Charming, Volume 2 (20 page)

 

Epilogue

Wishing, Well

GWEN SAT HEAVILY
on the low stone wall that surrounded her well and mopped her brow with one of the headscarves she had taken to wearing. She looked about at her new home from the vantage of the small hillock on which the well was situated. It really wasn't such an unpleasant place. The King had sent his men to repair the little house so that it was livable, and she found the valley enchanting. The air was clean and rich with the smells of earth and growth. Because the land had been allowed to lie fallow, the rains of late spring had brought forth a brilliant mixture of multicolored wildflowers and exuberant weeds, interspersed here and there by the occasional deep green of a rogue stalk of corn. The effect was wild and beautiful, if not very productive. She would need to find a way to till those fields, but for now, she would enjoy the flowered needlepoint of the land. Maybe she could be content here.

She unlatched the winch and dropped the bucket down the well. After a slight delay, she heard a distant, echoing splash. She waited for the bucket to sink and began winching the vessel back up from the cool depths. Her muscles were still unaccustomed to the exercise, and she distracted herself from the effort by thinking of the pleasure of the cool water to come. “Perhaps I shall treat myself to a wash this evening.”

The bucket came into sight. She caught hold of the handle and pulled it onto the wall of the well. She plunged her cupped hands into the water for a drink. There was an initial glorious cool and then something slimy brushed against her fingers and started to slither up the wrist of her right arm. She got an impression of something small and green, and then shrieking, jerked back in shock, sending whatever it was flying back into the bucket.

“A SNAKE! A SNAKE!” she screamed, and leapt off the well, flapping her arms in alarm.

From a safe position, several strides away, she watched the bucket for any sign of life. Nothing stirred. “Maybe it was just your imagination,” she suggested to herself. “You always have been a little hysterical.”

In answer, something moved and a splash of water sloshed down the wooden side of the bucket. “And that was my imagination also, I suppose,” she hissed. “This is not a matter of hysterics. There is a snake in there, and why not? Of course, there would be snakes in the well, and just when I thought I might be able to tolerate the place.”

Gwen stared at the bucket. She considered retreating back to the house and letting whatever it was lie. But she couldn't bear the thought of a night spent with no tea and no bath. “It's my water, and I'm going to have it, snake or no.”

She picked up a good-­sized rock and cautiously approached the bucket. As she got closer, she could see ripples on the surface of the water. She sucked in a few gulps of air to try and calm her shaking hands, and then rushed forward. A small green head appeared above the edge of the bucket along with a pair of black eyes rimmed in yellow. The eyes widened in alarm as they saw her and the rock, and disappeared again.

“Please, spare me, gracious lady!” came a voice from within the bucket. It had a foreign accent and a creaking quality, but the words were most definite.

Gwen stopped in midstride, her mouth held open in stunned silence. She looked around to see if there was someone hiding nearby, playing some kind of cruel trick on her. The children from the village did like to taunt her and throw mud clods at her back whenever she went to market. Gwen supposed that they, not unreasonably, thought she was a witch.

But she saw no one. She was alone—­at least alone, save for the creature that had taken up residence in her bucket. She steeled herself. “Show yourself.”

That strange, deep voice answered back, “Do you still have the rock?”

“No,” she said brightly, and hid the stone behind her back.

The top of the head popped over the edge of the bucket, and those strange black eyes peered at her suspiciously. “You are lying,” said the creature, and it disappeared again.

“No, no, I dropped it,” she said with a shake of her head.

The eyes appeared again and then narrowed. “You are hiding it behind your back.”

She blushed at being found out. “I will drop it if you show yourself.”

The lumpy green head shook back and forth. “You drop your rock and I'll climb out.”

“You don't trust me?”

“No,” the creature croaked.

She pursed her lips in irritation. “Fine, but you are being childish.” She extended her arms out wide and dropped the rock.

The little green head looked back and forth between Gwen and the rock and then nodded. “All right, I'm coming out.”

There was a splashing noise and a flurry of tangled green limbs, and then, between one blink and the next, a frog was sitting on the lip of the bucket. Its body was only about the size of one of her open hands, vibrant green, and smooth as wet glass.

“You are a frog,” she said in disbelief.

“Ah, my nature is revealed,” the frog responded with humor. It stood and took a quick bow. “Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Montaigno Ricardo, Esq., and I am—­”

Gwen's eye caught the glint of something golden around the frog's neck. She took a ­couple of quick paces until they were only an arm's-­length apart. She squinted. There it was, a golden necklace with a frog-­shaped amulet in miniature. She laughed and said in a dry monotone, “Let me guess, you are a prince who made a fairy wish ages ago that ended with you being turned into a frog, and now you need to find love's first kiss to break the spell.”

The frog blinked up at her in surprise. “It is just so, milady!” And then added quickly, “More or less. You . . . You read my mind. Are you a sorceress?”

Gwen shook her head. “No, I'm not a witch,” she said, and then added under her breath, “anymore.” She smiled grimly at nothing and addressed herself to the frog. “Fairy wishes and curses are more common than you would think.”

The frog made a movement with its eyes that, had it had hair, would have resulted in a magnificently arched eyebrow. “I see.” It cocked its head to the side and studied her as she contemplated the ground at her feet, lost in thought. “Are you quite all right, fair damsel?” it said. “You seem preoccupied.”

“What?” she asked, looking up. “Yes, yes, I'm fine.”

“Yes, well, this is not the usual reaction I receive from the ladies.”

She looked at the little green frog with a thin smile and an arch of her own eyebrow. “And, what is the ‘usual' reaction?”

The frog gave a Gallic shrug. “Well, usually there is a lot of screaming, and maybe some fainting, or if not that, then there is certainly the throwing of the shoes, which, to be honest, I thought was the direction you were taking at first.”

“I admit I was tempted,” Gwen said dryly. “But I only have the one pair, and you are such a handsome frog.”

“You mock me,” the frog said with an exaggerated frown. “I don't blame you. I am repulsive, it is true, but,” he raised a finger and gave her a sly grin, “there was a time when the maidens, well, I don't like to speak out of turn when I am with a lady, but suffice it to say I was quite popular.”

Gwen favored the frog with a sour smile. “In my experience, when men talk like that, it can mean only one thing. They have been behaving very badly.”

The frog dropped his head and frowned, this time with genuine sorrow. “You are right, of course.” He hopped down from the bucket and paced gracefully back and forth across the stone wall, gesturing here and there with his painfully thin green arms. “I was the worst sort of rake. I was a scoundrel, a Lothario, constantly trifling with the hearts of the ladies. And now?”—­he made a sweeping gesture with his arms—­“and now, I serve a penance most fitting. I am made to be forever repulsive to the fairer sex. Unless . . .” He suddenly jerked his head up and gazed hopefully at her.

She shook her head. “No.”

He fell to his knees on the stones, flippered hands held in supplication before him. “Please, fair one, you are a lady.”

“Nice of you to notice.”

“No! No!” he said so loudly that he croaked. “Excuse me, it happens when I get excited.” He shook a flipper at her. “I think you are making of me the fun perhaps? Let me put it to you as best as I can.”

He dropped to one knee, and, placing his fore-­flippers over his heart, said, “You are a beauty for the ages. You are fair as the rising of the sun. Truly do the heavens blush in shame that they cannot crown you with the glory befitting your grace.”

She held up her hands to stop him. “You should stop while you are ahead, Frog. I think I get the idea.”

“But, no,” he said earnestly, “you do not. You see, when the fairy put the curse on me, it said that I must receive the kiss of love most true to break the spell, but that was not the only condition. No!” He rose and crossed until he was as close as the wall would allow. “The fairy also said that the kiss, it must come from a princess.”

“Why?” Gwen blurted out.

The frog smiled sadly. “The fairy said that I might be able to convince a . . . well a . . .”

“Farmer?” she offered.

“I think
peasant
was the word the fairy used,” the frog said apologetically. “The fairy said that I might be able to convince a peasant to kiss me with promises of riches to come, but for a princess to do so would mean that I had been able to woo with the earnestness of my request alone, for what could a frog possibly offer a princess to induce her to kiss it?”

Gwen nodded. “Yes, that sounds like the fairy.”

“But let us cast that aside for the moment,” he said in a bright voice. “Here I find in you a beauty that outshines even the most noble of ladies in the grandest of courts.” He stopped to trace the curved outline of Gwen's body in the air with one of his flippers in a way that made her wish for a moment that he was a man. “Surely, a kiss from your glorious lips, from a lady with your beauty and virtue, would match anything that might be bestowed by a lady of the court.”

At the word
virtue
, she felt shame well up in her breast. She could not meet the frog's eyes and instead found herself talking to the ground. “I am sorry, Montaigno.”

“Please, call me Monty, fair lady.”

She looked at him, but her voice was heavy and slow with sorrow. “I am sorry, Monty, but if you are looking for a lady of virtue, then I am the last woman in Royaume that you should wish to have kiss you.”

“I don't understand. I know you are not a princess, but I am willing to take that risk. You must believe me when I say that I have never met a maiden fairer than you, or that carries herself with greater nobility. If you are not a princess, it is merely an error of birth and not character.”

“It won't work,” Gwen said, shaking her head. “Trust me, Monty, if anyone would know what it takes to break a fairy's curse, I would, and I am not what you need.” Tears glistened in her eyes, and she dropped her gaze back to her feet.

“Dear lady,” he said in a voice soft as rain and filled with concern, “I can see that you are suffering. If I can help?”

“Stop,” she shouted. “You don't know me, Monty, and to understand why I refuse, you must.” Gwen inhaled deeply, trying to keep the bitterness from rising again, and when her eyes rose at last to meet his, they burned with intensity so much so that she seemed to be staring through him. “Monsieur Montaigno Ricardo, I will tell you the truth of myself. I am a wicked and wretched woman. I am accursed, and it has been ordered that I should be shunned for my deeds. That is what I am. That is why my kiss would be no boon to you. That is why it would be better if you found your way to some other well, where a woman of true virtue might find you and lend you her favor.”

At the end of her speech, she fell to her knees as though struck down. Apart from her dreams, which were always troubled, the shadows had not returned for some time, but Gwendolyn felt them now—­very close. She looked about nervously and saw that a thin black fog seemed to be rising from the depths of the well. A shuddering sob escaped her and she scrambled backward in the dirt, away from the sudden menace.

In an instant, the frog was beside her on the ground, his outstretched flipper resting on her hand. “Please, fair lady, you must not torture yourself this way. My presence has caused you distress. I will take my leave, but before I do, let me tell you this. It is true we do not know one another, and I do not know what it is you may have done in your past, but I do know remorse most true when I see it. We, each of us, have a past. I am not proud of who I was when I was a man, but I yearn every day for the chance to prove that I have changed. Perhaps you, in your mercy, can grant me that chance. And, maybe, in helping someone even more desolate than yourself, you can also find the grace to forgive yourself.”

Gwen looked up at this, her eyes still wet with tears. “I am afraid, Monty.”

“But why?” he asked. “If the kiss does not work, I am still a frog and you are still a woman most beautiful. I will withdraw from this place forever and never again darken your door, or well for that matter. I am willing to take the chance of failure, why are you not?”

“Because I am, I was, a princess,” she whispered.

His eyes widened in surprise, but he said calmly, “And this is a problem because—­”

“Because, I was . . . I am Gwendolyn Mostfair,” she said so softly that it might have been a prayer.

Monty's eyes widened even further until they seemed to fill his face. “You are the Princess of the story? Then this is destiny. If you will but grant me the favor of your kiss, all will be well. I will, once more be a man.”

“But if we fail . . .”

“We won't, fair one. There can be no lady in any land more noble than you.”