by Laura Kenyon
“You sure you can’t stay?” he begged once again when she finally pulled herself free.
The room was approaching tropical temperatures and her heart was beating on overtime. She gave a meek smile, straightened her clothes, and turned off the light.
* * *
“Why didn’t you just freaking say something?” Rapunzel asked and slammed a wad of clay into the table.
The duchess two spots down looked up and let out an unnecessarily loud sigh. She and Cindy were at their fourth weekly sculpture class—part of her effort to cross “create a masterpiece” off her list. They’d spent their first lesson signing autographs for their star-struck classmates, but now seemed as popular as a peach wedding gown.
Rapunzel shot the woman a nasty look and lowered her voice. “Even Belle confronted Donner. And I’m sure if you asked, you would have found out that you wasted all this time worrying for nothing. You’re sleep deprived and paranoid and all this birthday nonsense is getting to your head. Now, you know I’d be the first one to string him up if he cheated on you.” She paused to replenish her air supply. Then she pounded the clay with her fist. “But this is Aaron we’re talking about here. That’s like saying a bunny murdered your grandmother.”
Cindy shook her head but didn’t dare interrupt her friend’s assault on the grey lump that was eventually supposed to be some sort of vase. At least one of them had the courage to let her intensity out. Her clay still had sharp edges from when the professor sliced it from the block.
“I almost said something.” Cindy tried to emphasize her words with a slam of her clay, but it barely dented. “But what good did that do Belle? If I say something, either we continue on with this horrible bitterness growing between us, or we call it quits and he takes the kids. He and Dawn are right about that. The one with the royal blood will always win. And I can’t give up my kids. I—”
“Oh, your kids matter now?”
“Of course they matter!” Cindy yelled before remembering to keep her voice down. The last thing anyone needed was another royal scandal. “What the heck is that supposed to mean?”
“Well, a few days ago, your life was a complete failure and your kids weren’t worth the damage they did to your midsection.”
Cindy leaned into her block with all her might. It barely bent. “I think mine’s defective. And I never said they weren’t worth it. I was just … glum.”
Rapunzel pressed a swath of black and teal-streaked hair from her face, leaving behind several tiny flecks of clay. Then she asked, “Did you recognize the skank?”
Cindy appreciated the validation. “No. But she had these star tattoos on the back of her neck. And she was pretty.”
“Big whoop. You’re gorgeous. Don’t forget it.”
Cindy opened her mouth to reply that she might have agreed ten years ago. But it wasn’t worth it. Her head was heavy from lack of sleep. She’d spent the entire weekend saying as little as possible to her husband, being extra engaged in her kids’ activities, and busying herself well into the wee hours of each night. She never even entered the bedroom until she heard Aaron safely snoring away, which usually came a few hours before sunrise. This morning, when six o’clock trumpets sounded and Aaron stretched toward her with a groan—his finger tracing her body cautiously, waiting for a sign to advance—Cindy remained in darkness until he gave up and spilled from the sheets, ready to start a whole new week of important assemblies and clandestine trysts.
“I see we’re progressing as usual, ladies.” An ominous shadow accompanied Professor Albert Limon’s gravelly voice. A member of the dwindling giant population, he was eight feet tall, skinny as a rail, and—because all his clothes had to be specifically tailored to fit anyway—always wrapped in leather. “Perhaps if you directed your energy into your fingers instead of your tongues, it would produce a more favorable outcome.”
Both women stiffened like scolded schoolgirls until he moved on—at which point Cindy abandoned her clay altogether.
“I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”
“Making a hideous vase,” Rapunzel said, trying to scratch her nose with her wrist bone. “Or do you mean philosophically?”
“Pun, I don’t have the energy to be philosophical right now. Between hardly any sleep and that Zabra workout this morning—”
“Holy hell, you’re doing Zabra too?” Rapunzel shoved her hands on her hips but then flattened her palms to indicate submission.
Cindy pressed her lips together and focused on pinching the sides of the clay into walls. Rapunzel swirled tiny circles on hers but made no actual progress. No one spoke again until a burst of air and sunlight flashed into the classroom—bringing with it a gorgeous man with salt and pepper hair and chiseled features.
“Well hello handsome,” Rapunzel whispered as she watched the stranger flip open a notebook and stroll over to Professor Limon. “Please say we’re getting a new student. I’ve had enough of these pinched hens.”
Cindy took this opportunity to ask how Belle was doing at her place.
Rapunzel shrugged but kept one eye covertly on the stranger. “Not great. She can’t seem to do anything on her own. It’s like all of the sudden I’ve adopted a five-foot child. Donner really twisted the knife when he decided to turn their issues into a public spectacle. And slander her honor on top of it. Such a bastard.” With one violent motion, the swirls in her clay became a crater. “I keep telling her to see a doctor. Even just to get her out of the house. She’s been so bleh. I can’t stand to watch it anymore.”
“You think she’s sick?”
Rapunzel shrugged. “Heartsick. But who knows, maybe they’ve got something for that—besides booze. Maybe some ancient fairy remedy the public’s not supposed to know about or something.”
Cindy panned the room, watching but not really seeing a dozen people molding and kneading and slapping their would-be vases. If a cure for heartache existed, she could use a bottle, too.
“Maybe she should see Dr. Darling,” she found herself saying. “He always makes me feel better. Especially now that I’ve got a list of eroding dreams mocking everything I’ve—”
“Aha!” Rapunzel stabbed the air with her finger. “So you are piling your plate full of all these insane things for a reason.”
Cindy sighed. Maybe she should just have a T-shirt made up with the message, “I’m turning thirty and I’m not ready. Okay?”
“Am I crazy or did Penny tell me you’re going skydiving, too?”
Cindy severed a lump from her clay and began furiously rolling it into a tube.
“It’s just one of those things I’ve always wanted to do before I had kids but never got the chance.” She slapped the tube onto the top of a lopsided basin and clapped her hands in completion. “But seriously, I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
Rapunzel’s face seemed to melt. “Hey, I’m sorry. Subject over. Back to King Cheating.”
Cindy cringed and searched for something—anything—else to talk about. The chiseled stranger was still talking to Professor Limon, but he’d tossed at least three furtive glances at Rapunzel. “I think you have a bite,” she said, but her friend no longer seemed to care.
“Hey,” she said instead, leaning in and carefully molding a hunk of clay in her cupped hands. “So if you really think Aaron’s got a mistress—”
“I’m not even sure what I saw. He could have been—”
“But you’re afraid confronting him will cost you your kids.”
Cindy dropped her chin to her chest. “I know I wouldn’t lose them lose them. But I couldn’t bear it if I didn’t get to see them every day.”
“Then maybe you should just play dumb and do something that would make him completely undesirable to the rest of womankind.”
Cindy started to ask how she could possibly make Aaron undesirable. He was handsome, sweet, noble (she’d thought), gentle…
Then Rapunzel unclasped her palms under Cindy’s nose. She peered in. A tiny bit of vomi
t seeped up her throat.
“What. Is. That?” she asked, glancing at a cylindrical-shaped glob of clay with two uneven mounds stuck to one end.
Rapunzel laughed. “Lady, you may be innocent compared to me, but even you know what this is. You want to even the score? Hit him where it hurts.” She paused. “In his deformed and teensy little—”
Cindy gasped. “You can’t be serious! Why?”
“Why not?” Rapunzel’s crooked grin gave her friend goose bumps. “You’ve always wanted to be an artist. Why not create a sculpture of your beloved husband and show everyone how much talent and … umm … integrity you have for overlooking his shortcomings all these years?”
“But he doesn’t have a deformed or teensy—”
“No one but you two know that.” Cindy swallowed but said nothing. There were no words. Rapunzel had officially lost it. “At least, no one else should.”
She was like a little devil clawing at Cindy’s shoulder.
“Heck, I’m only joking,” Rapunzel said, squishing the disgusting thing back onto the table. “Aaron would just give you a big hug and tell you it’s a great effort anyway. Because, you know, he’s one of the good ones.”
“You are seriously deranged,” Cindy said, shaking her head. “I hope you know that.”
THE MARESTAM MIRROR
Diamond Ropes and Velvet Cake
By Perrin Hildebrand, King of Gossip*
RUBY Welles—champion of all things “love” and the force behind Cinderella’s rags-to-riches transformation—is reportedly inconsolable over the Braddax feud. Ruby, one of the last pureblood fairies on the planet (and certainly the most famous), was seen gobbling down cranberry martinis and ranting at a weekend book talk, when she was supposed to be signing copies of her latest self-help bestseller, If You Must Bleed, Bleed Rubies.
“All she could do was blather on about how happily-ever-afters are meant to be forever, and if Donner doesn’t take Belle back, the whole world’s gonna explode,” says a woman who waited two hours for a signature. “Okay, maybe not explode. But she thinks it’s gonna be really bad for everyone. And she made sure we all knew it.”
When contacted for more information on this conspiracy theory, Ruby put Yours Truly on hold for thirty minutes and then asked my editor to save her a spot in next weekend’s paper. This should be good.
CONGRATULATIONS are in order for Selladóre, Queen Dawn of Regian’s ill-fated homeland, for making Traveler Magazine’s list of “Top Tourist Destinations in the World”—for the tenth year in a row.
It’s hard to believe a decade has passed since King Hunter of Regian ventured onto an East River islet, discovered a civilization that had been sleeping for centuries, and woke their cursed princess with a kiss. Now, he and Dawn are happily married with twins, and her homeland (which Parliament refused to recognize as a legitimate kingdom, fueling her parents’ distrust of everything modern and ultimately hastening their deaths to tuberculosis, IMHO) is the most profitable tourist attraction in the world.
Says the article: “This pedestrianized walled fortress, situated between the kingdoms of Regian and Carpale, offers history buffs an unparalleled view of life before modern civilization. Authentic to the nth degree, this former kingdom spent three hundred years frozen in time, thanks to a magical spell cast to reverse a princess’s death curse. Cons: Limited parking; most original inhabitants fled when the Great Sleep ended (an event fondly known as the Awakening). Pros: Spectacular gardens; the Nag’s Cabin (behind the visitor’s center) still serves up ale brewed with the original family recipe.”
WHAT, I have to ask, has become of Snow White? After skipping three community outreach meetings in the past week, she and her professorial husband (what’s his name again?) were spotted picking up falafel in Riverfell last week. That’s about all I’ve got for these reclusive tree huggers, but word around town is they might have something groundbreaking in the works … like sushi in Carpale.
*Ehem. Who said patience was a virtue?
Chapter Eight
BELLE
The flowers came by the thousands. Roses, dahlias, lilies, coral bells, yellow bells, bluebells. A week into her exile, if it was possible any self-respecting member of the paparazzi didn’t know where the Queen of Braddax was hiding, simply sniffing a downward breeze would set them straight. Rapunzel’s rooftop was so stuffed with Mother Nature that lost tourists could have mistaken it for the Riverfell Botanical Gardens.
Each arrangement came with a tiny card in a tiny envelope bearing a message of hope. “Hang in there, Belle.” “Long live the Queen.” “The Beauty of Braddax will never fade.” Some of her sisters sent notes steeped in guilt for how they treated her in the past. Some of her brothers signed cards written out by their wives. Her father’s nurse sent a sketch of him playing shuffleboard at Oak Valley; she knew this was pure imagination, but appreciated the thought nonetheless.
Had her ducts not already been drained, Belle would have cried sentimental tears for hours. That is, until she got a delivery that would have frozen any drop before it even touched her lids.
“Dearest sister,” read the card accompanying a basket of black carnations. “Falling from grace hurts, but you always land on your feet. It should have been me after all. Signed, Julianne”
The lining of Belle’s throat started to bubble. She read it again. “It should have been me after all.” Was that supposed to be a joke? A jab? Or a beginner’s attempt at compassion? One thing was for sure: it was a Julianne specialty—a swirl of sugar and poison that would send anyone’s head reeling for hours.
It should have been her? Ha. Like her pygmy terrorist sister had even considered, for one second, giving herself up to save their father. Belle remembered every detail. It was January. Her father had finally started to clean himself up. He’d gone to see about a job in southern Braddax, despite forecasts of a nor’easter, and got stranded in the woods. When he stumbled upon an abandoned abbey with a working fireplace and food, he assumed someone from up above was watching over him. Well, he was half right. When he finally lumbered home ranting about how he picked a magical rose and woke a beast who demanded his blood—either spilled from his flesh or inherited in one of his daughters—Julianne simply pecked him on the cheek and left. She never mentioned the situation again until Belle’s wedding, when she whispered the same words that were taunting her now: “I was the oldest. It should have been me.”
Belle stared into the basket of living dead flowers and furrowed her brow. At this moment, she was especially conscious of how her scar—Julianne’s scar, really—folded into the ridges. The cryptic note fell from her fingers and caught a breeze. She could have let it escape, let it flutter over the rooftops and into the great unknown. But instead, she plucked it back from the air, clenched her fist, and shoved it into her pocket. She needed to talk to her sister.
Moments later, Belle was stomping down Ninth Avenue trying to look like she knew how to move in jeans. She’d slipped past the press wearing a curly blonde wig and a pizza delivery hat. If she could keep it down, she’d eat the pizza later.
Last she heard, Julianne was living in a studio apartment with her toddler and someone who was auditioning to become her third husband. 37th Street and Ninth Avenue sounded familiar. Or was it 39th and Seventh? Wishing Well Terrace? Something like that. Or had she moved to Regian? Belle slowed at a magazine stand to organize her thoughts. Suddenly, the adrenaline that had carried her this far fell away, leaving only fear.
As far as she could see, mounds of black plastic leaned up against overflowing trash bins. Mysterious splashes stained the sidewalk. Hot air billowed up from undeterminable places. Belle breathed in and nearly gagged at the stench of commingling urine, spoiled milk, and beer. This was not the busy, bright, oh come-all-ye-tourists Carpale that Belle knew. She tugged at her curls to make sure she was still in disguise.
“Hey lady!” a man barked behind her. “Either buy something or move your toush. You’re blockin’ my lovely dis
play.”
Belle glued her elbows to her sides and backpedaled. The man behind the magazine stand glowered at her stammering apology. “I just. I’m looking for. I mean. Sorry.”
She shuffled onto the closest stoop and hunched into the railing. On the other side, a cherry blossom tree was in full bloom, towering over a pair of overgrown rosebushes and discarded coffee cups. She inhaled into the delicate pink flowers. What was she doing here?
A tiny voice answered inside her head: Being a fool, that’s what. Julianne’s note was nothing but a tease—a way to plant ambiguous seeds that nagged at her all day. Well, mission accomplished. Belle needed to accept that she was an orphan with eleven siblings and she would never get the family she wanted if she didn’t make it herself. For that, she needed Donner—pride be damned.
Decided, Belle yanked out her phone. She opened her contacts, took a deep breath and—
Bang!
A tremendous pop shot through the air. She shrieked and dropped to her knees, sending the phone skittering over the railing.
“What’s with you? Never hear a car backfire before?” the magazine hawker called as she wobbled down the steps and peered into the garden. “You just come off the boat or something?”
Ignoring him, Belle regained her composure and stepped over the tiny wrought-iron fence. She rustled through a patch of petunias, circled the trees, and scanned the grass. No phone. Then she shimmied behind the rosebushes and felt a shiver beneath her skin. The thorns looked bigger than her fingers and the bushes reached as high as her neck. She’d have to fish it out.
Holding tight to her wig, she kneeled down to peer under the first bush. A metallic square glinted back through the jungle. Maybe if she just slid her fingers between—
“Ouch!” A thorn jabbed into her wrist, and then sliced the length of her arm as she yanked back. A red line bled up in dots before her eyes, but at least no one could see her. The tree and the bushes provided perfect cover. Scooting around for another pass, she told herself to forget about the pain. Scrapes on her skin would heal. A shattered marriage, a broken heart—those wouldn’t. As soon as she got her phone back, she would ask Donner to meet her so she could relay the blessed news and watch him drop to his knees in remorse. He would beg her to come back. He would need her for redemption again. He would agree to call the past “practice years,” and start their real happily ever after now—