Regina Rising

by Wendy Toliver

  I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I liked the sound of it. As Solomon closed the door behind him, the idea struck me. “Jasper, wait,” I called, running outside.

  He glanced up from his cart and brushed his hair out of his eyes.

  “Will you teach me?” I bit my lower lip, trying not to blush again. “I don’t know if my parents will agree to it,” I said, though I knew it was only my mother I’d need to convince, “but if so, will you teach me?”

  “Work it out with your parents,” he said, “and we will see. You strike me as a girl who gets what she wants. Maybe not straightaway, but eventually.”

  Back in the dining hall, I sat on the window ledge for quite some time, debating what the best way would be to present the notion of art lessons to my mother. She appeared to be genuinely happy with the portrait, barking directives at my father to make sure it was centered above the hearth. “I said two fingers’ width to the left, Henry.”

  He obeyed, only to have her move it two fingers’ width to the right.

  “You look so beautiful, Mother,” I remarked, observing the picture. “The artist really has a gift. Don’t you agree?”

  “Surprisingly, he did not disappoint,” she said.

  “He mentioned he could teach me. After my academic lessons, of course.”

  My father climbed down and adjusted his jacket. “I think it’s a fine idea,” he said, a little winded. “What do you say, Cora, my dear? Regina’s artwork would make a wonderful addition to our library and study, don’t you agree?”

  “You wish to learn how to paint?” my mother asked. She eyed me suspiciously, and I knew that if I wanted her blessing, I could not let her suspect that more than learning how to paint, I wanted to learn about the young man who’d be teaching me.

  “Very much so,” I said with a nod.

  My mother pressed her lips together. It took great self-control not to plead with her as she considered her answer. Inside, I was begging: Please say yes!

  She sighed. “Very well, Regina. I will make the arrangements.” After she turned on her high heels and walked out of the room, I beamed at my father.

  For my first art lesson, a surprisingly temperate February afternoon, Jasper Holding met me out in the courtyard. He wore a white shirt that was a little too large on his slim frame, the top few buttons undone, and dark brown pants that were frayed at the hem, which was only noticeable up close. Fortunately, up close to Jasper was where I found myself, near enough to smell the paint on his hands.

  “What is your passion, Regina?” he asked as he set up my paints and a modest piece of canvas, which was the size of my boot.

  I lowered the hood of my cloak. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

  “What do you care most about?”

  I scanned the horizon, as I often did, searching for my answer. And there he was: Rocinante, his dark brown coat glistening in a surprise appearance of February sunshine.

  Jasper followed my gaze and nodded understandingly. “Paint a picture of your steed.”

  I did as he said, taking my time, listening to Jasper’s instructions and adding my own touches whenever inspiration tickled my fancy. I had the curves of Rocinante’s bones and the markings on his muzzle memorized, as well as the way his big brown eyes sparkled when I spotted my reflection in them. By the end of the session, I believed I’d done a commendable job. I was curious what Jasper thought of it, though.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  Jasper studied it and then turned his bluish-green gaze on me. “It’s rather good, especially considering it’s your first painting and horses are never easy. I’m not so sure about the trees, though.”

  “I added those to make it look more realistic,” I explained. “It’s a whole scene, rather than just a horse in the middle of the canvas.”

  “Which trees are they?”

  I pointed to the small patch of leafless elms that bordered the stables.

  “Ah. That’s what I suspected. Look closer, Regina. They don’t have perfectly straight trunks and symmetrical branches.”

  I bit my lower lip, feeling foolish. Of course, he was right. The trees I’d painted looked ridiculous.

  “May I?” he asked, gesturing at my seat.

  I nodded, and after helping me up, he sat at the easel. Not ten minutes later, he’d added texture, bumps, and slight curves. Like magic, the trees he’d painted mirrored the actual ones.

  “That’s amazing,” I said, truly impressed and suddenly eager to show my mother.

  He shrugged modestly. “Keep in mind for next time that nothing found in nature is truly perfect.”

  Saturday, May 6

  Once I showed Claire my room, she gasped and her jaw went slack. “Your bedroom is the size of my entire house.” She spun around like she was performing a maypole dance.

  I imagined what it would look like through Claire’s eyes—the ornately carved four-poster bed; the dresser spilling over with jewelry boxes and figurines; the finest linens, drapes, wallpaper, and rug—and realized it must seem excessive. “My mother never seems to be satisfied with what we have; she always wants more,” I tried to explain as I placed the apple on my bedside table.

  Running her fingers through the golden tassels that adorned a pillow, she said, “Your mother has very fine taste in these sorts of things.” Even though Claire had a point, I couldn’t help grimacing at the compliment. It was one thing to try to win my mother’s approval, but why put forth so much effort when she wasn’t there to hear?

  “She would certainly agree with you,” I said. “I’m sure your mother has excellent taste, as well.”

  “Oh.” Claire’s shoulders shrunk, and she appeared to deflate before my very eyes. “I don’t know about that. I guess she works with what we have.”

  “What is your family like?” I asked. Though I was eager to know her better, I mainly wanted to change the topic of conversation. It was bad enough that my mother haunted my every waking moment—and a good number of sleeping ones, too. I was hoping my new companion would grant me a much-desired reprieve.

  “My family? Well, it’s not nearly as interesting as yours, I’m afraid,” she said, wandering around my room with her hands clasped behind her back. “Our most fascinating tale is about my mother’s widowed younger brother. When Uncle Giles was fourteen, he discovered an old man’s body washed up on the shore. He gave the man his own breath and was able to save his life. The old man happened to be King Leopold’s royal doctor, and he was so grateful to my uncle, he made him his apprentice. When the old man died some years later, my uncle took over. Now he is the royal doctor, living in a mansion near the castle. But of course you already know that story.”

  “Actually, this is the first I’ve heard of his beginnings,” I said. I’d never really wondered about Giles’s past, as I assumed he’d always been affluent. He sure acted like it, anyway. Then again, so did my mother.

  Flinging open the wardrobe doors, I said, “Give me a moment, and I’ll find something for you to wear.”

  While I busied myself selecting riding attire for Claire, she was admiring the vial of rose water my mother had brought back for me from her trip to the eastern coast. Claire unscrewed the delicate top and sniffed its sweet fragrance.

  “Have you a beau back home in Port Bennett?” I asked.

  “Goodness, no. What would make you think that?”

  “The ring you wear around your neck. I thought maybe it was a gift from someone special.”

  She set the rose water down and tucked the ring down the front of her dress. “No, I don’t have a beau,” she said, lowering her eyes.

  I decided not to probe any further. As I carried the clothes over to her, she hopped on the bed and wallowed on the woven silk bedspread as if it were nothing better than stitched-together flour sacks. I gasped out loud. No one ever sat on the bedspreads, let alone rolled around on them. My mother would have a conniption if she saw Claire doing that, I thought.

  At first I was
aghast, but after the thought had a chance to simmer for a few seconds, I started giggling.

  I tossed the clothes on the floor and jumped onto my bed. After we’d bludgeoned one another with the pillows, we flung the rest of the linens into the air, making a magnificent mess. Claire crossed her eyes and I squirted rose water down her back. I laughed harder and harder until an unladylike snort escaped.

  A knock on the door brought us both to attention. We struggled to stop laughing. My eyes darted around the room, taking in the mess of blankets and pillows—along with, regrettably, the beads, tassels, and ribbons that had burst loose from their moorings. There wasn’t time to clean up. Whoever waited on the other side of the door had caught us red-handed and pink-cheeked. If it was my mother, I feared she’d find Claire an unsuitable companion for me.

  “Who is it?” I asked, trying to make my tone sound innocent.

  “Forgive me for interrupting,” Rainy said through the cracked door.

  Relief pulsed through my veins. “You may come in,” I said.

  “Good day, m’lady. And good day to you, Miss Claire. When will you two be taking your midday meal?”

  “Actually, Rainy, could you pack us a picnic?” I asked.

  “Yes, m’lady. Where, might I ask, are you young ladies off to on this fine spring day?” She ambled around the room, tidying up.

  “We have no idea,” I replied, handing the riding clothes to Claire.

  “It sounds like the perfect destination,” Rainy said with a wink. She continued cleaning my room until she happened upon the apple. Claire and I must have knocked it off the table while we were horsing around.

  “How curious,” she said, examining the red fruit as Claire and I had previously done. “Where did you find an apple this time of year?”

  “In the orchard,” I said.

  “We picked it only moments ago,” Claire added as I showed her to the changing area. While she dressed, I picked up a pair of far-flung pillows.

  Rainy smoothed the tatted doily on my bedside table before setting the apple on it. “You’d best eat it before your father catches sight of it,” she said, wagging her finger.

  “I’m going to give it to my art teacher when he comes on Tuesday.”

  Rainy chuckled. “An apple for the teacher. How quaint!”

  After she left to prepare our picnic, Claire emerged from behind the screen. “How do I look?” she asked. My riding pants were admittedly too baggy and short for her. However, Claire didn’t seem to mind. As for the teal jacket, it fit perfectly, as if it had been tailored especially for her.

  If we had this much fun getting ready to go riding, I could only imagine how wonderful the ride itself would be.

  I gave Rocinante a swift kick with my heels, and he obediently hastened into a canter. The pine trees whisked by as his hooves skimmed along the sweet-smelling field of fresh spring grass and wildflowers. I was truly my happiest when I was riding with the graceful, powerful movement of the horse beneath me and the wind in my face. The wonderful sense of freedom that came with it was what I imagined it would feel like to fly.

  On Rocinante’s back, I could escape my reality for a while. I could get away from my mother’s demands, from having to be poised and polite to people who didn’t know the real me. People I didn’t care to know at all. Of course, when we got back to the stable, my problems would be waiting for me again. Even so, they somehow seemed more bearable after a good long ride.

  “Oh my goodness! Whoa, Opal! Whooooooah!” Claire shouted.

  I’d almost forgotten I had company. I reined to the side, and still running, Rocinante moved over so I could catch sight of Claire. As Opal trotted, Claire bumped up and down, making a terrible smacking sound each time she hit the saddle—which was never in the same place twice. If her face hadn’t been contorted in pain and fear, I would have found the scene quite amusing.

  I urged Rocinante alongside Opal and leaned over to catch the mare’s rein in my hand. “Easy, Opal.” With a gentle tug, I slowed her until both horses were walking. “Good, good,” I said once she eased into a gentle, steady pace.

  Beads of perspiration dotted Claire’s forehead, and her lower lip trembled. “Thank you, Regina. Oh, my. That was…exhilarating.”

  We rode side by side through the meadow and she fell in line behind me as we switchbacked up a tree-covered hill. Once on top, we could see a great deal of the Enchanted Forest, which appeared even more enchanting than usual, as it was bathed in golden sunlight.

  “I feel like I’m on top of the world,” Claire said, sounding winded.

  “That’s why I like coming here.” I gave Rocinante a good rub on his neck, and his tail swished merrily.

  A pair of twittering bluebirds danced in the sky above our heads and glided off, down the north face of the hill. “Oh! That must be Leopold’s castle,” Claire said, pointing in the direction in which the birds had disappeared.

  Despite the distance at which it stood, the castle’s magnificence was palpable. Its stony turrets rose high above the tallest trees, piercing the underbellies of the clouds. “It is,” I said, dismounting and helping Claire do the same. We led the horses to a bubbling stream, where I took their reins and all four of us quenched our thirst.

  “Have you ever been inside?” Claire asked as she collected some water in her cupped hands. “Have you ever met King Leopold or Queen Eva?” She took a quick sip and blotted her mouth dry with the edge of her—or rather, my—riding jacket.

  “Not yet,” I answered for both of her questions. I felt my jaw muscles tense.

  Claire stopped drinking and fixed her eyes on me. “What is it, Regina? You can trust me. I am your friend.”

  In my entire sixteen years, no one had ever said those words to me. The moment felt surreal. Even stranger, I actually sensed I could trust Claire. “I’m afraid of what will happen when my mother sees the king and queen after all this time,” I confessed. “They may be the rulers of the land, but my mother, well, she…”

  “Is a powerful sorceress,” Claire supplied for me.

  I laughed. “Yes, you could say that.”

  “By the sound of it, your mother already got her revenge on Eva for having tripped her. Your mother spun straw into gold, Regina. And she married your father, the prince. It’s not every day a miller’s daughter becomes a royal.”

  “True,” I agreed. “However, my mother believes the score is unsettled. After all, she is married to a prince, but—”

  “Eva’s husband is a king,” Claire finished for me, and I nodded.

  Deep down, I knew it wasn’t a question of if but when my mother would exact a terrible revenge on the queen. I just hoped it wouldn’t have the upcoming ball—and my father, Claire, and me—as a backdrop.

  “Well, then.” I was more than ready to switch up our conversation, preferably to one having nothing to do with marrying a king, as I got more than my fair share of that particular topic from my mother. “Are you ready to continue? Just a little farther, and you’ll get to see the royal gardens,” I said over my shoulder as I began gathering the horses. “There’s a giant maze made entirely of hedges, a lovely little brook, and the most charming bridge you’ve ever seen, with pink rosebushes on either end of it. Beyond the bridge, there’s an elegant fountain straight out of a storybook.” The first time I’d been there, I was about six. My father had taken me on the back of Hwin, Rocinante’s late mother. It had felt like a dream, and I’d wanted to become one of the many butterflies or birds that lived in the gardens so I could stay there forever.

  “It sounds like the perfect place for a picnic,” Claire said.

  We mounted our horses and had traveled for about twenty minutes when we spotted a woman ahead of us on the road. She had a disastrous nest of blond hair and wore a flowing black dress unlike any I’d ever seen, with a neckline that came to points like the sepal of a rose. She clutched her knapsack with haggard hands and jerked her chin skyward. I had to keep a gasp from slipping out, because when she
twisted to look at us, her eyes were a shocking milky blue.

  Claire gave me a wee frown when she, too, realized the woman was blind. “Have you lost your way, perchance?” Claire asked.

  The woman hunched her shoulders and hugged her bag protectively against her rounded bosom. “What is it to you?” she snapped.

  “We mean you no harm,” I said, hoping to calm her down. “We will be on our way.”

  Claire shrugged and we nudged our horses into motion.

  “Wait,” the woman called a second or two after we’d passed. Claire and I exchanged a look and pulled our reins. “I’m not lost.” She laughed breathily and kicked up one of her pointy-toed boots. “Rather, I’ve wandered farther than I should have, and now my legs are weary.” Her voice had sweetened considerably, and she sounded almost as if she were singing. “Please, will you give me a ride? I live over yonder,” she said, flapping one of her hands to the west.

  “Of course we will.” As Claire spoke, her fingers grazed the ring she wore on her necklace. “Won’t we, Regina?”

  I hesitated. “What about the royal gardens?” I whispered to Claire.

  “I can see them another day,” she said.

  “Oh, you have things to do,” the woman said in a singsong. “Do not worry about me, no, no, no. I will make my way home before the wolves come out. Do not worry about the poor blind lady.”

  I sighed. “Very well. You can ride on the back of my horse.”

  The woman wiggled her fingertips and gave a little hop-skip as I turned Rocinante around and helped her get on—a simpler task than I’d expected, given her blindness and her refusal to let go of her knapsack.

  “Go thataway, and soon the road will give way to a footpath,” she said, holding out her left arm. As we rode deeper and deeper into the woods, she hummed to herself.

  We wove through the towering trees with moss-covered trunks, the horses’ hooves cushioned by leaves and pine needles. We passed through sunny patches of grass and flowers, as well as shady spots of toadstools and leafy canopy. We pushed through some particularly large ferns and finally caught our first glimpse of the woman’s home.