by Alex Flinn
She shakes her head. “Nay. Magic can sew a dress, but it cannot design one. To make a beautiful gown, one needs skill, not merely arts.” There is an unmistakable hint of pride in her voice.
“Well, you certainly have skill.” I have managed to thread the needle and am now attempting to make a knot in the thread. “I have none.”
“I was a seamstress by trade, before your father destroyed me.”
“My father?”
“Oh, drat!” The old woman looks past me to the window. “How have they found me?”
I turn, looking for what she is talking about. At first, I see nothing. Then, far off in the distance, I spy a man on horseback, then another. I recognize the shape of the larger one. It is Pleasant, one of the castle guards, the drunkard who watched Jack that night in the dungeon. They ride toward the cottage. I am saved! I am saved!
“They are coming for me!” I cry.
“Silence!”
And then, when I try to cry out again, I find that I cannot. My mouth will make no sound.
“And sit still.” As soon as she says it, I cannot move. “Much better. I do not know how they have found me. My location has been secret since before your birth. But they shall not thwart me.”
I know how they found out. Jack! Jack believed me, and he remembered—the highest hill in Euphrasia. Jack has contacted my father somehow. They are coming for me.
But they will not find me, for the old woman is now, with surprising strength for one over five hundred years old, dragging my stiff body across the room. She kicks aside a rag rug, and I see a trapdoor under it. She opens the door, and proceeds to pull me down the cellar stairs. The staircase is long and steep, and I fear there may be rats at the end of it. I suppose I should be happy that Malvolia at least drags me by the arms, lest my head bump against each step. But this is small comfort when rescue is so close.
Finally, we reach the bottom of the stairs. It is pitch-black, and Malvolia drags me to the corner, throwing a blanket atop my unmoving form.
“Rest, Princess,” she says.
Her footsteps move away, but I cannot see her. I can see the smallest bit through a hole in the blanket, and only when she reaches the top do I spy her face. She has changed into someone else, not Malvolia, not the old thing who displayed the dresses at the castle that day, either, but an entirely different old lady, a sweet and kindly looking one, one I have never seen before.
She shuts the trapdoor, and I am left in darkness.
I hear Malvolia walking around upstairs, maybe pulling the rug over the trapdoor or, perhaps, even enchanting the door itself. Then there is silence and blackness and nothing. I struggle to move, struggle to speak, but there is no way. Finally, I stop. Will I stay this way forever? Will she remove the spell after they leave? And what does it matter, if she intends to kill me, anyway?
Upstairs, I hear the two men enter.
“We have to search the house.” I recognize the voice of Pleasant.
“Oh, me!” A high-pitched old lady’s voice. “Must ye? I am afraid I have not cleaned too well.”
“King’s orders,” another voice—my father’s guard, Cuthbert, who is not renowned for his wit—says. “We shan’t be a minute, ma’am.”
“Ah, me. Can I get ye a cup of tea, gentlemen?”
“No, ma’am. We will just look around.”
I hear the two clumsy oafs walking about, overturning things, and all I can do is hope—just hope—that they will see the trapdoor.
“What is this about, then?” Malvolia asks.
“The king’s daughter,” Cuthbert says.
“The pretty one with the curse on her? How is she?”
“She’s disappeared, ma’am. The king believes it was the doing of the witch Malvolia.”
Malvolia laughs. “Do I look like the witch Malvolia, then? Were I a witch, I would be able to free meself from this rheumatism.”
Cuthbert laughs, too. “King’s orders. Is there a cellar here?”
“Nay. ’Tis only a small cottage, and I can barely keep that.”
“We must have a look around, nonetheless. The king requires it.”
I hear them walking toward the door. I am saved! I am saved—although possibly a mute paralytic for the rest of my life.
“Ye look parched,” Malvolia says. “Would ye not care for a wee bit of port?”
“We should not,” says Cuthbert, who is clearly the conscience keeper of the two.
“Should not, my arse,” Pleasant says. “’Twas a long ride and a hot day—and a fool’s errand if ye ask me. There is nothing here.”
“Indeed,” Malvolia says. “Nothing but an old lady offering a nice bit of port. Please join me, for I hate to drink alone.”
Something—a fly or even worse—crawls onto my cheek under the blanket. I wish to scream, to flail, but I can do nothing. It is as if I am already dead, and maggots are munching upon my face.
“Aye, we should have some,” Pleasant goes on. “There is naught to drink at the castle.”
Can the dead hear the living? I wonder. And, if so, would that be a comfort or a curse?
“True,” Cuthbert says.
And then I hear the clinking of a bottle and tankard and the scraping of chairs.
“Did you know,” Malvolia says, “that Malvolia was once employed at the castle?”
“Truly?” Pleasant says.
“I seem to remember hearing something of it,” Cuthbert says. “She was a seamstress. That was before this whole spindle business.”
Malvolia employed at the castle? How strange. And stranger still that my father never mentioned it to me.
The fly has left my nose and lit upon my hand. No, they are two separate flies.
“Do ye wish more?” Malvolia asks.
“You are too generous, ma’am.”
“Nay. I am grateful that you are out, protecting us all.”
I hear the clink of glass once again. I know how it will be. The wine will be poured and the bottle drained, and the guards will leave, saying they saw nothing. They will not return. And I—I shall spend the rest of my days (what few are left) sewing my dress and waiting for death.
Where is Jack?
Chapter 39:
Jack
When we reach the airport in London, I call Travis, who stayed the night outside Euphrasia in order to meet us when we get there.
“Did they find her?” I ask. “Was she where I said she’d be?”
“No, man. They sent two guys up there, but they said all they found was some harmless old lady.”
So Talia was wrong. I hadn’t thought of that.
“Maybe it was another hill, another cottage.”
“They’re checking every cottage on a hill, but let me tell you, it’s not a crack crime scene investigation team.”
I remember how easy it was to escape the dungeon and take Talia with me. “Guess not. They should check every cottage in the kingdom.”
When I get off the phone, Dad says, “No luck?”
“Nope.” I look at him, daring him to say it was a waste of time coming here.
But he just says, “They’re going to be boarding in a few minutes. Better get our stuff together.”
I do, and as I’m sitting on the flight from London to Brussels, I think of something: If Malvolia is a witch, she can probably disguise herself.
Chapter 40:
Talia
It is twenty minutes after Cuthbert and Pleasant stumble from the cottage before Malvolia releases me from the cellar and from her spells. I have twenty minutes, therefore, in which to wonder what shall become of me. Will I be killed viciously, violently, or merely left here until I die of starvation?
For one thing I am grateful that Malvolia intends to deliver me to my father. At least he will know what happened to me, that I did not merely run away with a young man.
Although, in fact, I did do that.
But I cannot resign myself to this fate. I must return to Father to make amends. If I am not t
o be saved, I must persuade Malvolia to release me of her own free will.
So when I am freed from the spells, I do not complain, as I am inclined to do. Rather, I simply stretch and say, “Thank you, ma’am, for releasing me. After not moving for so long, it feels wonderful to wiggle one’s toes.” I grace her with my sweetest smile.
But the old witch is not charmed by my gratitude. Nay, she merely says, “Relish your movement while you can. You are not long for it. Now, on with your sewing.”
So much for her seeing me as a person, but I do get to sewing with a diligence I never felt for anything resembling work in my former life. I love the feeling of the cold silk between my fingers and, indeed, enjoy seeing it become a dress. Were it not for my situation, I would find it quite satisfying to learn to sew, for I have never done anything so useful before.
This I tell Malvolia, who grunts, “I am not doing it for your entertainment, but enjoy it if you must.”
For the next hours, I sew in silence, the only sound being the steady rhythm of needle in fabric. Finally, the old woman, seeming pleased with the length of my stitches, which I have purposely made minuscule, to take up more time, allows me a small supper of bean soup. I hope that she will not require me to sew any more for the day. I wish to extend the job over as many days as possible.
Over supper, I glance at the departing sun and play with a streamer of silk in my lap. I have stolen it from the leftover scraps for I love its feel. “This is excellent soup,” I say. I eat slowly, one bean at a time.
“Surely not what you are used to at the castle,” she barks.
“Surely not. Mistress Pyrtle, the cook, was no artist with soups. Too salty. But you must remember that?”
No response. I try again.
“I heard you tell the men who came that you used to work at the castle. Is that true?”
Malvolia’s black eyes narrow. “You know ’tis.”
“I know nothing of the sort. I was told nothing.”
“Indeed?” She thinks upon it a bit, staring at the horizon. “No, I am not surprised at that. Why would your father tell you anything other than that I was evil, bent upon your destruction?”
And is that not the truth?
But I say, “Mainly, we discussed what I must avoid—spindles—something I did not do very well. We discussed it…frequently.”
Malvolia laughs. “The spindle-pricking was inevitable. With my spell, I assured it was so. I took great amusement in seeing your father’s pathetic efforts to prevent it.”
To protect me. I wonder why, if it was so inevitable, the old woman bothered to come to the castle herself on the eve of my sixteenth birthday, to present me with the spindle. Was she nervous?
As if hearing my thoughts, Malvolia says, “I brought the spindle myself because I wanted to see that it had been done, so I did it myself.”
Nice. But I say, “I am glad you told me that it was inevitable, for I have been blaming myself, or rather, Father has been blaming me.”
Malvolia laughs. “That does not surprise me. Aye, he was always one to place blame.”
“What did he blame you for that you did not deserve?” I cry out. “You cursed me. You made me sleep three hundred years! And now, when I have been wakened, you are making excuses, saying that the curse was not properly broken, so that you might bring me back.”
I should not have had such an outburst. Now that the scalding words are out, it is impossible to push them back.
“I am speaking of before that, Princess, when I was but a seamstress in the castle, and he was an all-powerful king.”
“What happened?” Can there be a reason for Malvolia’s animosity other than merely not being invited to the party?
“’Tis of no import.” She gestures toward the table. “Clear the dishes, and if you can do so with no more impertinent questions, I will allow you to read to me instead of sewing away the evening. My eyesight is too poor to see the stitches in the waning light, and I do not trust your clumsy hands.”
I suspect her eyesight is perfect. Still, I follow her instructions, then read to her from the only book in the house, the Bible, until the light wanes so that I cannot see, even with a candle.
Chapter 41:
Jack
The flight to Brussels is only an hour. Travis meets us at the airport.
“Dude!” I say when I see him at the rental car place. “Thanks for coming.”
“No worries, man. I wanted to get out of that castle before the king threw me in the dungeon as an accessory.”
My dad finishes renting the car and says to Travis, “So you believe all this, then, the kingdom and the curse, and that there’s a princess being held by a witch?”
Travis shakes his head. “I know it sounds like we’re smoking weed, Mr. O’Neill, but Scout’s honor, I saw it with my own eyes. And I had to help out because I feel sort of responsible, seeing as how we woke them up and everything.”
My dad nods. “It’s important to fulfill one’s responsibilities.” He looks at me.
“Can we go?” I say. “Talia could be getting stabbed to death with a spindle right now.”
I’m not really serious when I say it, but after the words come out, I sort of am. I want to see Talia again. I want her to be okay. And I want it to be now.
Chapter 42:
Talia
Malvolia does not bind me or place me under a spell during the night. Rather, she enchants the locks on the windows and doors so that I cannot escape without her knowledge. Jack’s family had a similar invention in the twenty-first century, an alarm system, it was called.
When morning comes, I return to sewing. The bodice is nearly finished but for the buttonholes. The skirt should be short work. I hope I might live another night.
I stop to admire my handiwork.
“Keep at it,” Malvolia snaps. She has been in a particularly sour mood today.
“I am sorry. It is just so…lovely.” I must try again to strike up a conversation with her. It is my only hope of survival. “You have been kind to me. Were you to release me, I would speak to Father on your behalf. I would persuade him to make amends…for not inviting you to my christening party.”
“Your christening party? Is that what you believe this to be about?”
“That is what I was told, and you have not told me otherwise. Is it not the case?” I make one small stitch, then pause, awaiting her response.
“No. It is not.” She glances at the stitches, and I believe she will hurry me on, but instead she says, “Were I you, I would not be so determined to live. Your father is angry for what you did. You have destroyed his kingdom. Indeed, it may not be a kingdom at all, and he may not be a king. And as for your marital prospects, any prince you might have married is dead. What have you to live for?”
It seems that if I had nothing to live for, allowing me to live would be far worse punishment than killing me. But I say, “I am in love.”
“Impossible.” But the old lady leans toward me. “With whom could you be in love?”
“His name is Jack.” I abandon my sewing entirely. “He is the boy who kissed me awake.”
“A commoner who woke you under false pretenses. He was not your true love—merely some youth who stumbled upon you and thought you pretty.”
“This may have been true. But as time passed, we fell in love. He was kind, and he watched over me.” Malvolia does not attempt to silence me, so I continue on, telling her of Jack, of running away, of the airplane and the party and Jack’s parents and, finally, of the moment when he said he loved me. “You were there for that,” I tell her. “At least, I thought I saw you in the face of the water lily.”
“Aye. I was there. And you say you are in love with this boy?”
“Yes. I was not at first, when he woke me. But as I grew to know him better, to see how kind he was, not merely because I was a princess, but because he liked me, I grew to love him.”
Malvolia’s face is thoughtful. “Indeed. And what did you say th
is boy’s name is?”
“Jack.” The syllable comes out as a sob, not merely due to my sorrow at not seeing Jack, but for another reason. “He cared for me, and I fear he will be destroyed if I die. He is innocent in this.”
“And he loves you, too?”
I nod. There is something in Malvolia’s black eyes, a humanity I have not seen before.
But then she says, “We have wasted enough time. Back to your sewing.”
I start slowly again, admiring the beauty of each and every stitch. After some time, I say, “Please, Malvolia. Will you not tell me why you hate my father so? You intend to kill me. The least you could do is explain why.”
“The least I could do is nothing.” She gestures at me to return to my sewing. “And you had better to ask why he hates me so much, for it was with him that the animosity began.”
I nod. “Then tell me that. My parents were far too inclined to keep me in the dark, and I am afraid there is much I know not.”
“Indeed. What you know not would fill books.”
For a long while, the only sound in the room is the smooth silk against the roughness of my cotton sleep pants. But finally, she says, “Did you know that your family had another babe before you?”
“That is a lie!” I say, and I am certain it is. Had I not been told that I was my parents’ only child? That they had dreamed of having a babe? That I was the answer to their prayers—the sole answer?
“Indeed, then, they did not tell you much. Two years before your birth, your parents had another child, a boy named George.”
A boy! And named for my grandfather George. How happy my father would have been to have a male heir. Still, it cannot be true.
“I was employed as a seamstress in the castle, as were many of the kingdom’s fairies.”
I know that Malvolia is a witch, not a fairy, but I elect not to press this point. Rather, I lay down my sewing and listen to her story.
“As after your own birth, your parents planned a lavish christening party, and I—as the most accomplished seamstress in the land—was assigned to make the clothing for the occasion, a christening gown for your brother, and a dress for your mother.