, I think. But you should contact her to be certain.” Matilda rapped the air with her pen. “Bingo,” she said. “Fair trade—so long as I have the biggest story Marestam has ever seen coming down the pike. Your words.”
Belle nodded as Kirsten sidled back to the wheelchair and spun it around. “You will. So long as you don’t breathe a word of what you know about this little guy”—she tapped her empty belly—“to anyone.”
Matilda looked down, then to the side, and nodded. “Of course,” she said, her voice rising half an octave. “Mum’s the word from here on out. Coast is clear. Good luck with the discharge tomorrow. Talk to you Sunday!”
Chapter Eleven
RAPUNZEL
Rapunzel rolled her head along the edge of her seat and stared out the window. The coarse fabric disagreed with her skin. The thick pleather piping jutted uncomfortably into her left eye. And there was a putrid stench of something—stale cheese mixed with antibacterial hand gel, perhaps—that made her want to stop breathing all together.
After languishing in the airport for hours, fielding delay after delay from the never-ending storms, Ethan and Rapunzel finally boarded Sandman Flight 425 a few minutes before midnight. At one point, roughly seven hours into their twenty-hour flight from hell, she actually wished Ruby was sitting beside her instead of Ethan. Magically impotent or not, the fairy’s perfume-soaked hair might have neutralized the air. That, and her boundless negativity seemed much more appealing at the moment than Ethan’s exhaustive efforts to pretend nothing was wrong.
But from where she sat, absolutely everything was wrong.
For starters, where were the bottomless champagne glasses? Where was the hot tub? Where was the aisle wide enough for all sorts of physical acrobatics—with some extra headroom for flinging clothes? Where was the smug millionaire with the capped teeth, private jet, and easy out clause?
“They must have given you kids seats by mistake,” she murmured, struggling to cross her legs without getting them stuck. “I’m going to have a permanent dent in my kn
ee. There’s, like, two inches of space here.” Grunting, she finally grabbed one foot with both hands and shoved. It hit the tiny porthole window then finally dropped down, causing her elbow to lurch back and jab Ethan’s left bicep. “And that’s another thing. Do they think people’s arms are half an inch wide? This is negative elbowroom. This is inhumane.” She glanced at the microscopic vodka bottle shoved into the flimsy plastic cup on Ethan’s tray table, and let out one more grunt of disgust.
“They’re economy seats,” said her travel companion—as she’d specified for two flight attendants, the security official, and the guy who brewed her latte at the gate. “First Class only had one spot under such short notice, and I figured you’d be just as disappointed. No mile high hot tubs in my lifestyle, love. Wish I could say otherwise.”
“It’s fine.” She plucked a magazine out from the seatback pocket, flipped past forty uninteresting pages in one breath, and hurled it back. Then she focused on the tiny washed out media screen in front of her. On it, a swaying cartoon airplane was gobbling up yellow dashes that stretched more than ten thousand miles, over two oceans and an entire continent, to the giant island realm of Stularia. She’d never been there, but knew its size was deceiving. While Marestam could fit inside its water-locked borders almost a thousand times over, only a fraction of Stularia was actually inhabited. That left more than two million square miles of untouchable land, perfect for hiding a reclusive fairy with no need for societal convenience. No wonder Rapunzel could never find her.
“So what’s the plan?” she asked, not eager to converse with Ethan but even less eager to sit in uncomfortable silence. “Do you have an address or something? Should we bring a housewarming gift? Does she know we’re coming?”
“Funny,” he said, popping an almond into his mouth.
“Which part?”
He gave her a sideways glance and held it as his back molars cracked down on the nut. “I don’t have an address. They didn’t have eye of newt in the gift shop. And judging by the fact that I can still see that scowl on your face, I’m guessing she doesn’t know we’re coming.”