Letters to Zell (3 page)

I
mportant Fucking Correspondence from Snow B. White

Onyx Manor

West Road, Grimmland

Z,

Thanks to Rosemount and his big yap, CeCi’s been mooning over this cooking class business, so I said, screw it, let’s go see what the big fucking deal is.

Besides, we can’t expect CeCi to be satisfied flouncing down to that poor excuse for a cooking school on Drury Lane for “Muffin Stuffin Saturdays” the rest of her life.

And before you tell me to be less incautious (like Rory does five times a day), I have my father’s maps and his money and his diaries and his last letter with instructions on how to navigate all the major kingdoms in (and out) of the Realm.

Going Outside will let us compare notes as soon as he gets back for the wedding. The Pigeon Post will find him any day now, I’m sure of it. And instead of awkward silences or his poor choice in brides, we’ll be able to talk about something we both enjoy, about the big wide world and our place in it. Or whatever. We can start a new relationship, one that lets stepmothers named Valborg be bygones.

After sorting things out with Solace, we’re off, and I locate a taxi. Rory asks the driver a thousand irritating questions, and we arrive at the class venue around noon. CeCi and Rory are too nervous to go in, so I try the door and it swings open into a high-ceilinged, glassy box of a room filled with long countertops, banks of sinks, and a back wall of oven ranges. I learn several things, herein.

First, being early is not a virtue appreciated on Earth. Second, despite the fact I’m
already
wearing Human clothing, the man at the front desk tells me we won’t be allowed to take class that evening unless we find
different
clothing, insisting I’m wearing too little clothing and Rory and CeCi are wearing too much. I try to explain we know how to handle ourselves around open flames. But alas, Humans seem to have an outfit for
every
activity.

The shopping turns out to be pretty fun. The soufflé class, however, is ungodly boring. Add this, stir that, fold this, blend that. To top it all off, the Head of Soufflés makes me put on a pair of ugly rubbery shoes because she’s convinced that I’m going to slice my toes off. I ask her why they’re so orange and so homely and she mutters something about it being the nature of crocodiles. (I’ll have to ask Hook about it the next time I see him at Shambles.)

Rory and I manage the class just fine and neither of us falls asleep. Head of Soufflés shows off her witty repartee when she’s not winking at me, and I find myself asking a lot of questions during oven time. Just before she heads back to the front of the room, she slips me a piece of paper inviting me for drinks after class.

I expect Rory and CeCi to be staring at me with some manner of accusation, but when I turn toward their corner of the room, they aren’t even paying attention. Rory is clapping her hands at CeCi, who is positively beaming over her perfectly brown dish of pastry pudding. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look so happy. It’s like she’s glowing from the inside. Covered with pixie dust.

Part of me feels the same. I’m free here. I can enjoy the attention of the Head of Soufflés and listen to all the silly Humans talk about the books they’ve read and the music they’ve heard and the trips they’ve taken. It feels like anything’s possible here. Well, anything but achieving my own cooking milestone.

When I reach the ovens, I pull out a black, smoking mass. Everyone laughs.

B

PS.
Hell yeah! My new pigeon Cliff just brought me your wedding RSVP.
The three of us have
always
been bridesmaids for each other. My wedding will be the last one, and you just bail without any explanation? You can’t make it for one stupid day? There’s no “I wish I could be there with the remorse of a thousand flatulent unicorns, Bianca,” or “Sorry, Bianca, but you are the least important to me,” or “Fuck you, Bianca.” Just nothing. Just a check in the box that says, “Regrets.”

PPS. What the hell are you doing out there, anyway? Are unicorns too stupid to find their own sustenance—stumbling around like CeCi after a night of drinking? Sometimes I don’t know why I bother with any of you.

Princess Briar R. Rose

Somnolent Tower Castle

South Road, Grimmland

Zell darling,

I’m so sorry for cutting off our cooking school tale in my last letter, but lately I’ve been dropping off faster than a ripe apple. Not a poisonous apple, mind you, just a regular one. Heavy, but medium sized, not overly shiny—

Sorry. Can you believe it just happened
again
? Anyhow, I want to make sure you get the full picture of how thoroughly your departure has kindled our friends’ wild imaginations.

CeCi took to the soufflé class like a duck to water. Most of us churned out acceptable dishes, but hers was extraordinary in aesthetic and flavor. Of course I’m the only one who noticed. The woman Bianca dubbed “Head of Soufflés” seemed to embrace her new moniker, not to mention Bianca herself. (This turned out to be fortunate because she was right there with the fire extinguisher when Bianca finally remembered to remove her dessert from the oven.)

Bianca gave her signature half smile and a curtsy to the rapt attendees, and said, “This is why I let my servants cook!” No one would suspect for a moment she’s soon to become the queen of anything, let alone Onyx Manor.

We don’t have to worry about blending in—the inhabitants of Los Angeles seem to be more than a bit zany. The class was full of all manner of people, men and women, old and young, plump and reedy. The one trait that seemed to unite them was a love of putting all these small things into a big dish and having something completely different appear. I can see how cooking is a kind of magic to some. But, truth be told, as a hobby it makes me yawn.

After the class, the instructor joined us for drinks at a restaurant next door. She tolerated a few of CeCi’s questions about how she’d learned to cook and then, despite my repeated throat-clearing, told her about culinary school for people who want to learn to cook as a vocation. After that, CeCi fell silent and would not be distracted by any topic of conversation. Bianca and the instructor discussed absolutely nothing of substance, so I dozed off for a bit, until I began to slide off my bar stool.

Bianca—either oblivious to the woman’s interest or in spite of it—didn’t mention her wedding even once. I felt sympathy for the soufflé woman’s romantic intentions. If only she knew how recent Bianca’s obsession with Humans and the Outside was. Had she heard one of Bianca’s diatribes about Humans a few months ago, she’d have run for the hills faster than a dormouse.

Finally, Bianca took pity on us and proposed that we locate a taxi—but there wasn’t an empty one to be found anywhere. The instructor began to laugh.

“It’s Saturday in West Hollywood,” she said, as if we were supposed to parse some intonation besides her clear disdain. “Where are you from again?” she asked.

“South,” said Bianca.

“You mean Orange County?”

“More south,” said Bianca.

“San Diego?”

“Small town. You wouldn’t have heard of it.”

“Do you need a ride somewhere?” she asked.

“The Magic Castle in the hills,” I whispered.

The instructor began laughing again, until we convinced her that we weren’t joking. “Either I’ve had too much to drink or not enough,” she said, jangling a set of keys. And so we all climbed inside her tall blue automobile.

On the way she began to glance at Bianca from the corner of her eye—not at all the kind of glances she had been giving her before.

“This isn’t exactly the way I saw this evening going,” she said.

Bianca looked chagrined. “Of course. We paid the taxi we took earlier. How much do you want?” She fished a wad of cash from her satchel and held it out. The soufflé woman looked at Bianca as if she had turned into Medusa.

“I’m sorry,” CeCi said, trying to diffuse the palpable discomfort. “It’s my fault for not explaining. We’re on a schedule.”

“See, we’re performers,” I added. Bianca, sadly, could not contain a snort. “We do magic tricks.” Thankfully, the soufflé woman did not ask for a demonstration.

She let us out at the end of the long driveway without so much as a good-bye. We hiked up the hill and went through the portal as discreetly as we could manage, though we heard gasps from a bunch of suited men puffing on white tobacco sticks nearby.

“What if she hadn’t given us a ride?” I said.

“What-ifs are a serious fucking waste of time,” Bianca said.

She was right. I know all too well that dwelling on things that didn’t happen doesn’t do anything but keep you from living.

It’s a good bit different than worrying about the future, though. I’ll try not to worry about that, and I hope you’ll try not to, either. Let’s not worry together.

Love,

Rory

F
rom the Desk of Cecilia Cinder Charming

Crystal Palace

North Road, Grimmland

Dear Zell,

I’m sorry about my last letter. I shouldn’t have ended it so harshly. I was mad that you weren’t there for our adventure and mad that we went at all because I liked going so much and I don’t know when we can go again. I’m mad because I feel like I’ve finally found my purpose and I’ll never be able to immerse myself fully.

Sure, I made meals for Lucinda and the twins for years, but she and the girls said my food tasted like donkey piss, and I believed them. I made simple things and I never pushed myself. Now, I feel as if I could be a success. I’ve never been talented at anything before. Remember the time I tried to help out at Rumple’s and cut a hole in the rear of your Aunt Bess’s bustle?

I couldn’t wait to tell Edmund, so when he came home today, I met him at the gates. He was a little distracted talking about the Queen of Hearts’ opposition to the Byway (and everything else, for that matter) and next week’s Supporters of Robin Hood meeting, but I finally got him to listen for a moment.

“I want to do something extra special for the two of us.”

He put his arm around me and smiled. “I’d love that. What is it?”

“I want to make us a special dinner. Candles and wine and soufflé!”

“That’s a fantastic idea. I’ll tell the kitchen staff.”

“No. Thank you. You don’t have to tell the staff. I can do it.”

“Cook dinner? Well, of course you
can
. But the great part is that you don’t have to. Remember when I told you you’d never have to wait on people again?”

“Well, I just
 
.
 
.
 
. See, I want to do something for us. For you.”

And he held my face in his hands like he does sometimes and said, “Darling, toiling away in the kitchens is no longer your destiny. We rescued you from all that, remember.”

“But it would be like a gift, Ed.”

He stepped back. “I never want you to feel as if you owe something to me or that you serve me in some manner. I’m not that kind of guy. You know that, right?”

“Of course, but I just—”

“All you need to do is be your beautiful self. Besides, we couldn’t have everyone thinking I put you back in the kitchens, could we? Come now and see the gifts I’ve brought you.”

They were lovely gifts. They looked very bright and shiny, like things do when you’re trying not to cry. Once, he looked up and noticed and asked what was wrong, so I told him I was just happy to see him. That I’d missed him. At least that part was truth.

I did not tell him that he had misunderstood. That I was all at once in awe of the gracious man he is and heartsick that I hadn’t managed to explain myself coherently. Then I followed things up by lying, saying everything was fine when it wasn’t. That was a mistake because then I had to have sex while pretending that I didn’t want to cry.

The point is this: I want to cook. I’ve never wanted anything more in my life. And then again I don’t. I don’t want to make a mess. I don’t want to destroy the fragile truce between me and my life. Everything is fine just as it is. Do I need to go and upend everything? This is
your
fault for making me think I could have something else. For making me wonder. For letting me hope it would be okay to want anything other than what I have.

We’re princesses, damn it. Our job is to become queens. Our job is to wear pretty dresses and have even complexions and carry on inane conversations with other queens and wear crowns and capes and furs and ride sidesaddle and be demure at dinner. Our job is to love all of these things more than anything else. Our job is to churn out progeny and hand them over to nursemaids. Our job is to enjoy bread pudding when we really want chocolate mousse. Our job is to forget what we want and do what’s expected.

I don’t understand how you just quit that job, how you pulled on a set of riding breeches, tossed your circlets in a saddlebag, and rode off into the sunset. Bianca says that Jason’s mother has petitioned the Fairy Council to have you stripped of your title. When she’s done, not only won’t you be a queen, you’ll be homeless.

You probably think it doesn’t matter because you have your new place in Oz, but have you fully thought out the repercussions? I get it. You never want to find yourself trapped in another tower, metaphorical or otherwise. Maybe you don’t want another woman—your mother-in-law instead of that old kidnapping witch Gothel—calling the shots. But was it necessary to throw all of your old life away in order to ensure your autonomy?

I think of Darling and Sweetie spending their entire lives trying to become what I am now. They sacrificed their feet, their minds, their own desires to fit into a damned shoe. Then Figgy’s filthy starlings took their sight as they left my wedding. Ever since, they’ve clung to one another, frightened and miserable. They’re finally safe, and here I am contemplating risking their futures for a few scones?

I hear them all day, shambling around the hallways, Lucinda yelling at them to do this or that while I consider abandoning all my good fortune for one selfish desire. Don’t I owe it to them to just do my job, to be a good princess? How could a ridiculous dream be worth the risk in the end? Please tell me; you seem to know. I miss you.

Love,

CeCi