The Heartwood Box: A Fairy Tale

by Lilia Ford

  It occurred to him that Genevieve’s bedroom was nothing like this parlor either. He did not think there was a single picture on the walls, and it was completely free of the expected feminine bric-a-brac: little pillows, favorite dolls, a lacy beauty table. In fact, he might have said it was almost aggressively spare, with only the bed, a wardrobe, and a small bookshelf. The only item of color he could recall was a pretty green spread on her bed.

  Mrs. Miran entered a few minutes later carrying a tray with tea things followed by a small kitchen boy, who staggered under an enormous platter piled with enough cakes, sandwiches, and scones to provision an entire troop.

  Barely a moment later there was another knock on the door. It seemed the queen of light decided to smile upon him today. Mr. Miran entered the room with a stunned expression on his face: immediately behind him was Donal—accompanied by the Black Prince.

  If he’d been less nervous, Damian might have been amused at the sight of the enormous Fae prince, whose very name made the Demon King tremble, sipping tea from a dainty pink cup, nibbling on a bit of jam tart.

  But as he’d hoped, Declan smoothed all problems. His authority and stature were such that no one, least of all the good-hearted Mirans, would dream of opposing anything he suggested. Within minutes, they’d agreed it would be “best” if the marriage took place in a mere two days. Then as if it were completely expected that he would make such arrangements, Declan added, “Derek and Donal, you will split the watch for the next two nights so that Damian may sleep. I do not anticipate any dangers, of course, but it is not the way of the Blacks to leave a bride of our family unprotected under any circumstances.”

  Mrs. Miran stumbled out an apology: unsurprisingly, the tiny cottage contained only a single spare bedroom.

  Declan turned his most forbidding expression on Derek and Donal as if both had loudly complained about the accommodations. “No son of mine would dream of inconveniencing you. Such would be a poor return to those who are entrusting our family with their greatest treasure. You will not give it another thought. They are trained soldiers, accustomed to life on campaign. A chair in the hall outside Miss Miran’s bedroom would be more than generous. The other may sleep on the floor of Damian’s room. You may rest easy that your daughter will be protected. I assure you Derek and Donal are prepared to meet any danger. I trained them myself.”

  And with that, the Fae prince swept away any lingering reservations about Damian’s admittedly outrageous request to be given the key to Genevieve’s room. Both parents were in awe that the great Declan was concerning himself with their daughter’s protection.

  Derek excused himself then to take up his duties, and Mr. Miran abruptly decided that it was still early enough to call upon several neighbors and begin issuing the invitations. Damian suspected he also wished to stop off at the tavern to spread the news that the Black Prince had taken tea in their parlor.

  Damian saw his moment to say, “Sire, the priestess asked to speak with you as soon as you have a free moment.”

  “I’ve no doubt she did,” Declan said with the barest hint of a smile. “We’d best pay our call then.” They gave their thanks and dispersed, he and Declan to the priestess’, and Donal to send a rider to the fortress for their clothes and to let their servants know to begin arrangements for the wedding.

  So twenty minutes later, the two were again taking tea, this time around the large wooden table in the priestess’ kitchen.

  “This is lovely, Maura,” Declan said.

  “Thank you again, Holy One,” Damian said, taking a generous sip.

  The priestess snorted. “Very pretty. We could have had more of these nice manners at the picnic. Declan, you’ve let these boys run wild. I’ve walked my legs off putting out their fires. Next time you do it yourself.”

  The priestess was the only human who would dare speak that way to the Faerie prince.

  “There, there, Maura, I’m sure you haven’t had such an exciting day in decades,” he said good-naturedly.

  “I apologize deeply that my rashness caused you such trouble,” Damian added. “I am greatly in your debt for what you said to Genevieve’s parents.”

  “Were the Mirans uneasy?” Declan asked. “They seemed quite satisfied to me.”

  “The priestess eased their concerns,” Damian said carefully.

  “Concerns was it? What would you call it when Damian shows up at their door, their daughter practically unconscious in his arms, and then demands the key to her bedroom so he can lock her in?”

  “He only did what is necessary, Maura,” Declan said, revealing a little of the ferocity that made him the most feared knight in Faerie.

  The priestess was not cowed in the slightest. “Damian forced things today with her, Declan, rather than let her affections grow naturally over the week.”

  “Damian?” Declan asked.

  Damian bowed his head. “Genevieve hides nothing, sire. I did what you suggested, and I don’t know how to explain it—she submitted to me instinctively, as if she has no ability resist. I couldn’t help myself.”

  “And because she couldn’t resist, her rights were ignored. This is her Bridal Week!” the priestess said angrily. “I’ll tell you bluntly, Declan, I don’t think this promises well for how he’ll treat her once they’re married, and she’s completely in his power!”

  “I agree, he should have waited—it was selfish. But you mustn’t be too hard on Damian. There isn’t a male in our family who would have acted differently—the instinct to claim is too strong. And Maura, just because Damian was selfish doesn’t mean he was also wrong. You and I go through this every time one of mine claims a bride. What you, her parents, or even the girl herself believes is ‘right’ or ‘best’ for her is irrelevant. Ultimately, it comes down to whether you trust the heartwood. The girl belongs with us, and the sooner Damian can claim her, the better—for her.”

  No one had an immediate response to this, and they all sipped their tea in silence for a minute, when Damian found the courage to mention something that had bothered him. “Holy One, Genevieve said something at the picnic—she spoke of troubles and said she feared a demon lived inside her.”

  “Suddenly worried she might not be the docile lamb you thought? Maybe you shouldn’t have forced things with her then,” she said crossly.

  “Maura,” Declan warned.

  She sighed and then went and fetched a basket that sat near the kitchen door. “Declan, I would have you see this.” She pulled out the shawl that Genevieve had left behind at the picnic. “All the girls weave one for the Bridal Week—this is Genevieve’s.”

  Declan examined it carefully, taking in the strange, chaotic design. Finally he said, “Thank you for showing me this, Maura.”

  “Genevieve is troubled. She suffers terribly from dark thoughts, fits of temper followed by uncontrollable despair. She has spent the last few years hiding from the world.”

  Declan took the tiny woman’s hand and said feelingly, “We owe you much for setting aside your own doubts and doing your best to help Damian’s cause. You may put those fears to rest, however, Maura.”

  Damian knelt and said, “I know what you did for us, and I am truly grateful.”

  “Take care of her, Damian. She has had a hard journey. She deserves some happiness.”

  “From the moment her box changed, my son’s first duty became his bride’s happiness. You may trust him.” Declan kissed her cheek. “I will keep this,” he added, picking up Genevieve’s shawl.

  When the two of them were outside, Declan gripped Damian in a strong hug.

  “You’re not angry, sire?”

  “No,” Declan said. “I spoke the truth—not one of us could have held back.”

  Damian wanted to faint with relief. Somehow he had gotten through the most dangerous part; he’d won his lady, reconciled her parents, soothed the priestess, and even managed to introduce Derek to his in-laws. All that was left was to introduce Genevieve to her new family. Declan and Donal woul
d be simple enough. Derek… was a problem for another day.

  “Make time to visit Titania’s Altar. Her priestess did you great service today.”

  “I know she did. I promise I will tomorrow.”

  “It is traditional to unlock the bride’s heartwood box immediately after the ceremony. I will be present.”

  Damian was unprepared for the explosion of primal possessiveness set off by Declan’s words. “My bride’s box is given to my keeping! No man but I will look within it!”

  “You are no boy to reject aid when it is offered!” Declan said fiercely. “You with your vast experience in these matters! You are a Black. You would risk your bride’s happiness over a childish jealousy?”

  “My apologies, sire,” he said, lowering his gaze. An unbearable idea arose. “Do you have some reservation about Genevieve?”

  Declan turned on him in surprise. “Of course not, but you are not ready for every challenge. You need not face them alone—you will not, for both your sakes. Never doubt that you have been blessed in her, Damian.”

  Chapter Six

  Genevieve awoke with the heaviness that accompanies an unusually long sleep. She had no memory of coming to bed and couldn’t fathom why she was wearing only her shift instead of her nightdress. An instinct warned her that it had something to do with Damian Black and their strange scene in the wood.

  Suddenly she needed to know what had happened. She threw a robe over her shift and went to the door, only to discover that she was locked in. She shook the handle loudly until the door was opened by a young man who looked so much like Damian, he could only be another member of the Black family. One of the chairs from the parlor had been placed outside the door. He stood in the door, blocking her from leaving, a warm smile on his face. “Genevieve, you’re awake. I’ll tell Damian.”

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “I am Donal, his brother. Wait in your room, sweetheart. Damian will come for you in a few minutes.”

  And with that, he shut the door again and locked it.

  Genevieve plumped down on the edge of her bed, so astonished she couldn’t even feel angry. As promised, a few minutes later, she heard the key in the lock, and Damian entered without knocking. He shut the door behind him. “Did you sleep well, love?”

  “Damian, what’s happening? Why is your brother sitting outside my door?”

  “My brothers arrived after you fell asleep, and your parents kindly invited all of us to stay here.”

  Genevieve wondered that her mother would agree to host three young men—where on earth would they put them? Then she looked up at Damian suspiciously. “Why was the door locked?”

  Damian gripped her shoulders gently. “Your box changed color, Genevieve, which means you’re mine, my responsibility. It makes no difference that we’re not married yet. It is very important that I know at all times where you are.”

  “So I must be locked in?”

  “Yes, you must, and you must not argue with me about it, darling.”

  He took her chin and tilted her head up so she met his eye. He waited until she made a small nod and then lifted her off her feet and kissed her warmly on the lips. “Good girl. Now get dressed. There’s much to do today.”

  He looked almost giddy with joy, and Genevieve couldn’t help but share it. She reached up and touched his face, this man who would be her husband.

  His gaze softened and on an unexpected impulse, she leaned in and touched her lips to his. “This is real,” she murmured half to herself. “It’s really happening.”

  “Yes it is,” he rasped, holding her at arm’s length. “I’d best go. Don’t be long, darling.”

  It was still her Bridal Week, even if her box had changed. All of her old clothes had been packed away in traveling trunks, and inside her wardrobe were only newly made items, every one in white. At the far end, carefully wrapped, was the wedding dress that she and her mother had worked on over the past year.

  Genevieve chose a simple linen dress with a boat neck, three-quarter sleeves, and wide inverted pleats down the front. It was the one they’d intended for a day of outdoor games and was the plainest of the bunch. She dressed quickly and went to open the door, only to realize it was still locked. She tapped hesitantly, though it seemed foolish that she must ask to leave her own room. Donal was still outside.

  He stood still for a moment staring at her and then said in a rapt tone, “I’ve never seen anything so lovely.”

  She patted her skirts shyly, not sure how to respond.

  Then he winked and said, “I’m sure you need to use the convenience.”

  It took Genevieve a moment to take in what he’d just said, at which point her jaw dropped.

  Donal led her to the small room that held a water closet. She was too stunned to protest, so she went in and took care of her needs.

  He was still outside when she came out again. “The family is at breakfast. May I have the honor?” he said, holding out his arm.

  Genevieve just stared at him. Were all men like this? When she didn’t answer, he gave her an innocent smile and grabbed her arm and led her downstairs to the small dining room.

  Damian and another young man were already at the table along with her mother. Both men stood the moment she entered. Damian put his hand on her back and guided her in. “Darling, may I present my brother, Derek.”

  Genevieve wrestled her brain back to lucidity in order to greet this third brother, who bowed formally over her hand as if she were Queen Titania herself, which made her giggle nervously. But when his head lifted, the laugh caught in her throat.

  No one had ever looked at her like that, as if he were daring her to bolt. She instinctively tried to pull her hand back, but he didn’t release it, as if to make clear that he had her trapped. Genevieve knew she should make some light remark, but she could only stand there blinking like an animal cornered by a hunter.

  It was Donal who broke the spell with an apologetic cough. “I hope my new sister can forgive me if I dig in, but I think I’ll expire if I don’t taste your mother’s sausage pie.”

  There was a general movement then. Derek released her hand and took his seat as Damian held the chair for her. Luckily, there was no pressure for her to play hostess, which gave Genevieve time to recover her equilibrium. Mama spent the next five minutes making sure their guests had enough food, offering to send to the bakery if they didn’t find something to their liking.

  Genevieve felt some pity for her, even as she wanted to laugh. The Blacks were unfailingly polite over a spread that must be lavish by most standards. Mama was an excellent cook and had old-fashioned notions of hospitality that prompted her to awaken hours before dawn so that her table would be worthy of the Black Prince’s family members.

  On offer this morning were baked eggs, three different types of pie—sausage, apple and quince—an entire ham, and a platter of her special sweet-cheese rolls.

  While her mother concerned herself with the guests, Genevieve examined her new family. The three brothers presented an odd triptych: Damian in the middle, confident, friendly, reassuring to her mother, and somehow in command of himself and the room, then on either side his brothers, who each looked like Damian, only in some utterly foreign mood.

  Donal’s eyes were bright with barely suppressed hilarity, his look that of a child who has just stolen the tarts off the tea tray beneath his mother’s nose. Derek, for his part, sported a ferocious scowl that would have been better suited to a duel with the Demon King himself than breakfast at Mama’s table.

  As she looked she noticed other, subtler differences. Donal’s hair had a slight curl, unlike his brothers’, which was poker straight. Derek wore his hair longer than the other two, with bangs that fell over his forehead obscuring his eyes, which only made him seem more off-putting. Despite his scowl, she noticed that his lips were fuller than his brothers’—almost sensual, though she quickly put aside such an improper thought.

  Without question, they were all extraordinari
ly handsome—and so large they seemed in danger of splintering the small dining chairs. There was a dissonance to their very presence in this room with its pale yellow walls and pink chintz curtains.

  Genevieve’s observations were interrupted by her mother’s concerned cry. “Jenny! You’ve barely taken a bite! And you missed supper, too! You’re going to waste away!”

  “Mama,” she hissed, blushing fiercely to have the old argument aired in front of her new family, especially when she realized that all three Black brothers had turned their attention fully on her.

  “I’m afraid you missed lunch as well—thanks to me,” Damian said apologetically.

  “What!” Derek burst out to everyone’s surprise.

  “Oh Jenny! You missed lunch!” her mother cried, now completely alarmed.

  “I’m not… I wasn’t… I don’t eat that much.”

  “Is she difficult in her eating, Mrs. Miran?” Donal asked in a sympathetic tone that to Genevieve’s ear also contained a hint of irony that would be lost on Mama.

  It seemed her new brother understood his mark. It was a favorite topic, and her mother immediately launched into a lengthy, detailed litany of her daughter’s poor appetite, the many times they’d sent for the healer on the theory that Jenny suffered from indigestion (which she emphatically did not!), the long periods she’d been forbidden her favorite drink of water brightened with sliced lemons, the bland dishes she’d been forced to eat (as if she were an infant!), finishing up with Mama’s favorite lament about its effect on “Jenny’s beautiful figure,” until Genevieve thought she’d die of embarrassment.

  Donal’s face was the picture of concern, but again Genevieve easily detected the mirth lurking beneath. She was right, the scoundrel had known! And he’d probably been mocking her about using the water closet as well! She felt a sudden urge to empty her water glass on his head.