“Let’s use the Brave Little Tailor instead. Goldi will find us some nice, boring colors to use.”
“Great. I can’t wait.”
He put his arm around my shoulder. “We don’t have to have a baby right now, CeCi, we just need to look like we could.”
“I know.” But I was lying again. I don’t understand. Why can’t we just tell the king and queen that we may never be ready to have a child?
“Are you sure there’s nothing else?” he asked. “You seem so distracted.”
Edmund says that sometimes you have to fudge the truth in order to avoid hurting people. That’s what we’re doing to his parents. I suppose that’s what I’m doing by not telling him about the classes. I just have to find the right time, and that time is not now.
You told me a long time ago that you were loved too much when you grew up in the tower—kept too precious. And I get that. But after my mother died, I was so lonely. Every day I wished that something or someone would come and take me away from it all. I dreamed of being somewhere, someplace else—maybe even like Rory, asleep, safe, full, warm, loved. But most of all, I dreamed of being wanted.
I swore back then that I’d never cause a child to depend on love that I couldn’t guarantee. Life so often deals indelible losses through no fault of our own. I didn’t want to let a kid down or disappoint them or fail them, or leave them frightened and hopeless.
When I see children like we did at the Magic Castle, I remember all the things I felt at that age—all that raw, directionless emotion—and it’s terrifying. I recognize the resentment and confusion and all the boundless hoping and dreaming, when really, the future is nothing but a sparkling, pre-laid path to be painstakingly minded.
I can’t be the one to tell a child that her world hinges upon the imagination of Humans and that we barely influence our own destinies. And furthermore, restrict consumption of ice cream and cupcakes. I don’t know how you do it, Zell. Motherhood seems insurmountable.
I’m fortunate that Edmund doesn’t want to be a parent, either. He doesn’t want to dictate anyone’s life, forcing costume galas and riding lessons and hunting rifles onto hapless young things. But soon we’ll have to answer our subjects’ questions. If we don’t answer them honestly, won’t we borrow trouble down the road?
I think if we just explained ourselves, we could make people see we’re being responsible. There are lots of people who know they do want to be parents. Like Rory, who’s been trying to get pregnant since she woke up. I wish it would happen for her. Maybe the problem stems from an excess of sleep. Maybe it’s Henry. Maybe she’s trying too hard or not hard enough.
Come to think of it, maybe we can ask Figgy to help. It’s the least she can do. Whether or not you believe Bianca’s claim that Figgy’s addendum of Henry to Rory’s Pages wasn’t binding, Figgy owes Rory for saddling her with that idiot. I’ve had my quibbles with Figgy. (Rory and Bianca keep telling me that the birds she sent to help me prepare for Edmund’s ball were a lovely gesture. But they didn’t have to clean up all the bird shit afterward. And don’t even get me started on the starlings that attacked Darling and Sweetie at my wedding.)
But I’ll forgive and forget for Rory’s sake. We need some sort of potion, and Figgy knows how to make one.
Love,
CeCi
Important Fucking Correspondence from Snow B. White
Onyx Manor
West Road, Grimmland
Z,
So, I’m sitting at Shambles with a couple of the dwarves and we’re reminiscing over old times in the cabin in the wood, arguing over who folded the best origami napkins and how Ben was constantly nailing “No Soliciting” placards onto the house for my benefit. CeCi stomps in looking purposeful. Max and Tripp finish their martinis and excuse themselves so they can head off to pick out a new end table at Three Bears Antiques.
CeCi barely registers their departure, sliding into a stool on the other side of me and brushing the peanut shells from the table. I pour her a cider from my pitcher and she drinks it down in two big gulps. She shovels a few pretzels into her mouth, drinks half of another glass, and lets go a rather large belch.
“Bianca,” she says. “You’ve taught me something.”
“Certainly not table manners.” I drop a pile of paper napkins in her lap. “But do tell.”
“It’s good to be proactive.”
“Okay,” I say, eyeing her cider. “How many of these did you have before you came over?”
“It’s good to be brave, Bianca. To keep moving.” She draws a line in the air with her palm. “I worked my whole childhood and, even though I was miserable, I knew my purpose. Now, I’m not miserable. Fine, I’m a little miserable. Because I have no purpose. Yet. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to tell anyone how much Cordon Bleu means to me.”
I am momentarily relieved that her behavior seems to be some crisis of gratitude. “It’s no big deal. You know, I wanted to explore Outside, anyway.”
“I’m serious, Bianca. Your being brave helps me be brave.”
“Seriously, stop it with the gushing or I’ll cut you off.” I slide the already empty pitcher of cider away from her.
“You know how I hate kids?”
“There we go,” I say, slapping the table. “That’s more like it.”
She gives me a shove. “You know what I’m saying, like how I don’t want kids?”
“Yes. I am acutely aware.”
“You know how Rory really wants kids?”
“Are we playing a game of Twenty Questions We Already Know the Answer To?”
She flaps her hands in frustration. “Come on, Bianca.”
“Then yes. I’d have to be deaf not to know both yours and Rory’s stance on child—”
“I can help. We can help.”
I laugh. “I’m pretty sure that’s not how sex works, CeCi.”
“Get your mind out of the gutter. We can go to Figgy.”
Neither of us is a big Figgy fan, so I am less than enthused. “How’s Figgy going to help?”
“Fertility potion,” she says, and sweeps the pretzel crumbs into a neat pile. “Figgy saddled Rory with Henry, so she should make things right.”
I grit my teeth. I’ve tried, for Rory’s sake, to drop the subject of her revised Pages. Seems to me Fred’s banishment more than paid for his mistake, so why did Rory need new Pages at all? She wakes up. The end. No need to intimidate the populace or perpetuate the importance of Fate. Message received: Don’t fuck with the Pages.
Figgy seems to have replaced one trial with another—Rory escaped death but now she has to deal with Henry—and you’ll never convince me that the change was real or binding. I’m sure it was the result of some quarrel between the Fairy Godmothers (who, incidentally, make me glad I don’t have any sisters).
CeCi derails my train of thought. “I know what you’re thinking, Bianca. But this time Figgy can give her some actual help.”
“You’re the one who hates Figgy with, and I quote, ‘the fire of one thousand suns.’”
She resumes tearing a paper napkin to bits. “We can take the high road for Rory’s sake, can’t we? When we go see Figgy, you have to tone it down a little, too.”
“If you’ll remember, Cecilia, Figgy dismissed us last time because you said if you ever saw one of her birds again you’d ‘put them on a rotisserie.’”
She throws the napkin pieces at me. “Well anyway, I’m sure that’s all blown over by now. Let’s keep it that way.”
I think about pressing her, but I decide I’d like to see what happens. “Figgy’s expensive,” I say. “Do you have enough worms?”
“I’ll get them.”
“How?”
“Tiaras.”
“Just gonna hawk ’em?”
“Why not?”
“Lucinda will have a thou
sand reasons why not,” I say.
She shrugs and shoves another handful of pretzels into her maw. “She promised not to meddle. Signed an agreement, even.”
I let the Lucinda issue drop, but I still can’t understand why she’s picked up Rory’s cause so fervently. “So you just woke up and decided that Rory needs to be knocked up?”
“Everyone’s attention is elsewhere.” Her mouth is still half full of pretzels. I have no idea why this brainstorm has obliterated her etiquette. “We’ve been wrapped up in subterfuge and getting Outside. Not to mention your wedding. Rory’s lost in the tumult. Maybe that’s why she got so upset with Maro. It’s time we made her a priority.”
I think Rory gave Maro a wine bath because Maro is a meddlesome bimbo who’s bound to cause trouble and, even though Rory doesn’t know that’s why she doesn’t like her, that’s why she doesn’t like her.
Regardless, we set a date to go see the big bird on Friday. As soon as we come to an agreement, CeCi stomps out as bafflingly as she stomped in. Everyone’s going nuts. There must be something in the water.
And speaking of nuts, I’m sure Jason will get used to the country, eventually. It sounded like a good idea to him when you moved, right? I’m assuming you did discuss it together at length like responsible adults before you decided to go, did you not?
Change is hard. He doesn’t have William or Edmund around to blow off steam with. I bet there isn’t a Shambles within stumbling distance. How long has it been since he’s shot magical arrows at something? You’ll have to give him some time. He’ll see the beauty in it someday, even if the dirt under his nails is looking ugly right now. And if he doesn’t come around to loving the place, he’ll at least be able to see how happy it makes you. I bet it makes you as happy as getting a letter from your estranged friend who moved to Oz! I got one, so I’m going to go celebrate.
Wish us luck at Figgy’s. We’ll almost certainly need it.
B
Princess Briar R. Rose
Somnolent Tower Castle
South Road, Grimmland
Dearest Zell,
CeCi, Bianca, and I had a lovely lunch at Gretel’s Café today. Hansel traveled Outside recently, scouring Human supermarkets for new ingredients, and so there are quite a few new things on the menu. Gretel has come to favor something called ketchup, and while it’s delicious, I think maybe not quite so many things should be made with it, pies in particular. It’s a very pretty tomato color, and I will admit it goes well with fried potatoes.
Bianca ate quite a lot of it. I told her that she should be careful lest she not fit into her wedding dress and she held up her middle finger at me, like the motor coach men did when we arrived at the Magic Castle. I’ve gathered that it’s a gesture that means that the gesturer does not like what one has said or done and plans to disregard it. Or that the gesturer plans to consume your potatoes as well as hers and ask for another bottle of ketchup. One guess is as likely as the other.
I told CeCi and Bianca about the tea I planned with Maro. CeCi didn’t say very much, and Bianca told me to cancel the date. Actually, she commanded it. But I’m finished letting Bianca boss me around. I am going to embrace my own decisions. When I don’t like something, they fall in love with that very same thing. When I change my mind, they change theirs back. While amusing for them, I find the exercise completely draining. I’m sure they didn’t think I saw them walking away after lunch, heads bent together in secret, not sparing a single thought of how that must have felt to me.
I wonder if you know how lonely it is to have once been a part of a group and then suddenly feel as if you aren’t a part of it anymore—as if you’ve missed out on the joke and it floats around you constantly like a bee ready to sting. I can’t say I like the feeling at all. I’m sure they’d tell me it’s all in my head or that I’ve misinterpreted things or that I’m just plain wrong. You may even agree. But that won’t make it any better. I feel as if I’ve been left behind, and yet I’m still standing right here.
If I’m honest, I suppose I’ve felt that way ever since I woke up.
That’s why my new bulldog, Snoozer, is the perfect companion for me—he is a champion sleeper. He’s fat and brown and not yet grown into his skin. I’ll have the court artist paint a small picture to include in my next post. You’ll have to excuse my handwriting; he’s chewing on the other end of my quill as I write.
Tonight I’m auditioning cellists for the wedding, and after that I have scheduled relations with Henry. I miss you, Zell, and I hope you’re doing all right with all the chaos life is throwing at you. I’m sure Jason will find a way to repair the house and the barn and the well. We’re very lucky not to have witches or farmhouses falling out of the sky here in Grimmland. Don’t worry, the kids will stop fighting and so will the unicorns. This is your dream and, according to CeCi, dreams never come easily.
Love,
Rory
The Blank Pages of Her Life
From the Desk of Cecilia Cinder Charming
Crystal Palace
North Road, Grimmland
Dear Zell,
Worms are disgusting. In a big pile, they look like raw meat, and they don’t smell much better, either. I traded the fisherman’s wife an old tiara for two baskets. Edmund won’t notice, but Lucinda most definitely will. I’ll have to worry about that later.
Figgy’s tree looks bigger than ever, if you can believe it. The woodcarver put new stairs in since we’d been there, which was good because things were getting a bit dicey if you ask me. Bianca brought a bottle of ketchup as a gift, a condiment for worms. When I told her she was bizarre, she told me that my trap was flapping and I should shut it.
Figgy has switched her sentinels from those crested blue jays to a bunch of fat robins. Inspection was quicker than usual and we were hustled into her grand living room. She’s obviously been doing quite well these past few years.
“Who, who, who comes to visit today?” said Figgy, swiveling her head from her desk to us as she threw out her traditional greeting. She’s greyer than she used to be, her plumes a bit shaggy around the edges. But those round, sharp eyes are as clear as ever. “Ah, well. If it isn’t my two favorite princesses.”
Bianca wheeled around. “Where?”
Figgy burst into laughter as she rose, wrapping us in her wings.
“And Miss Cecilia,” Figgy said, composing herself. “What is it that you’ve brought me?”
“Half is a present and half is a payment for services to be rendered,” I said.
“I see,” she said, taking a basket on each wing and setting them to the side. “Many thanks—”
“And I brought you some ketchup to try with your meal,” Bianca added. Figgy shut one eye as she examined the bottle.
“We’re here about Rory. Briar Rose,” I said. I didn’t want to spend any more time in her warm living room than we had to. A music box tinkled its melody into the room, making things seem even more cloying.
“Briar Rose’s Pages are finished,” Figgy said, returning to her desk. “What could she possibly need from me?”
Bianca glowered. “She needs your help, Figgy.”
“But the birds have told me no such news. She has followed the path, my dear.”
I can understand how Figgy was chosen to be the Keeper of the Pages. Solace welcomes new information as it streams through the portals, but Fairy Godmother Figueroa does things strictly by the book. And Grimm help us when there’s no book.
“I’m sure you know she wants children,” I explained. “But things, they aren’t working.”
“What things specifically?” asked Figgy.
“Well, I—I’m not sure exactly,” I stammered. “But she’s not getting pregnant.”
“How do you know what sort of assistance she needs, then?”
“I don’t. I don’t know that.” I willed myself to stop blush
ing.
Bianca rolled her eyes at me. “Are you saying you won’t help her?”
Figgy sat back down at her desk, chuckling to herself. “Oh, no, my dears. I didn’t quite say that.”
“Can’t you make a potion? Perhaps a fertility potion or an elixir of romance,” I suggested.
“I can indeed. But a potion might not be the solution to her troubles.”
“The spell Malice used when she put Rory to sleep—did it damage her, you know, insides?” I asked.
“She has aged, my dears, but not so much so that she is unable to have children. Is this what has you in such a state? I have half a mind to tell the Post to cease delivery of all those fatuous magazines.”
Bianca was holding her chin with one hand, and her other arm folded over her chest.
“What?” I growled under my breath. “I can see your clockwork smoking from here.”
“Maybe Figgy’s trying to tell us something.”
“What is it, Figgy? Just tell us.” My voice went a little hoarse.
Figgy looked into my eyes. “My dear, it takes two, does it not?”
Bianca began to pace. “I knew it! I heard he’s been messing around with at least three of the Waltzing Wandas, and they aren’t pregnant, either.”
“Who told you that? But they could have—” Figgy looked flustered. “Now girls, you know I never lay blame.”
But she had implied it. I wondered if Rory had considered that the problem was Henry’s. Knowing her, she’d still find a way to blame herself.
Bianca shrugged. “If he’s shooting blanks, then give us something for him instead.”
“Is that wise, my dear,” said Figgy, “considering his, ah, indiscretions?”
I flopped down in an overstuffed chair. “Shit.”
“There, there,” said the old owl. She made a slight movement with her head, and two tiny canaries delivered me a handkerchief and a cup of tea. I tried to wave them off. “I don’t want any of this, Figgy.”
Letters to Zell Page 6