The Spinner and the Slipper

by Camryn Lockhart

  Oberon’s scowl deepened into such crevices and crags, his face was all but transformed. He turned from his wife and marched across the floor to tower over Eliana and the captain. Dienw reluctantly stood a little to one side so as not to obstruct his master’s view of the girl and her humble adornments.

  The king looked. And then he stared. And then he gasped out loud, uttering a faintly spoken exclamation: “By all the Merry Dancers!”

  Titania drew up beside him, taking him by the arm. “Ah! So you do remember,” she purred. “You remember that chain spun from pure sunlight. You remember that band woven from pure fire. You remember those gifts you yourself gave to your sister, all those ages ago . . .”

  His sister? Eliana blinked, closing her hand over the necklace upon which Oberon’s gaze was fixed. “These were my mother’s,” she said quietly but firmly.

  “Yes,” Titania said, turning her magnificent smile upon Eliana for the first time. “Your faerie mother—Princess Orrla, sister of King Oberon.”

  Oberon blinked. There were tears in his eyes, though they did not fall. “Orrla . . . She was lost to me when she chose to abandon her own kind to marry a mortal.”

  “And here stands her half-mortal daughter,” Titania said. “Half mortal and half faerie. And by the fey blood flowing in her veins, she is perfectly welcome here in your court!” With that she laughed again, her ringing, brilliant laugh that set the stars to dancing. She caught her kingly husband in her arms, whirling him to face her and declaring for all his court to hear, “I do believe I’ve won this game, sweet husband of mine!”

  The king’s face reddened, turning so crimson that his skin might almost have melted away. Then suddenly his laugh joined with the laughter of his wife, a deep, rolling undertone to her brightness. He kissed her soundly then declared in a loud voice, “You, my lovely tyrant, are the finest wife a man ever had . . . if simultaneously the most bothersome!”

  The whole court erupted in enormous cheers. Even the dark, warlike figures threw off their shadows, shining in silver armor and pounding their lance staves upon the floor as they shouted joyous congratulations to their captain. All of those voices mingled together in a huge, echoing chorus of mirth and well-wishing.

  But Eliana found her own sphere smaller and more beautiful by far, when Dienw turned her to face him, holding her hands tightly in his and gazing into her eyes.

  “Dearest Eliana,” he said softly, as if tasting her name for the first time.

  “Lovely Dienw,” she whispered back. “I—I have no home now . . .” Pushing the words out in embarrassment, she asked, “Will you be my home?”

  Mischief twinkled in the faerie captain’s eyes. “With all my heart, but I will need something in return, as before. You must give me your firstborn child.”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “I mean that I love you with all the love a man ever had to offer,” said he. Gently kissing the back of her hand, he knelt on the marble ground, barely containing his silly grin. “I want your firstborn child to be mine. And your second, and your third, and every other child you have to be ours. Eliana, will you be my wife, my love, my home?”

  “Yes, absolutely, yes!” she cried, and wrapped her arms around him, holding him close. “Of course I will, my Dienw!”

  DIWEDD Y STORI

  The wedding of the miller’s daughter and the faerie captain was thrown after a faerie fashion with touches of mortal tradition. Whereas fey women wear wedding gowns of many colors, Eliana wore only white. Instead of adorning herself in many brilliant flowers, she wore a simple garland of marigolds.

  She and Dienw said their vows, some in a language she did not know, then shared a kiss to seal those vows for all time. Everyone who attended their wedding could see that their love was a love that would last through the centuries.

  A few days later, as Dienw escorted Eliana around Oberon’s palace, helping her to become adjusted to her new surroundings, they climbed the stairs to the tower where the crystal ball sat atop a pedestal.

  “What is this?” Eliana asked her husband.

  “It is for watching over the goings-on in the mortal world,” he replied.

  She gave him a wry smile. “You mean spying?”

  “Observing,” he answered with a grin.

  “What’s happening now?”

  When Dienw breathed upon the surface and the crystal had fogged then cleared, it revealed down inside a scene Eliana recognized at once. It was the ballroom at Craigbarr! She realized that she was looking upon everything that happened immediately after she and Dienw escaped in the whirlwind.

  “Time is different in this realm,” Dienw whispered to her in explanation. “When we transported to Oberon’s court, we leaped not only across leagues of land but across leagues of time as well. Though a week has gone by for us, only moments have transpired back in Craigbarr.”

  Eliana watched as servants scrambled to relight the chandeliers and the general panic subsided. Then Prince Ellis, his face full of fear and wonder, picked up her lost glass slipper and brought it back to the king. King Hendry, brimming with wrath at having his will so thwarted, took that slipper, held it above his head, and declared that they would search the whole kingdom over, and the maiden whose foot fit that slipper would become the prince’s bride . . . like it or not!

  Immediately a garish figure pushed its way through the throng. Eliana recognized her stepmother dragging Bridin and Innis in her wake. “Let them try! Let them try!” she demanded.

  King Hendry, though his lip curled with distaste at the sight of the trio, could not very well back down on his word so recently spoken. So Bridin and Innis were each given a chance. Try as they would, however, Bridin’s feet were too long and Innis’s feet too wide. Mistress Carlyn burst into angry tears, and she and her daughters were ordered from the premises at once.

  So they would return to the mill, Eliana thought, humbled and disappointed. And yet . . . and yet, perhaps Innis would marry Grahame after all. And maybe Bridin would learn at last to stand up against her overbearing mother. Though Mistress Carlyn would live on in disappointment and dissatisfaction, Eliana hoped that her mouse-like stepsisters might find their own ways and make good lives for themselves.

  Following the dismissal of Mistress Carlyn and her girls, every other eligible young lady at the ball wanted to try on the slipper. However, the glass—formed so carefully from Eliana’s and her true love’s tears—had been made to fit only one foot in all the worlds.

  “What a shame they’ll never find you!” Dienw laughed and kissed his bride. Clearly the captain did not feel sorry at all.

  Eliana peered back into the crystal, her lips pursed in thought. “Could you make the slipper fit someone else?”

  “I suppose. Did you have anyone in mind?”

  Standing on tiptoe, Eliana whispered a name in Dienw’s ear, though there was no one around to hear. He chuckled, delighted at her suggestion and, with a promise to return in a moment, vanished.

  He returned soon after, panting a little, and indicated the crystal ball. “Watch now!” he urged.

  Eliana stared eagerly into the crystal.

  As all the noble ladies tried and failed to fit their feet into that slipper, Prince Ellis stood to one side, his expression tired and sulky. Then suddenly his face lit up with a mingling of slyness and pleasure. He called out to someone Eliana could not see.

  Martha appeared on the scene, looking nervous and shaken and so small among all those fine ladies!

  “Here,” said Ellis, taking the slipper in his hands and kneeling before the maid. “I think you should give this a try.”

  “Oh, Prince Ellis!” Martha exclaimed, pressing her hand to her heart. “I wouldn’t dare!”

  “Nonsense,” said he, with a glance at his kingly father. “You are an eligible maiden, are you not?”

  So saying, he slipped Martha’s work shoe off her foot and replaced it with the shining slipper.

  It fit perfectly.


  Prince Ellis leapt to his feet, catching Martha by the hand. “I think,” he said with a winning smile that transformed his face from sulky to truly handsome, “that you would make a perfect princess!”

  The scene faded then cleared again. Eliana, blinking back joyful tears, peered down upon the mortal marriage of the prince and the housemaid. And there stood King Hendry, looking like a man caught in a bear trap, and beside him his queen, wearing a gown of spun gold and beaming cheerfully at her new daughter-in-law.

  “I believe they might very well all live happily ever after,” Dienw said, hugging his wife from behind and kissing her cheek. Then he laughed and shook his head. “Except for King Hendry, that is.”

  “Do you know?” said Eliana, taking one of his hands and pressing it in both of hers. “I think you might be right.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CAMRYN LOCKHART, a college student in North Carolina, intends to pursue writing as a career. The eldest of seven, she has an Army Dad who taught her to be strong, and a Writer Mom who inspired her by reading countless books aloud and encouraging her to keep writing stories.

  She has loved fairy tales since she was a little girl. Her passion is for weaving well-known tales and folklore elements into a new kind of fairy tale that retains the nostalgia of the old stories. She wants to write Christ-centered fiction that honors God. She hopes to one day write as well as C. S. Lewis and J. R. R. Tolkien, if it’s not sacrilegious to hope such things.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First, I want to say how grateful I am for this amazing experience. Rooglewood Press has been wonderful through it all, and I can’t thank them enough for this opportunity. I never thought I’d be a published author before I graduated from college, yet here I am!

  Next, to my family, thank you for being as crazy as I am. Thank you, Dad, for working so hard to give us the childhood we had, and for helping me pursue the things I love. Thank you, Mom, for teaching me the joys of reading and writing, and for always encouraging me to keep going. Trey, my best friend and “twin” brother, thank you for our late-night talks and brainstorming sessions. I miss you so much! And thank you, Austin, Josh, Annie, Aidan, and Garrett, for being good sports when I talked over you or wanted to read something out loud. You guys are the best family I could ever ask for!

  Anne Elisabeth, thank you for mentoring me and teaching me skills that have made me a better writer—an invaluable gift! I’d also like to thank John Flanagan (author of the Ranger’s Apprentice series) who replied to my fan email when I was 13 with these words that have motivated me to write all these years: “You'll find, as you continue to write, that your characters begin to become real for you. That's when you know you've got it right.”

  And last but certainly not least, I thank my Lord God for giving me the gift and love for writing. He’s given me so many stories to tell, and I can’t wait to share them all!

  Continue to read A Branch of Silver, a Branch of Gold

  a retelling of “The Twelve Dancing Princesses”

  Before there can be a beginning, there must first be an end. Otherwise, what is there to begin?

  This truth I have learned in pain. This truth I have learned in suffering. This truth I have learned in gladness, for O! What sweet relief it is to my spirit! Though I am bound, I know that my binding will last only until the end. And then . . . and then . . .

  But in the meanwhile, what a long ending it seems to me.

  See now the worlds beyond my lonely window. Great worlds in which I once walked. Lovely worlds in which I will never walk again. See now the Between which separates those worlds, both the Near and the Far. The Far is always much nearer than mortals suppose. And, likewise, the Near much farther than Faerie-kind will admit. But as I sit here in my window, I feel it all so close to me. I gaze out through the slit in the stone wall, and I see the mortals rising to greet the new day. I turn where I sit and see the tall trees surrounding me on all sides, and moonlight bathes the forest floor at my feet.

  Near and Far. Night and Day.

  And in Between, the Wood stands tall.

  There are figures moving through the Between. I see a shadow stalking. I see a wind spirit blowing. I see a curse shimmering, opening wide the gates.

  And so Faerie-kind will once more cross over the boundaries to prey upon the mortal world. So it must be.

  So it must end.

  ONE

  The words would not stay put. He had just written them, so he knew exactly what they should say. But they wouldn’t say it. At least, not in a way he could understand. They swam in weird undulations across the page, incomprehensible as a child’s scribblings. The more he studied them, the stupider he felt.

  Master Benedict Cœur, son and heir of the Marquis of Canneberges, sat at his desk, his head in his hands, and felt profoundly sorry for himself. His eyes blurred with fatigue, and he should probably go back to bed. But this thought made him shudder. He’d spent all night in that bed, staring up at his canopy, unable to sleep save in stolen snatches. The moment the sky began to lighten, he’d crawled out from under the counterpane, lit a candle, and pulled out his documents. Anything to fill his mind, anything to block out the crowd of thoughts that had kept him company through the long hours of darkness.

  Only now . . .

  He groaned and closed his eyes, his head still propped and bent. Cold morning air blew through his open window, and he wished he dared shut the glass and stoke up his fire. But Doctor Dupont would be furious at such blatant disregard of his apothecarial commands. And Benedict lacked sufficient energy to face the good doctor’s fury this morning.

  If only he dared steal a horse. Probably a foolish notion, but he rather liked it anyway. Technically it wouldn’t be stealing, since he was heir to his father’s estate and, therefore, practically owned all the horses and the stables and . . . well, everything. Legally, of course, it all belonged to his father. The marquis wasn’t home, however, so who would gainsay his heir? But Doctor Dupont was officially in charge during Monsieur the Marquis’s absence, and Doctor Dupont had strictly ordered the stable hands to allow Benedict nowhere near a horse.

  But the stable hands weren’t the brightest lights in the county. And it would be an adventure, just the sort of adventure Benedict would have pursued only a year ago: Steal a horse right out from under the grooms’ noses, then up in the saddle, away across the fields, and dragons eat all scholarly pursuits!

  Victor would have told him to do it. Benedict could almost hear his best mate urging him even now: “You’ve got all your life to worry about memorizing Corrilondian conjugations and declensions. But today will be over before you know it!”

  “Today will be over before you know it,” the young scholar whispered. How true those words had become to him these last long months. He shook his head, shook away the memory of that voice, and tried once more to concentrate on the difficult lines of Corrilondian verbs and nouns. Learning a foreign language was difficult enough without the words swimming around on the page like so many—

  BANG.

  Benedict startled upright in his chair and sat like a hare frozen at the sound of a hunter’s bolt whizzing past.

  BANG.

  BANG. BANG.

  BANGBANGBANGBANG.

  Had a hurricane entered the house somehow? Right over his head, in the Great Hall above?

  Eyes wide, mouth gaping, Benedict stared up at his ceiling as though he could somehow see through it and discover the cause of the uproar.

  Another great BANG, and something roared down his chimney and burst into his room. Something invisible, something strong. Something most certainly alive.

  It blew out the fire, then roared across the chamber to his bed and tossed the blankets awry, whirled around the four bedposts, and made the canopy and curtains balloon like sails on the high seas. It tore around the periphery of the room, knocking books and ledgers from their places, then caught up all the work upon Benedict’s desk and spun it into a swirling white storm.


  Benedict shouted but couldn’t hear his own voice over the howl of the wind and what he recognized suddenly as high, wild, insane laughter. Never in his life had he heard a voice utter such inhuman sounds. He flung up his arms to protect himself from papercuts and flying penknives.

  Then, as though seeing it suddenly, the wind—given something close to a physical form by virtue of all the papers clutched in its invisible arms—darted for the open window and flung the casement wide open to crash against the outer wall. The laugh trailed away across the moat and into the morning-lit fields beyond Centrecœur House.

  Benedict stood in the middle of his chamber and stared at the destruction around him, at all his hard work strewn, scattered, or stolen.

  “Dragon’s eyeteeth,” he cursed.

  Then, catching up his hat and cloak, forgetting his fatigue, he rushed from the room. If ever there was a time to steal a horse and give chase, that time was now.

  Somewhere out there is someone who can hear me. I know this must be true. I sensed it hours ago, before the sun crested the horizon. I felt it at the turning of Yesterday into Today, at that dark and most magical moment of Midnight. Yesterday she could not hear me. But today . . . today I believe she can.

  So I sit at my window and watch the sun spill across the fields, forests, and bogs of this mortal land where once I walked. And I send forth my heart, crying out to her.

  This time. Maybe this time.

  I do not wonder whether or not she’ll hear me. I wonder whether or not she’ll answer.

  TWO

  On the morning of her fourteenth birthday, just as the sun rose and Rufus the Red, the family rooster, raised his voice in raucous welcome of the new day, Heloise opened her eyes, stared at the thatching just overhead, and thought: Mirror.