I’d love to write more, but my presence has been requested at the Swinging Vine. I will try to be polite to Maro, despite the fact she makes my skin crawl. I know you’d say to avoid her, but that means I’d have to avoid everyone. Please come back so things can be normal again.
Love,
Rory
From the Desk of Cecilia Cinder Charming
Crystal Palace
North Road, Grimmland
Dear Zell,
If you had bet me a thousand golden goblets, I’d have never guessed that Rory had the capacity to pour a drink over anybody’s head. Maybe there’s more going on with her than I thought. Regardless, our Sleeping Beauty officially has it out for the new girl.
Maybe it’s just Rory’s way of missing you. Or she’s scared that I’m trying to replace you. Which is silly. What harm can possibly come of making new friends? When I saw Maro downtown at Gretel’s buying bread, she seemed so lonely. Or maybe tentative. Or indecisive. Who knows? But I asked her to the luncheon, and she came. Unlike others who will remain unnamed, she did not complain about my two-soufflé menu.
Maybe you’ll understand Maro a bit better if I describe her to you. She’s got a toothy smile and a deep laugh. Her hair is that chestnut type of brown that all of us envy, but none of us have—you and I too blond, Rory and Bianca too dark. There’s something mysterious about her that I can’t quite put my finger on, something interesting, even shadowy. But we’ve only just met and I suppose I shouldn’t rush to judgment. Even though she and Rory didn’t get along terribly well at the luncheon, I had no idea things would get even worse.
Maro’s most notable fault, I’d say, is that she’s a tad overly affectionate. She’s constantly clutching my arm or Bianca’s shoulder. She plants kisses on lords and ladies and winks madly at anyone who passes by. Last night, she even tried her cleavage on DJ when we were having drinks at the Swinging Vine. He shook his head and said, “Honey, you are barking up the wrong tree.” I imagine he and Rolf had a good laugh at that one when he got home—being hit on by the loudest pair of shoes in Grimmland.
Meanwhile, Rory was whispering loudly to me that women like that “can’t ever be trusted.” I asked her how she knew and she told me that all of her romance novels said so. I told her I’d take it under advisement, but I also told her to relax.
I thought maybe things would settle down afterward, but I should have known better. Maro had just finished her exchange with DJ when she sat back down and asked how long Rory had been awake.
“Five years,” Rory answered. I know she hates the topic, though I was still surprised when she drained her wineglass.
“Do you miss your friends from back then?” Maro gave a pitying smile.
“Of course. But I know most of them lived full lives.”
“What do you mean, most of them?”
“Well, some of them. I don’t like to talk about . . .”
“Oh my dear, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I merely wanted to hear the story. The curse. The daring rescue. The intrigue!”
“Intrigue?” Rory’s mouth was hanging open a bit. Mine, too.
“The kiss, darling. The kiss! It’s the most romantic story of all time!”
Bianca snorted. “Of all time?” She folded her arms in on herself in that indignant pose she takes. “No one actually gets woken up by a kiss, you know. That’s all embellishment by the Humans.”
“Oh, it’s just a figure of speech,” Maro said, waving a lazy hand at Bianca, who by this time was scowling.
“Henry came into the castle as I was waking up. I was still pretty out of it. It’s not that big of a deal,” Rory mumbled.
“Heavens, I hope you don’t let him hear that.” Maro gave a husky laugh, drawing her hand to her collarbone in dismay.
“Whatever do you mean?” asked Rory.
“No man wants to hear how unimpressive he is.”
“I didn’t say he was unimpressive. I simply pointed out that I was already awake. That maybe it wasn’t quite the big production everyone makes it out to be.”
“What a quaint little thing you are,” said Maro, leaning back. Rory looked up and her eyes had changed from grey to bright blue—you know, like they do when she gets super pissed off—and in one smooth motion, she grabbed my wine and poured it over Maro’s head.
Maro was prying, sure. I should have seen the conflagration coming. But I didn’t.
Rory made for the door. Bianca got up to follow her, but first she stopped, got right in my face, and said, “You. This is your fault. Fix it.”
I guess I’ll have to keep them apart, at least until they call a truce. I never wanted that from my friendships—little cliques and alliances. Secrets. Secrets from friends, secrets from Edmund. I thought it might be easier to tell him about the classes once I’ve graduated, but now I’m not so sure. What do you think, Zell?
Thank you for writing that nice long letter. I’m sorry that we’ve all put so much pressure on you to write, but it’s because we love you, and we assume the worst when we don’t hear anything. I’m glad you’ve found a new tutor for the children and very sorry Dorothy isn’t working out in the gift shop. I’m sure you’ll be better off finding a new helper. She had no right to drink all your hot chocolate then say the preserve was “worse than Kansas”—whatever that means.
I’m sure Jason doesn’t have any feelings for her, either. But probably the worst thing you can do is assume guilt and push him away without telling him why. If you have any doubts, talk to him. Figure out why it feels that way in reality or in perception. Has he really changed? Have you? Or are you simply still smarting from her insults? Try to take a step back from things. It’s very hard for us to give you advice from so far away, but we support you and love you, no matter what.
Love,
CeCi
Important Fucking Correspondence from Snow B. White
Onyx Manor
West Road, Grimmland
Z,
You might want to make a note of this confession, because it will likely never happen again: I think I was wrong.
At first I thought our new pal Maro was all free spirit and traveler extraordinaire, just like me. But there’s definitely something else up with her. She has no destination beyond Grimmland, and she isn’t particularly eager to get back on the road, either. She’s nosy. And those terrible clogs she wears—what is she thinking? I’m not sure I like having her around, but I made fun of Rory for not being nice to her and now I have to try not to be a fucking hypocrite.
I asked the dwarves if there’d been any scuttlebutt about Maro’s husband, Prince Albert, or any recent news out of Swan Lake. Then they asked how many months it had been since I read the Tattler. They did not care when I told them I had far more important literature to consume of late. Anyway, they said Swan Lake’s palace had been in disarray even before Maro’s arrival—a spate of fake princesses trying to win the hand of the prince. Maro proved her pedigree by finding that preposterous pea in her bed. Word is she’s been high maintenance ever since.
There has to be more to the story, but you can only trust dwarves to investigate rumors so far. It’s why they love both mining and the Tattler—once they get to the shiny part, they get to quit digging.
What I need is Swan Lake’s finest source of gossip. Lucky for me, she happens to have been my bunkmate at Mary’s Little Lambs Sleepaway Camp. Not only is Odette a duchess, she’s also Prince Albert’s cousin. She’ll be sure to fill in the blanks.
I don’t have any more time to waste on Maro because I have a fucking wedding to plan. William is annoyed that I’ve asked all of the dwarves to be in the wedding party. CeCi says she wishes she could cater the wedding—in disguise, of course. (I told her absolutely not, never, ever, no. At least not until she knows how to make more than soufflés.) And Rory’s been missing in action.
I suppose Rory can be forgiven for wanting to hide after that whole pouring wine over Maro’s head debacle. CeCi wants to believe they’re even, but I say Maro had it coming with all that “intriguing kiss” nonsense.
Perhaps the most maddening development of late is that I’ve been informed that whatever punishment I choose for Valborg, it will need to be carried out on my wedding night.
Yes, you read that correctly. The Fairy Council expects me to execute my stepmother on what is supposed to be the happiest night of my life. I guess I should stop being hyperbolic because there’s no way it would have been the happiest night of my life even without the meting out of random justice. But still, a wedding reception is supposed to be a goddamned party.
It seems like everyone else’s Pages were a lot easier to finish. All of you got married, the end. No crime and punishment following your nuptials. There was the accidental mauling of Darling and Sweetie at CeCi’s wedding, but that was because Figgy lost control of her stupid birds, right?
I think about Rory’s Pages a lot. I mean, how do we know which parts are real and which parts Figgy added in? What if all this means nothing and all this pageantry—pretending I care what the rest of Grimmland thinks—is just for show? So what if I get lost Outside? Or in the Realm? (Sorry about the smear, there was a big gust of wind through the window and it blew your letter everywhere.)
Anyway, I’ve proved several times over that I am invincible. Just ask Valborg. You could also ask her simpering mirror, but I already smashed it to pieces and sold the remains to DJ for his new disco floor.
I know all of you think I’m angry and bitter, and you’re right, I am angry and bitter. But not because she tried to kill me. I feel sorry for her. Can you imagine the world being so small that it fits into one pathetic mirror? She doesn’t have any idea that there’s a whole universe out there beyond her skin—the Realm, Outside, and everything beyond that hasn’t been dreamed up yet. All she could see was herself.
We’re all at risk of becoming imprisoned within our own mirrors. By our expectations of ourselves. We are vain or unkempt, bitches or sycophants, mothers or monsters, queens or servants.
I have no interest in pretending I’m better than anyone else. Which is why if I had my way, I’d ship Valborg’s ass to the Snow Queen’s North Pole Psych Ward and be done with this silly vengeance bullshit.
When I think about you leaving and CeCi gathering the courage to follow her dream, I’m angry and bitter that I can’t do what I want to do. That there’s a whole world that defines me and tells stories about me and I am almost completely ignorant of what that world contains.
I’m angry and bitter that I’ve never looked into a mirror and seen my real self staring back. Ugly, pretty, young, old, poisoned, cured—it’s all meaningless until I figure out who I am or maybe who I want to become. Right now, I look in a mirror and I don’t see anyone of any fucking consequence at all.
I’m angry with the part of myself that believes I owe William for saving me. Bitter because he was so agreeable to the compromise I’ve asked of him. I resent these Pages of ours, and I resent the Humans for writing them and Figgy for shepherding them into our lives. This isn’t fair to any of us. I’m not in love with William, but in order to have a semblance of the life I want, we both have to carry on with this sham. I finish my Pages and William gets his father’s crown. We both win.
William knows that I want to travel and he’s told me it’s okay. Not sticking around to be a proper queen to help him rule feels like cheating, though my guilt is self-imposed. He lets me come and go as I please. He plays a mean game of rummy, and he stocks my office with good bourbon. He’s never chosen his parents’ side over mine. He lets me keep my father’s quarters preserved for his return. He laughs at my jokes. He listens to my opinions about the potential annexation of his lands and people west of Grimmland. This is as good as things get, right?
Right?
Speaking of my father, I need to find out where he is. All my letters have been returned unopened. None of the birds can find him. I know he’s been gone awhile—probably got caught up in some small village’s bleeding-heart activism, or maybe he fell in love again. His last letter is dated the day I woke up. He must have just missed me; he probably thought I’d be asleep for a while like Rory. I can’t blame him for taking one of his long, pensive jaunts, like the one he was on when Valborg came unhinged. But I want—no, need—him to be at the wedding. It’s all a part of being the best Bianca I can be under the circumstances, see?
Have you heard anything about him in or around Oz?
William says to let it be. He thinks my father is to blame for Valborg. But my father wasn’t there—and couldn’t have guessed what she’d turn into. Empathy, in this case, is impossible for Will. His family is completely normal.
Good Grimm, your postcards are tacky. How come you can’t send me some real letters? I hear you wrote CeCi a long letter. Then again, you also went to her wedding.
B
Princess Briar R. Rose
Somnolent Tower Castle
South Road, Grimmland
Zell,
I apologize profusely for your concern over what transpired at the Swinging Vine. I don’t know what came over me. I don’t want you to worry a bit or waste a drop more ink on the matter.
In fact, you’ll be proud to know I’ve invited Maro over for tea this afternoon to try and begin our association all over again. A brand new start. I’m going to serve her lunch in the tower so that she can see just how “intriguing” the whole sleep affair was. I haven’t been up there since just after I woke up, and I think it would do us both good to have some perspective.
I’ve decided I’ve been taking my frustrations out on Maro because she seems to get the things she desires so easily—freedom, friends, admirers, dresses, et cetera. Look how easily she entered our lives. A proper lady has to prove her pedigree, but Maro inserted herself into our circle and no one said a thing. I’ve decided it has to be because people want to know more about her. She is a walking puzzle, practically brimming with things unsaid—a prime example of that intrigue she seems to like so well. I’ve never had a shred of mystery about me—my whole life has been fodder for the Tattler.
First, it was the plight of a young princess, whose Pages sentenced her to death by spindle prick. Then it was the hubris of Fred, trying to change our future. After that, it was the sleep of the same young princess, while the Fairy Godmothers saved the world from ripping apart. And after Figgy repaired my Pages, Henry’s “bravery” was retold and lauded throughout the land.
I don’t know what came over me when Maro asked me about it. I should have been happy to tell the story the way Figgy arranged it. I’m sure Henry meant to fight through the brambles and wake me up with a kiss. I believe in my Pages, I do. Just because one tiny part didn’t happen the way it was supposed to doesn’t mean that the rest of the Pages are nullified.
My past isn’t Maro’s fault. I have to wrest this unpleasantness from inside of me. What if Henry saw me pouring a drink over someone’s head? He’d be appalled. Or maybe he’d clap and cheer. I don’t think either reaction is what I’m hoping for. What kind of wife and mother (not to mention queen!) does such things in public?
I finally decided on the design for the table decorations at Bianca’s reception. They’re sculptures, and I think you’d like them because there’s something to represent each of us. A soufflé dish (CeCi) is filled with a mountain of pink roses (my favorite flower), and on top sit the toy unicorns you sent. All of this is accented with white ribbons (an allusion to Bianca’s name). I doubt my description is doing the centerpieces justice, but hopefully Bianca will see the symbolism and understand how much we all love her and want her to live Happily Ever After, even if she insists on mucking it all up. Don’t tell her, but I’m glad I don’t have to decorate anything else. All this creativity is taxing.
Oh! I a
lmost forgot to tell you the most important news. I’m going to adopt a pet. You know, for company and character building. As soon as I wake up from my afternoon nap, I’m heading to Pets & Boots. Maybe Puss can set me up with a nice fluffy puppy or a luxuriant kitten or a parrot that I can talk to or maybe a grand, colorful fish in a grand, colorful bowl. I haven’t decided.
I’ll let you know how it goes.
Love,
Rory
From the Desk of Cecilia Cinder Charming
Crystal Palace
North Road, Grimmland
Dear Zell,
Edmund returned from his latest diplomatic summit in Wonderland three days ago. Negotiations on the Bunny Byway unraveled after the Queen of Hearts beheaded several contractors. As you might suspect, we’re both glad he’s back. He slept for the entirety of his first day home, celebrated his homecoming for the duration of the second, and this morning we finished catching up and began discussing the future.
He wanted to know what I thought of the design modifications he’d drawn for the Byway and what I’d been doing while he was away. He asked if Lucinda had refrained from meddling, and if Darling and Sweetie had found hobbies yet. (He finds their moping understandable, yet irritating.) He also told me that his parents would return from their Sea of Dreams cruise in time for Bianca’s wedding, so he wanted to start work on the closest spare room to ours for a nursery.
I felt ill. The test date flashed in my mind, but how could I bring up the classes when we were destined to rehash a very old argument about the nursery? “Fine. I guess I’ll ask Rumple’s to send over some samples.”
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I lied. I tried to look cheerful, but I must have failed. “Maybe I’m just not excited about yet more gold-striped fabric. Grimm forbid they make anything in silver.”
Letters to Zell Page 5