Sometimes, Zell, I fear that Henry is not a very nice man, not even deep down. Sometimes, I think that it might not even be my fault that he doesn’t want to spend time with me. Sometimes I think that there isn’t a thing in the world—not a kind word or a deed or a dog or a song or a spell—that would entice him to my side. I must admit that things feel quite hopeless between us. Even when I think I’m doing the right thing it so often turns out to be wrong.
And then I think that sort of cynicism is just Bianca’s overly independent influence.
Do you have any advice, Zell? Can’t you tell me the trick to putting things back together when they seem most bleak? I suppose you’ll tell me to redouble my optimism, like you did after Gothel sent you into the wilderness, so how’s this: I’m going to become the woman he wants to spend time with, whatever it takes. I’ll stay awake more. I’ll attend more functions. I’ll go on hunts. I’ll wear lower-cut dresses and try to be more engaging. I’ll demand to be paid attention to. I’ll request flowers and favors. You’ll see.
As for your own adventures, I’m so glad the third batch of potions worked for Bea’s allergies. Let me see what I can find for Arthur’s rash. It’s so unfortunate he sat in the poison ivy, but that’s the way with boys, or so I hear. Is Jason doing any better adjusting to life in the country? I’m not sure what you mean by “his affinity for the milkmaid.” Perhaps you’re misunderstanding; doesn’t everyone love milkmaids? They’re always so cheerful.
Besides, the two of you are perfect together. Whatever the misunderstanding, I’m sure your love will make it work—that’s the whole point of love, right?
Kisses,
Rory
From the Desk of Cecilia Cinder Charming
Crystal Palace
North Road, Grimmland
Dear Zell,
I saw something and I can’t unsee it. Please write back as soon as you can and tell me what to do.
Earlier this evening, Edmund and I headed to the Swinging Vine to have a glass of wine. Edmund had planned to meet William and the guys at Shambles afterward to challenge Max and Tripp and a few of the other dwarves to a game of billiards.
Once he left, I ordered another drink, hoping to catch up on the latest gossip with DJ before I walked home. I left maybe half an hour later and took the shortcut through the alley.
I was lost in my own thoughts and DJ’s story about how Rolf had a confrontation with Thumbelina over a new set of wings he’d crafted for her. (It’s hard to take her squeaky voice seriously in the first place and apparently even harder when she’s angrily demanding extra sequins.)
The stars were wheeling through the sky, yellow and white, and the crickets were hard at work with their fiddles. It was a soft, warm night with just the right amount of wine and an easy walk ahead.
As I rounded the corner, I heard a thump and a giggle coming from behind the rubbish barrels. I stepped around them to see if everything was all right, and there was Henry pawing all over someone pushed up against the wall. At first I assumed it was Rory because they have those “scheduled relations” nights every once in a while, and she had said something about planning more of them soon. But after I looked away, I realized something about the picture in my mind’s eye was wrong. The other person was too tall to be Rory.
I forced myself to look again and, when I did, I recognized the shoes. Wooden shoes. By then, the woman’s dress was hiked up around her waist and she was starting to make a lot of noise—the kind most of us keep to ourselves.
My stomach began to churn, wine rising into my throat. All this time, Maro has been luring Rory closer and closer with those absurd tea dates neither of them thinks we know about, all so that she can bag her husband. Sick, sadistic twat. Thank Grimm they didn’t see me. I crept backward as quietly as I could and took the swamp lane home. My heart was beating so hard I didn’t even notice the mud.
What am I going to do? How can I get rid of Maro without telling Rory what’s going on? If I don’t tell her and she finds out, she’ll never forgive me. If I tell her she’ll be crushed and never forgive me for bringing Maro into our lives in the first place. Why did I think it would be a good idea to let someone we didn’t know into our circle? Remember when I said no harm could come from making a new friend? What an idiot.
Henry’s nameless, faceless conquests are legion. But Rory thinks Maro is her friend. She opened up her home and her—rightfully—judgmental little heart to this ruthless jezebel.
I should have listened to Rory from the beginning, trusted her instincts.
Instead, I’ve ruined everything.
Love,
CeCi
Painting Her Heart with Dreams
Important Fucking Correspondence from Snow B. White
Onyx Manor
West Road, Grimmland
Z,
Well, here I am thinking my little trip Outside would’ve at least given everyone a chance to relax, but instead, it succeeded in turning both CeCi and Rory into nagging ninnies.
You’d think everyone would be happy because today is the day we sample wedding cakes at Gretel’s. I mean, it’s cake, for fuck’s sake. Who can be sad about that?
They both arrive, and all that seems to be missing are black veils. They exchange strained pleasantries, and CeCi eases into her chair like it’s lined with nails.
I’m positive Rory’s pouting has something to do with that gasbag, Henry. So I quiz CeCi, instead. “What’s your problem, chef?”
“Nothing. Let’s just eat cake like normal princesses.” She’s that special mix of prickly and peppy that indicates she’s keeping a lid on something she shouldn’t talk about but wants desperately to share.
“Let’s try this again. Good morning, CeCi.” I can’t help but needle her. The sooner she lets the proverbial cat out of its hypothetical bag, the better for all of us. I whisper, “Your line is: ‘How are you,’ ‘Nice to see you,’ ‘Fuck you.’”
“Fine. Fuck you, Bianca.”
Rory wrings her hands. “Don’t start, you two. You can’t imagine the terrible night I had last night. I can’t handle your bickering on top of everything else.”
CeCi looks at Rory, eyes bulging like the Frog Prince’s. Her mouth twists, opens, and closes again.
“Out with it,” I demand.
“This is the third time we’ve chosen. I’m just sick of cake, okay?” CeCi starts stabbing the tines of her fork into her napkin.
This takes me somewhat by surprise. CeCi likes cake. Hell, everybody likes cake. As far as I’m concerned, sampling cake is one of the best parts of throwing a wedding. “You can’t get sick of cake. It is physically impossible.”
She glares at me. “Do you want my help, or not?”
While I mull whether or not I do, in fact, want her help, Gretel blessedly swoops over, arms lined with plates. This distracts us for a while—carrot, dark chocolate, plain white, yellow with colorful speckles, something called red velvet, which I love but Rory calls “vulgar.”
“It’s cake. It doesn’t have a moral compass.”
“It’s the color of blood.” Rory looks at me like I’ve just shat upon the floor.
“I like it. I’m the bride. Haven’t you been reading those magazines I gave you? What the bride wants, the bride gets. We’ll take this red stuff, Gretel.”
“What if it gets on your dress?” Rory wrinkles her nose.
“It’ll go nicely with the ketchup stains,” CeCi says—but sharply, without laughing.
Their foul moods have officially worn off on me. “Fine. I’ll wear a black dress and it won’t matter!”
“Oh, Bianca, be serious,” says Rory.
“I am being serious. What about polka dots? Red polka dots would be fantastic. Hey, Gretel, can you make the frosting polka dot?”
“You’re talking about the most important day of your life, Bianc
a. Stop treating it like it’s a game for your amusement.” Rory’s ears are red and I know I’ve leapt over some invisible, arbitrary line of offense.
Still, I can’t bring myself to care. “It was the most important day of your life, Rory,” I say. “It will be a fun party, maybe even a pretty great day, but it won’t even land in my top five.”
Rory is nearly in tears at this point. “You have everything, Bianca. You get to marry one of your best friends, and he’s handsome and respects you. Your parents have nothing to do with your wedding. And your evil stepmother is about to be executed. How can you be so stubborn?” She throws her napkin on the table and bolts out of the café.
CeCi looks at me and says, “Nice work,” and follows her out. I don’t go after either of them because our lives seem to have devolved into a constant stream of someone fleeing from the room, and the chaos is getting to be a bit fucking much.
Maybe I’ll just plan this shindig on my own and let those two have their nervous breakdowns. I’ll keep Rory’s cellist, maybe even her centerpieces. Hell, if there’s enough wine, who’ll even notice? I’m pretty sure centerpieces aren’t what weddings are supposed to be about. But, then again, what is a wedding about?
It’s dresses, right? That must be it. Besides, I’m done with existential questions for today. I’m heading to Rumple’s this afternoon to pick out new fabrics. Alone. I do love the idea of polka dots, though. Seems much more fun than white. And it is my wedding.
Love,
B
PS. About those miniature unicorns: If you send a few more, I can put a whole herd of them on top of my polka dot cake. Or you could set fire to them. That might be good, too.
Princess Briar R. Rose
Somnolent Tower Castle
South Road, Grimmland
Dearest Zell,
I’ve said it before: CeCi and Bianca have perfect lives and yet they are determined to thumb their noses at their bounty. Why can’t they appreciate what they have? If I had the luxury of being friends with Henry, I wouldn’t treat our relationship as carelessly as they seem to, dabbling in fibs, white lies, and the art of omission. I certainly wouldn’t make a mockery out of my ceremony with red cake. Just think of it, Zell. Red!
I walked out of Gretel’s in a bit of a snit, and CeCi came running after me. “She didn’t mean to upset you, Rory.”
“Of course she did,” I countered. “She always does.”
“You have to let Bianca be Bianca.” She took my arm in hers. “I know you want the best for her, but she’ll never see things like you do.”
“She’s wasting her chance at love.”
“It’s not that simple for her. Or for any of us. In all of our relationships, we’re still changing and learning and moving around one another. Bianca’s just venting her frustration. Give her time. For some of us it’s a process.”
The last dam of dignity burst inside me, and I felt warm rage spill through my body. “For some of us,” I said, “it never happens. Ever. No matter how hard you hope. No matter how hard you try.” I stopped, expecting tears to fall, but, I suppose, admitting my failure was a relief.
I expected—wanted, even—CeCi to argue with me, to reassure me, to tell me that things would be okay and that I should give it some more time and keep my chin up. Instead, she shut her eyes and pulled me into a smothering embrace.
“You’re right, and I’m sorry.” I didn’t want to hug her back. She was supposed to bolster my spirits, even lie to me. Isn’t that the job description of a friend—to make the other feel better? She has no problem lying to Edmund, Lucinda, her court—why not me?
“I need to rest,” I said through her puffy sleeve.
“You can’t sleep your life away,” she said, ducking to look into my eyes.
I tried to look away from her, but she reached up and held my chin, checking me over like one checks produce at the market. “You don’t understand,” I said.
“I do. I do understand. So much more than you know. I understand you’re tired and feel like you’re empty inside. But you have to find something that fulfills you from within, not from without. We all have to find it. That’s what Zell did. It’s what we’re all trying for. Me. Even Bianca.”
But I don’t know what any of you expect me to do. Who do you expect me to become? I’ve been this Rory—the one right here in front of you—for one hundred and twenty years. The rest of you have scampered through the Realm pell mell, wanting this, then wanting that, bending the rules to make your Pages suit the lives you want. When I voiced the same desire, Fred landed us both in a cauldron of misery. Since I woke up, I’ve strictly adhered to the rules, and still everyone acts like I’m the fly in the ointment.
I know it’s not a competition, Zell, but I’ve had the cruelest fate of all. I missed everything. I missed my whole life. I had a childhood, but not with the three of you. I’m having an adulthood, but not with my childhood friends, not with Fred, not with the family we hoped to have, or the future we imagined. I missed the changes that went on Outside and the changes within the Realm for a century. It’s as if everything passed me by, like I’m half in one time and half in another and there’s nothing in the here and now.
Bianca and CeCi can preach all day about inner fulfillment, but it’s impossible when what I want most is a family. What reason could I possibly have to be satisfied with my life as it stands? Henry hasn’t taken the least bit of interest in me since our wedding—it’s as if I was just a stepping-stone to greater riches.
I’m not pregnant. I’ll never be pregnant. I’ve been trying since we got married. Scheduled relations almost every week. Last night I overheard Henry’s mother talking about a surrogate. CeCi has an entire fancy fake nursery, and I have nothing. Nothing.
At least Maro understands me. She stopped by after I got home today to tell me Muffet had begun exterminating the Inn for some dreadful-sounding spiders. I insisted she take our guest quarters straight away and, though she said she couldn’t possibly, I finally convinced her. Bianca and CeCi will scold me now that the portal is in the tower, but there’s no reason for anyone, let alone Maro, to climb up there—a tedious trek for a (formerly) empty room with a view no better than the ballroom’s parapets.
She and I had the most wonderful heart-to-heart. She didn’t tell me that I needed to find some way to fulfill myself. She said things like poor dear and there, there—things friends are supposed to say. Maro agreed Bianca and CeCi should be more understanding. She told me that I should take it easy on myself, that my dreams aren’t unreasonable.
I can be a desirable wife and a superlative mother and a good queen. I’ve come to the conclusion I must be missing something and to find it, I need help. I’ve been reading too many Outside novels where the protagonists get into trouble trying to fix things on their own. Then I remembered that we are Fairy Tales. All I need to do is to rely on the right character in my story: Figgy. She can give me something to set things right. Perhaps I’ve forgotten or misinterpreted a line in my Pages. Maybe there’s a spell or a potion I can take. CeCi and Bianca can do things their way, finding loopholes to suit their needs. I can also work within the rules of the Realm to get what I want.
I’m glad you believe in me, Zell. I believe in you, too. I believe in your dreams and in your love story. That’s why I’m quite sure that Arthur didn’t mean to shove magic beans up his nose and that it was most certainly an accident when Bea dropped your diamond ring in the manure pile. And, yes, I’m positive it’s not an omen.
Love,
Rory
From the Desk of Cecilia Cinder Charming
Crystal Palace
North Road, Grimmland
Dear Zell,
Bianca’s pernicious cake whimsy was the last thing I wanted to deal with yesterday morning. I was still trying to process what I’d seen the night before without upsetting Rory. But I needn’t have worr
ied, because Bianca handled that all by herself.
Sure, Rory is being a little oversensitive, but every week Bianca changes her wedding plans from top to bottom: the flowers, the colors, the seating charts. The chaos seems to be some sort of bizarre entertainment for her. What’s worse, William finds it all amusing in a chummy sort of way. I guess he’s the one who has to live with her—and he won’t be able to claim he didn’t know what he was signing up for.
This morning, I made my way to Rumple’s to try on our third set of bridesmaid dresses. Who knows how many iterations we’ll have to endure before she finally decides on something. Two weeks ago, they were layer upon layer of silver chiffon. Last week we had bright cobalt pantsuits. Today we were shown zebra-striped ball gowns.
Bianca’s fourth seamstress quit last week. I introduced myself to her replacement, a stout woman whose real name I forget but Bianca dubbed Five. Bianca and Five were arguing over an inappropriately placed zebra stripe when Rory bustled in with Snoozer in tow, announcing we needed to hurry up because she had somewhere to be.
“You’re the one who’s late,” Bianca said. “And Snoozer has to try on his doggie tux. Look, I found this adorable matching zebra bow tie!”
Zell, I’m not sure who introduced her to those Human bridal magazines, but they should be drawn and quartered. Valborg might not be the only casualty on Bianca’s wedding night; the rest of the guests might die of shock at the fashion alone. But, as Bianca repeats incessantly, what the bride wants, the bride gets.
“I was having breakfast with Maro,” Rory said.
Bianca frowned. “I thought Hansel and Gretel decided to close on Tuesdays?”
“We were having breakfast at my palace. She’s staying there for a bit.”
“Why on Grimm’s grave would you—” Bianca broke off to attend my violent coughing fit, caused by the tea I’d inhaled in surprise.
“You never support me,” Rory snapped. Bianca let it drop.
Letters to Zell Page 11