by Laura Kenyon
“Maybe we should move back to the palace.” The words were out of her mouth before she could really think about them. Griffin unlaced his arms and moved so that she faced him. He focused straight into her eyes.
“You don’t really want that. Do you?”
She shook her head. “Of course I don’t. But I don’t want to feel like a huge chunk of me is missing anymore, either. If I have to start wearing heels and going to a stylist and following gossip magazines, so be it. I’ll enforce Angus’s laws. I’ll put a gold hoop on my head. I’ll live in a marble palace. Fuck, I’ll even eat meat if I have to.”
Griffin’s head knocked back as both hands flew over his mouth. She didn’t know if he was reacting to her unusual use of profanity or her threat to murder an animal.
“What does it matter, if it makes us a family?”
She could see the words processing—and the shock.
“So,” he began, his hands still on his face. “What you’re saying is … you want to let them win?”
She threw her arms up and marched across the room.
“Of course I don’t want to let them win! I love the way we are. I love what we have. But they already did win, Griffin! They broke us.” She was shouting. She hadn’t shouted in years. “Message received loud and clear. Be like them or we’ll never get what we want. We’ll always be unfit for their world! And since I’m incapable of doing what every woman’s supposed to be able to do, their world is all we have!”
She gripped one of the cribs, straightened her arms, and squeezed—as if she could make the wood bend with her bare hands.
Minutes went by with no reply from Griffin, and no movement from Snow.
She wished she could dive headfirst into the blue striped mattress, fall through some magic portal, and disappear forever.
Then, finally, a hand settled on her shoulder.
The Marestam Mirror
Diamond Ropes and Velvet Cake
By Perrin Hildebrand, King of Gossip
FEAR gripped the realm today, as word spread that our beloved Belle was rushed to Marestam General last night. Was she attacked? Did she lose the long-awaited Braddax heir? Was it a case of bargain cosmetic surgery gone awry?
Breathe, my lovelies, breathe. I have it on good authority that the quasi-queen/innkeeper was admitted for nothing more than food poisoning. Her baby is perfectly fine, and she hitched a ride home with Rapunzel (unrequited love of my life) this afternoon.
IF YOUR hearts broke for Logan and Penelopea when Riverfell’s Queen decided to pass the crown elsewhere … it’s time to start healing.
Some of my best eyes have informed me that, in light of Kiarra Kane’s romance with the king-to-be, Penelopea is positioning for a jailbreak. And after spending her entire marriage stuck beneath her mother-in-law’s roof, I say kudos. It’s about damn time.
“We all hoped that when it came time for Letitia to choose a successor, she’d overlook the pecking order and pick Logan,” says one source that shall remain nameless. “Carter made it clear for years that he never wanted such responsibility. But it seems this new love affair has not only given him courage to shoulder the burden on his own—it’s also given Logan the confidence to let him.”
Perhaps that’s why Penny was spotted doing a tour of open houses this week in southwestern Riverfell. Realtor Betsy LeFleur, who showed the princess around a four-bedroom craftsman with a pretty picket fence, described her as “absolutely giddy.” What’s more, says LeFleur, “not only did she specify the need to have at least three bedrooms”—do I sense a baby bump coming on?—“but she also wanted to know if zoning allowed an in-home business, specifically a law office.”
ONCE again, Selladóre will welcome autumn with a smorgasbord of special events and concerts—specially designed to relieve your wallets of every last dime. Culminating in October’s annual “Fear Fair,” Queen Dawn’s former stomping grounds will kick off its non-peak season with the unveiling of its spanking new, pyrotechnically-enhanced amphitheatre on September 24. Yes, that’s right: a state of the art, 12,000-seat amphitheatre, tacked onto the western edge of a tiny island that’s marketed as “a window to life in the eighteenth century.”
Not surprisingly, Dawn declined to comment on the further exploitation of her homeland; Hunter was too busy to return any phone calls; and Elmina Goodman, the reclusive fairy who turned Dawn’s death curse into a sleeping curse, could not be found.
So instead, we offer you this statement from Ruby Welles, who is always more than happy to speak for everyone: “Selladóre is truly a boon to Marestam—both culturally and economically. But perhaps most importantly, it reminds us that true love cannot only stretch across social boundaries, but it can overpower time as well. In saving an infant princess from a horrible death, Elmina Goodman paved the way for Dawn and Hunter, two true lovers separated by seven generations.”
Gag.
Chapter Twenty
DAWN
Despite what the Preservation Society would have its visitors believe, the stone wall that circled the island of Selladóre was not built in order to keep invaders out. The waters of the East River did that just fine. Rather, the twelve-foot barrier was erected for the sole purpose of keeping curious, too-adventurous-for-their-own-good children in. It was meant to ease parents’ minds when their little ones threatened—for one misguided reason or another—to run away. At least, that’s how Dawn had seen it in her day.
It had taken her and Davin six months to find the knights’ exit point, another six months to realize they’d never open it without a key, and solid year to figure out how to climb to the top instead. After that, they’d spent countless afternoons perched there—tossing pebbles into the water, making up stories about what lay beyond, and bemoaning whatever perceived injustice the adults had created that particular day.
Three-plus centuries later, as Dawn stood on the other side waiting to get in, she was amazed at how small it looked. In her memories, she could have sworn it was thirty feet high. In her memories, she’d have given anything just to hop over and stand where she was standing right now. She’d thought it would be the most liberating experience in the world. But today, staring up at it with the water to her back, the Carpale skyline to her left, and the flat shore of Regian to her right, while neon billboards scrolled from one advertisement to the next, the grown-up Selladórean princess just wanted to cry.
“A beautiful morning, miss,” the cashier greeted her at the end of the massive parking lot. He wore a ridiculous magenta hat with a bright blue feather flopping out the top. “Welcome to Selladóre.”
She fixed the blonde wig she’d borrowed from Belle and examined him through her sunglasses. After shunning this new Selladóre for a decade, her sudden visit would have been heralded throughout the papers. And the last thing she wanted to do was answer questions about why she’d finally returned. The disguise just made sense.
“Thanks,” she said. “One adult and one child, please.”
Morning gazed up at her mother and giggled. She’d told her daughter they were visiting incognito to make sure everything was up to snuff. She’d said if anyone knew who they really were, the mission would be a failure. “Like a secret shopper,” her daughter had said, instantly in love with the task at hand.
The cashier poked a dozen buttons with his pointer fingers and then stopped. “Can I interest you in a season pass today? Pays for itself in just three trips. Limited time offer though. Only running through—”
“No.” She was already regretting coming here. There was a reason she’d avoided it for so long. She hadn’t even attended the grand opening—a point of contention between her and Angus Kane ever since. But her heart was at a crossroads. She suddenly had to choose between two men born centuries apart. Two men who’d both entered her life on these unhallowed grounds. If she was going to find an answer anywhere, it was going to be here. It had to be here.
“Souvenir photo?” a man in a pink jester costume asked as she and Morning pass
ed through the gates. She politely declined, then waved off the next five before they could even approach.
“So what are we looking for?” Morning asked. “Rats in the kitchens and stuff? Mean ticket takers?”
Dawn shook her head and explained that they were just supposed to walk around like normal tourists and rate the experience.
“Oh.” Her daughter’s nose crinkled. “Well, I was just here on a field trip, and it was pretty nice. Why do you hate it so much again?”
Dawn cringed. She’d brought her along for moral support, but was already regretting that, too. “I don’t hate it, honey. I loved growing up here. It just makes me sad to see how much it’s changed.”
Morning shook her red curls emphatically. “No. No, you said you always hated it. You said your mom and dad were always fighting and the kids here were way meaner than the ones in Regian.”
Dawn furrowed her brow. “Well, if I did, I was just trying to make you feel better. And it worked, didn’t it? You have loads of friends.”
She ushered Morning through the cheap, metal turnstiles and onto the “restored” cobblestone streets. Historical inaccuracy number … three?
Morning bounced over a sewer culvert. Number four.
“Yeah, but that’s because you said if I was nice to everyone, no one couldn’t like me. And that I should first make friends with the kids who don’t have any because it would mean more to them. And that it’s actually harder when you’re a princess, not easier.”
“Okay, okay. Geez, you’ve got some memory.” She didn’t recall saying any of those things, but they weren’t outside the realm of possibility. “You say I told you this in kindergarten?”
“Yup. First day. I wore a purple jumper with a yellow daisy on the front and…”
Morning continued to babble as they walked through the old, windy alleys; between the glistening chrome food carts; beneath the wrought iron lampposts with electric candles that were supposed to look like real flames. The truth behind her childhood was coming back to her in fragments.
She remembered Madeline Miller pouring mud on her dress in the town square—and the rest of the class laughing. She remembered eating alone, at the edge of the playground, until the other kids realized that knowing the King’s daughter could have its perks. She remembered crying herself dry while her parents scowled in the doorway of her bedroom—because she’d acted out again … because they were better with a common adversary … because when they were bored, they remembered how much they hated each other. She remembered the stagnant stink of no indoor plumbing, the straight-to-your-bones chill of non-electric winters, and the fevers that lopped off the kingdom population every fall.
What else had she tinted rosy in her memory?
Certainly not Davin. He’d been in her life since toddlerhood. She’d had a crush on him ever since boys stopped having cooties.
She remembered flirting with him in the basement of the castle, making “ooohs” and “aaahs” while he showed off his new sparring sword and all his impressive moves. She remembered pretending to fall asleep on his shoulder once during a carriage ride—a sweater balled between them because she didn’t have the guts for direct contact. She remembered the bracelet he made her in art class. It had raspberry twine and pearly white beads, and she’d cried for days when she lost it.
She hadn’t made any of him up—she didn’t think. Though she did vaguely recall him going to the Harvest Dance with Madeline one year, even though he’d already agreed to take Dawn. And there was the summer he only hung out with Coraline Keyes because Dawn’s parents wouldn’t let her leave home with a boy after dark—but Coraline did it all the time.
“You okay, Mom?” Morning squeezed her hand. “You’re making funny noises. And are we lost?”
Dawn stopped and looked around. The streets was oddly empty—either because the sky had turned an ashen gray or because the field tripping students had been whisked back to school.
She recognized—well, sort of—that they were in the farmer’s square, identified in her time by rotten vegetables and lots of screaming. Now, it was home to a beautiful bronze statue of a smiling baker handing a loaf of bread to a woman and her baby. Directly in front of her stood a Blacksmith Shop, an Apothecary, and the Home of Abigail and Thomas Lahey—all diligently labeled with quaint signs in matching fonts and coordinating colors.
All of these markers congealed in her mind and dissolved away to tell her this: the highest tower of the castle—the place where she’d pricked her finger, ruined Selladóre for generations to come, woken to Hunter’s kiss, and bid a final farewell to the life she knew—was just a few steps away.
“Ooh let’s go in there, Mom,” Morning cooed, tugging her toward the castle. “I want to do the bumper cars.”
Dawn’s head turned so fast she felt something snap in her neck. “Bumper cars? Where on earth are there bumper cars?”
“In the castle. Don’t you remember? In the big room. You’ll see.”
Reluctantly, Dawn scurried along and, indeed, did see. She saw that Angus Kane had turned her parents’ throne room into—for lack of a better term—a roller disco. She could barely hear her own thoughts over the sound of skates swiping the floor in one corner, cars ramming each other in the other, and arcade games buzzing and dinging from all over. Instead of armed guards, brightly painted mannequins stood against the walls wearing fuzzy red fezzes with “Punch-Cola” carved into the chinstraps. The beautiful crystal chandeliers had been retrofitted to glow different colors—creating the hedonistic radiance that made Dawn want to race away with her daughter and burn the place down in their wake.
The last time she was here, she was wearing all black and bawling at the foot of her parents’ caskets. The 21st century doctor had said they died of tuberculosis, like so many others who distrusted the future people’s needles. But Dawn was sure they’d died of broken hearts. They’d died because the supposed savior who married their daughter failed to unite the two kingdoms. What’s more, he’d let Parliament strip them of their crowns.
The anger at this betrayal came rushing back all over again. Dawn felt the tremble in her legs. For all of Hunter’s goodness over the past week, she could still blame him for that.
“Hey, Mom.” Morning poked her arm. “Do you mind if I go? The line’s moving.”
Dawn murmured something automatic, and then saw a redheaded blur racing toward the bumper cars. Another buzzer sounded as the vehicles started up and the parents swarmed around with their cameras. Dawn veered the other way, sliding out the side door and into the portrait gallery. Surprisingly, the paintings of her ancestors had been left intact. But a false wall wound its way through the center of the room to tell the rest of the story.
She made one quick pass and then went back to the beginning.
1686—After countless failures and intense heartbreak, Queen Beatrice of Selladóre finally gives birth to a daughter. They name the child Dawn, confident she will signal the break of a new, prosperous era for their waterlocked kingdom.
Dawn stared at her parents’ pencil-drawn faces until her throat swelled with pressure. They looked so happy, so hopeful. Was this how they were before Jacara cursed her? Was Dawn the cause of their constant arguing later on? Or was this sketch simply what one optimistic artist wanted to portray, because posterity always remembers the good and blacks out the rest?
1687 (a)—In celebration of their daughter’s first birthday, the King and Queen invite a dozen fairies to feast with them, and to bestow upon the princess gifts including grace, virtue, obedience, and beauty.
Dawn rolled her eyes. Obedience and virtue. Ha. No wonder people today thought fairy magic was all outdated superstition. Morning didn’t need spells to craft her personality, the way a toymaker would craft a doll. She was sweet, and smart, and beautiful all on her own.
1687 (b)—But one uninvited fairy, by the name of Jacara, fights her way into the castle and curses the infant princess. “She will prick her finger on her seventeenth bi
rthday and die,” the witch decrees, then vanishes.
Dawn bit the inside of her lip and moved up to the next placard—a long scroll of text interspersed with dark charcoal sketches of gloom and fear.
1687-97—For ten years, Selladóre enters a period of paranoia and oppression. By order of the King, all sharp objects are destroyed and a primitive version of martial law is declared. Subjects may now be hauled off and questioned for any behavior judged to be suspicious. And punishments are harsh. A people that was once full of laughter and song now hustle along with their eyes cast downward, while the princess languishes under the strict hand of love and fear.
“Sounds awful,” a tiny voice chirped by her waist. How long had Morning been standing there? “If somebody’s parents did that in my school, that kid would get a wedgie every day.”
Dawn felt her knees weaken as the rose-colored glasses finally spidered and scattered bits of memory began to reunite. She stroked her daughter’s hair and pulled her close. She thought about telling Morning that things weren’t as bad as this exhibit made them out to be, that this was just a way to sell tickets. But she wasn’t so sure anymore.
1697—Running out of time and unable to find a cure for the princess’s curse, a fairy named Elmina Goodman agrees to soften the blow. Putting her powers in a state of suspended animation, she changes the death curse to a sleeping curse. Protesters take to the streets when they discover the spell not only applies to the royal family, but—for security reasons—to every living thing inside Selladóre’s walls.
Hot tears welled up inside Dawn’s eyes. Why did she come here? This was too upsetting. She’d always been told that the people of her kingdom loved her family so much that they rallied around her—that they chose to fall asleep rather than live on without them. That all sounded so naïve now. Maybe if she hadn’t closed herself off so much, if she’d read even one book or article about the Great Sleep, she would have figured that out. What else had she gotten wrong?