First Light (Forever After Series)

by Michele Paige Holmes

  With haste I ran to the water barrel. It took three dipper-fulls to satisfy my thirst, and then I turned my attention to finding something to eat. This was not so easily accomplished. The cobblers were long-since gone, and the supper scraps had been taken out to the hogs. I had to settle for another peach and some broken crackers from the bottom of a barrel. But anything was better than starving, and I felt grateful.

  When my hunger was somewhat satisfied, I crept to the window, peering through the shutters in an attempt to see the moon. It was not yet overhead, and I knew it was too early to bake bread and have it warm for the morning meal. I crossed the kitchen once more and stood in front of the fireplace, holding my hands out to catch what little warmth still remained. With the poker, I reached in, stirring the embers. I added a single stick of wood then knelt, blowing gently, coaxing the fire back to life. It came— warm, cheerful, and reassuring.

  I could do this. I could survive until I found Merry Anne or someone who might help me find Cecilia. With this pleasant thought in my mind, I lay on the floor near the fire, balling the sweater under my head as a pillow, and fell promptly asleep.

  “I’ll never make it,” I muttered, glancing behind me at the sky beginning to pink. For the fourth time in the week that I’d been at the castle, I’d overslept, barely waking in time to make the most basic bread— let alone the fancier pastries I’d planned for the royal family’s breakfast.

  I winced as the bucket I carried banged against my shin as I ran. Though I was a nimble runner, carrying two full buckets of fruit made even my movements awkward.

  Before going to sleep last night, I’d prepared shells for apple tarts, though now I knew it would take a miracle— maybe my own set of elves— to pare and slice the apples, mix the filling, arrange the lattice crusts, and bake the tarts before Maggie arrived.

  It will be fine, I told myself, though I knew my days— hours— at “elf status” were surely numbered. All this hiding and waiting is making me go mad. And trying to sleep by the hearth… Sheer misery. It would almost be a relief to be caught.

  Setting the buckets down long enough to open the kitchen door, I hurried in with my treasure. How I wished I could have tarried outside and spent the day in the orchard, eating fruit at my leisure and soaking up the beauty of the late summer day. Instead, I took up a knife and began peeling apples, fingers flying as fast as they dared.

  “Your ears ain’t pointed.”

  The voice startled me so that I only just missed slicing my finger. I turned to face the boy— the same one I’d seen on my first day here— standing in the open doorway. In my haste to prepare the apples, I’d forgotten to close the door. I looked at the child warily, wondering if he would run away screaming once more. But this time he didn’t look startled— just curious. “I should hope they aren’t pointed. I’ve flaws enough in my appearance.” I thought of my mother’s continual harping.

  “Well, you’re a sight better than the last girl who helped ‘round here.” The boy lugged the milk buckets toward the table. I stopped my work long enough to help lift them.

  “Thank you,” I said, referring both to his compliment and the fact that he’d ventured into the kitchen to deliver the milk. The past few days, it had been left outside the door, as if he was afraid of what might be lurking inside. It was nice to see him again— to see anyone— and have a conversation, no matter how brief. Remembering how I’d craved solitude on our farm, I found it surprising how quickly loneliness had taken over now that I had all the hours I could want to myself. “The first pan of tarts is ready to go in the oven. If you wait, I’ll give you one when they’re done.”

  His eyes wandered to the trays on the table, his nose twitching as he took in the ripe fruit, pastry shells, and cinnamon. He was a skinny little thing, and I wondered if his mother fed him enough. After several seconds’ hesitation, he nodded yes.

  I smiled encouragingly and pulled up a stool for him to sit on while I continued my work. His eyes followed me as I took the pan and placed it carefully in the hot oven.

  “What’s your name?” I asked, returning to the table.

  “Mason, ‘cause Ma says I’ll be lucky if I can grow up to be one.”

  “She does, does she?”

  He shrugged. “I’d rather work in the stables.”

  I smiled sympathetically. Why are mothers always so bent upon forcing their children into ways they don’t want to go? “I imagine you’ll be fine at whatever you do when you’re grown. You’re very good at bringing in the milk.”

  He beamed. “I wanna be in charge of the animals someday.”

  “I bet you shall. And, Mason—” I paused, wiping my sticky fingers on my apron. I extended my hand casually. “I’m Adrielle.”

  “You told me last time.” With a strange look, he accepted my outstretched hand. I shook his briefly, then let go.

  “Now we aren’t strangers.” My smile was perhaps a little smug. “You may talk to me whenever you wish.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  I tried to think of questions to delay him. “Have you always lived at the castle?”

  He nodded, his unruly locks bobbing up and down in a rather adorable way. I’d never spent much time around anyone younger than myself, but I was quite enjoying his company already.

  “I was born here,” he said.

  “Your mother, too?” I asked.

  “I dunno. But she’s been here near eighteen years at least. Everyone has— ‘cept you.”

  “What do you mean?” I finished slicing yet another apple and dropped the pieces into the bowl of previously mixed spices.

  “Ain’t no one been allowed to leave the castle since the princess was born, near eighteen years ago. No one new is allowed in, either.” His forehead scrunched, as if he was deep in thought. “So how’d you come to be here?”

  “I came hoping to find my sister, who lives in Tallinyne and perhaps works here.”

  “But how’d you get in?” Mason persisted. “They don’t let no one in— ‘specially nowadays.”

  I wanted to ask him about that, but first I was curious to see how he would react to Merry Anne’s name. “It was simple, really,” I said. “I told the guards Merry Anne had sent me.”

  “Who’s Merry Anne?”

  Interesting. “The woman I met while traveling. I believe she works here, too.”

  He shrugged. “Must be inside, ‘cause I’ve never heard of her. I never get to go inside the castle, you know. The queen’s awful particular about letting anyone get too near her daughter. They’re still worried about the curse.”

  “Curse?” Our conversation was proving most intriguing. I took up a spoon and began stirring the filling, preparing it to go into the second tray of waiting pastry shells.

  “The one that evil Queen Nadamaris of Baldwinidad put on the princess when she was a baby.”

  “Queen who of what?” I’d never heard of such a person or place. Or have I? The gypsies had spoken a peculiar name. Was it the same?

  “Queen Nad-a-mar-is,” Mason said, enunciating each syllable, bobbing his head each time. “You know, the one who got real mad when she wasn’t told about the princess’s birth?”

  I didn’t know. “Go on,” I encouraged, sensing Mason was as excited to have someone to talk to as I was to listen.

  “Well, the queen found out and came anyway, and she brought her beast son with her.” Mason hopped off the stool and hobbled around it with his arms raised and face screwed up in a beastly sort of way.

  “A real fiend, huh?” I said, amused.

  He glanced toward the open doorway and lowered his voice. “I wasn’t born then, but they say he’s really scary— half man, half monster. And Queen Nadamaris wanted the princess to be betrothed to him.”

  “Her parents had other plans?” I guessed.

  “They’d already promised her to another prince. The contracts were signed, and there was nothing—” palms down, Mason slashed his hands across the air in front of him—
“Nadamaris could do 'bout it.”

  “Hmmm,” I said, thinking this was quite the tale. Perhaps when Mason grew up he would be better suited to being a court jester. I certainly found him entertaining. I spooned the filling into the tarts in the second pan and put it in the oven, then checked the first to see how much longer it needed to bake. I was still becoming accustomed to these unusual ovens, built into the sides of the vast fireplace. Overall I liked them, but everything cooked differently than it had at home.

  “So what was the curse Queen What’s-her-name put on the princess?”

  Mason moved closer and beckoned for me to lean near. I did, letting him cup his hands over my ear.

  “The Queen said that before first light of the day the princess wed— her eighteenth birthday— she would prick her finger and die.”

  Death— from a finger prick? I leaned back and looked at Mason. His facial expressions told me he was quite serious, but I had to press my lips together to keep from laughing at the absurd idea.

  “Well,” I said when at last I trusted myself to speak. “'Tis a very good thing I’m not the princess. I can’t count the number of times I’ve pricked my fingers.” I held out my work-worn hands. “And never once have I been in danger of more than a scolding from my mother or the loss of a drop of blood or two.”

  “You don’t believe me.” Mason stepped back to the far end of the table. “It’s true,” he said, lip jutting out in a pout.

  I felt immediately contrite and wished I’d considered his feelings before speaking mine.“I’m sorry.” I looked at him, hoping an apology would be enough. I didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot with the first person I’d really met here— the guards didn’t count. “It’s just that I’ve never heard that story before.”

  “It ain’t a story,” he said defensively. “It’s true. Only when the princess marries her prince will the kingdom be saved. And Queen Nadamaris is scary. She’s doing all kinds of terrible things. They say she’s cursed the land, that much of Canelia— even parts of Tallinyne— are already dying.”

  My eyes opened wider at this as I remembered the extreme conditions I’d witnessed at the township’s edge. “It is dying,” I said as a queer sort of feeling settled over me.

  “You’ve seen it?” Mason asked. He was the one with wide eyes now.

  I nodded.

  “If the princess pricks her finger, they say that all of Canelia will suffer the curse. The entire kingdom will shrivel up and die.”

  I thought of the rolling green hills and forests near my home, the way their green had been slowly fading the past few years, the crops that wouldn’t grow, the rain that never came.

  A sudden chill swept through me with the gust of wind that blew through the open door.

  Mason rushed to close it.

  “She’s coming!”

  “Who?” I asked, alarmed, my mind preoccupied with thoughts of an evil queen.

  “Maggie, the cook.”

  “Oh.” I sagged against the table, but my relief was short-lived. From what I’d seen of the cook thus far, she could likely rival an evil queen.

  Mason ran to and fro across the kitchen, and I read the panic in his eyes.

  “Where do we hide?” he gasped. “Where do you go each day?”

  I looked toward the ceiling. “Up there. And it isn’t pleasant. You can’t stay there all day. And I won’t stay there another day.”

  “But Maggie thinks you’re an elf.”

  “I think it’s about time she knows the truth.” I gave him a reassuring smile. “I’ll explain about Merry Anne and Cecilia, and I’m sure—”

  “What about the princess?” Mason’s eyes were so large I feared they’d pop out of his head.

  “What do you mean? The princess has nothing to do with this,” I said, dismissing my unease and the story he’d shared as nonsense. “I’m here to find Merry Anne and possibly my sister, Cecilia.”

  “That’s her name?” Mason backed toward the door, as if suddenly afraid of me.

  “Yes.” I went to the oven and removed the first pan of tarts. They looked perfect— golden

  brown, with steam rising through the lattice. The heavenly aroma filled the kitchen as I set them on the table. “Don’t leave without your tart,” I called to Mason, whose hands were already on the door latch.

  He didn’t reply, but pushed the door open right in front of Maggie’s face.

  “What have we here?” The cook grabbed Mason by the collar of his loose, worn shirt and hauled him back into the kitchen. “Who’re you?” she asked, glaring at me.

  “I tried telling you it was a girl,” he wailed.

  “So it is.” Maggie released him and came closer, looking me over from head to toe. I stood perfectly still as she examined my hair and dress, looked down at my shoes and finally leaned close, touching one of my ears. I could smell the liquor on her breath.

  “You’re larger than I expected, and you don’t have pointed ears.”

  I was starting to wish I did. “Yes, well, I’m not exactly an elf.”

  “What are you then?” Maggie asked. “Fairy or—”

  “Just a girl— like he said.” I grinned encouragingly at Mason. “I arrived the day your other help burned the buns, and I thought perhaps… my services might be needed.”

  “Where’d you arrive from?” Maggie asked. “They kick you out of the castle? Or are you one of the dairy maids?”

  “No, I—”

  “You after my job, girl? ‘Cause you can have it! Never wanted to be no cook anyhow.” Maggie plopped a basket of eggs on the table and whirled away, heading toward the door again. “'Tain’t my fault Ma up and died on me so young, leaving me with this mess. Nope. Never wanted to be stuck in this hot kitchen all day.”

  I hadn’t been sure what to expect of our first confrontation, but it certainly wasn’t this. “Wait,” I called. “I’m not a cook. I can’t prepare a decent meal at all. My roasts are always dry, the vegetables in my stews are soggy, and the meat is never quite done. If you ask me to fix a fryer, you’ll likely end up with feathers in your supper. I’m a disaster in the kitchen.”

  “That much is certain, what with the messes you’ve left around here.” Maggie hesitated long enough to turn and face me. “But did you or did you not bake the cobblers, pies, rolls, and breads that appeared in this kitchen the past week? Make up your mind, girl.”

  I nodded. “I can bake, but that’s all.” I hesitated. After informing her so eloquently of my faults, I felt the need to mention my other skills. “Though I could help you in the garden and with harvesting in the orchards. I’m good with things that grow.” I glanced at the wire basket. “I’d collect the eggs for you, too.”

  “Don’t be telling me what you will and won’t do with regards to my kitchen,” Maggie said sharply, wagging a finger at me.

  “Oh, no. Of course not.” I stood my ground, aware that the rolling pin was safely put away. “I only meant that I could do those things. I could help you— really.” I hated the pleading tone in my voice.

  Beside me, Mason was edging toward the door. Maggie sent him a look that stopped him in his tracks.

  “You never did tell me where you’re from,” she said, managing to stare at me while her stance held Mason in place.

  “A farm near Willowbie.”

  “Willowbie?” Maggie’s look turned suspicious. “Don’t have no notion of where that is. You’re not telling me you came from outside the castle?”

  Mason’s face paled as I nodded.

  “Yes. I came here hoping to find my sister, Ce— Ow!”

  A sharp kick to my shin interrupted my explanation. Mason had returned to my side. “You promised me a tart!” he yelled. “I want it now. I got to get back to work.”

  “Take your tart,” I grumbled, glancing at him sideways as I bent over, rubbing my leg.

  “And get on outta here,” Maggie scolded.

  Mason ran around the table, reaching the cooling tray.

 
I started to finish my explanation. “I was led to believe that my sister Ce—”

  “Ouch!” Mason exclaimed. “Them’s hot.”

  “Of course they’re hot,” Maggie said, clearly annoyed. When she turned away, rolling her eyes in exasperation, I caught Mason’s desperate look and hand gestures. He was trying to tell me something. It was then I remembered the guards and their reactions to both Merry Anne’s and Cecilia’s names. Ever-so-subtly, I nodded to Mason.

  “Merry Anne bade me come here,” I said, finally finishing a sentence without interruption.

  For a brief second, Maggie appeared puzzled, then the lines of her face smoothed out into a serene expression. “Well then,” she said, waving her hand toward the table of half-prepared tarts. “Go on with you. If you’re gonna work here, you’d best hurry with the breakfast, and make sure to clean up your mess when you’re done. Wipe the tables and mop the floor when you’re finished with the baking. Then we’ll see about you helping in the garden.”

  “I can stay?” I asked, hardly daring to believe I’d get off this easy.

  Still looking tranquil, Maggie glided across the kitchen and took her apron from its peg. “You may prepare the breakfast and bake the bread each day.”

  “Thank you.” I clasped my hands together and grinned at Mason.

  “But don’t think on gathering no eggs,” Maggie said, some of the old edge back in her voice. “That job’s mine, and no one’s gonna take it.”

  “Ha! Told you that bull wouldn’t be such an easy pushover.” Cristian slapped his knee, laughing out loud as his friend, Henrie, dove between the slats of the corral fence and landed face down in the dirt.

  “You were wicked to bet me about it,” Henrie said when he’d finally caught his breath. He glanced over his shoulder at the snorting bull parading around the pen. “I could’ve been killed.”

  “You weren’t in that much danger,” Cristian said. “No more so than when that cow went after me for getting too near her calf this morning. As if I’d tip over a baby.”