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Authors: Camille Griep

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BOOK: Letters to Zell
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I
mportant Fucking Correspondence from Snow B. White

Onyx Manor

West Road, Grimmland

Z,

So, now that you can’t come to my wedding, you’re the most prolific profferer of postcards ever? Or just the penpal who’s most curious about my adventures?

Yes, I flirted with a Human. Big fucking deal. I mean, I know what I used to say. But I can change my mind, just like the rest of you, can’t I? Humans can’t
all
be assholes, right? Head of Soufflés herself can’t be responsible for techno music, Chia Pets,
and
pies in a jar.

Besides, here I am, back where that nonsense exists safely between the covers of
Cosmo
. So yeah, maybe I’d like one of those cell phones. But who wouldn’t? They’re a lot more pleasant than pigeons (sorry, Cliff) but only because they don’t shit all over the floor.

Stupid Figgy and her stupid scare tactics. When we were young she told us there would come a time when the Humans died off, their imaginations blinking out like stars, and us along with them. Even if she’s right, that day isn’t today. It won’t be tomorrow, either. Their imaginations seem as healthy as ever.

Case in point: We get Outside and some kid tells Rory about this park full of princesses called
Disneyland
. Head of Soufflés corroborates the tale. Not only is it a real place, they apparently tell Rory’s story to little girls—some sort of gussied-up version that’s all a pile of cakes and singing birds and Fairy Godmothers warring over evening gown colors instead of philosophy. Their retelling is nicer. It skips over the part where Rory’s parents kept her in isolation under lock and key and the part where they burned all of her belongings to play the old “No princess here!” card whenever Malice returned. Most bafflingly, Humans don’t even seem to know about the Fred business.

Figgy would say their minds are shutting down—they’re forgetting. But I think it’s just the opposite—maybe they’re too fond of retelling stories, reshaping them to what’s safe and comfortable. I should send a strongly worded letter to their equivalent of the
Tiara Tattler
.

Then again, if Rory doesn’t want to remember Fred, why would the Humans? He tried to outwit fate with brawn. I suppose that storyline has been done to death Outside. Sure, he saved Rory’s life, but only because Grimmland got hit with four seasons at once and Malice had to put everyone to sleep before they wandered outside and were flattened by a flying cow.

Of course Rory would never admit to being in mourning or denial or anything else, for that matter. She acts like everything is just a step away from perfect. You and CeCi think she’s got her geese in a row, but she’s completely delusional about her own imbecilic imbroglio. I don’t know how she can be an expert on everyone else and still miss the fact that Henry is an overbearing, overloud, overwrought orangutan. (And those are his good points.) He’s a moron and yet still smart enough to be an effective bully.

I can understand where he gets his bluster, because he probably has to spin the story in his favor just to look in the mirror in the morning. He can pretend he’s exactly who Figgy inserted into the end of Rory’s Pages—a savior. Here’s her kingdom under its sleepy-time spell and most of the guys trying to break in end up in coffins. At the end of the century—and, conveniently, the spell—along comes Henry. He saunters in behind a couple of servants with sharp axes and avoids so much as a bramble scratch.

Picture it: At this point, Rory’s already up, but out of it, blinking and rubbing her eyes and trying to sift what she remembers into the right category—dream or reality. She’s still in love with Fred and at first she thinks he’s her miraculous rescuer.

Then she has the horrible realization that Henry isn’t Fred and Fred won’t ever come back and she doesn’t even have time to be sad about it because she has new Pages to complete. Still, she’s alive and the Realm is safe, so who is she to question Henry’s unbidden advances?

It isn’t as if her parents helped any by offering to bestow their kingdom upon the couple as soon as Henry produced an heir. And then there are Henry’s parents, who insisted Henry had saved everyone’s life and was owed even more. If ever a wedding deserved its own TV movie, it was probably theirs—or so I gather from reading
Entertainment Weekly
.

Despite all their misguided storytelling, I’m not convinced Humans get to decide when things are over any more than Figgy does. We all—Humans and Fairy Tales alike—stop living when we stop dreaming. So screw Figgy. I’ll go and dream where I want, Pages be damned.

And just maybe with whoever I want, too. Yes, Zell, I’m attracted to girls
and
guys. I appreciate beauty in all forms. And I appreciate being appreciated by all forms. Besides, I have a very short time to live things up before I marry my very own Sir Come to the Rescue next month. After that I’ll be responsible to a whole palace, and no amount of soufflé will change that.

And while we’re on that subject, you’ve written lots of nice notes, but nary a good excuse for why you’re not coming to my wedding. I don’t even know why I’m still writing to you, except otherwise I’d have to go share my thoughts with our new friend, Princess Pea Brain (who is
still
talking about her mattress problems). And that’s definitely
not
going to happen.

B

Princess Briar R. Rose

Somnolent Tower Castle

South Road, Grimmland

Dearest Zell,

Are you sure you can’t reconsider being here for Bianca’s wedding? I’m not sure if CeCi and I are prepared to manage this very Bianca-style event all by ourselves.

It isn’t even so much the wedding planning, though securing approval for even the smallest detail is impossible. The real problem is that Bianca is so obstinate about love. She already knows there’s no way around the fact that she simply must marry William. It’s right there in her Pages. If she’d just let herself fall in love with him, everything would work itself out. He must be humoring her with all that friendship and respect nonsense, don’t you think? It’s so nouveau, the idea that she might live independently once they’re married, but surely he can’t mean to follow through with such poppycock.

That must be why she hated
The Cake and the Damned
so much. Of course she’s angry because she has to follow protocol instead of her whims. No one was around to tell her no when she was young, and no one has had the heart to since she survived the poisoned apple.

I suppose what I’m trying to say is, it isn’t as if any of the rest of us got to choose who completed our Pages. Someday Henry will want to be my friend as well as my husband. Despite what everyone seems to think, I already
know
love requires work.

Bianca, on the other hand, chases love away. She and William are already good friends. Love is the logical next step, isn’t it? Instead of welcoming it, she’s living out some petulant rebellion, misdirected anger at her abuse by that madwoman Valborg. (Grimm forbid we say anything about her father’s role in the whole mess.)

Perhaps the bigger problem is that Bianca is up to her elbows in indebtedness. First, she’s beholden to William for his genuine—albeit clumsy—assistance. It would have been so much more romantic if he’d woken her up with a kiss rather than by dislodging the apple she was choking on when he dropped her coffin. But we all know it almost never happens
exactly
the way it’s supposed to.

If that debt weren’t enough, she’s busy petitioning the Fairy Council to rescind the ban on that Huntsman who set her free all those years ago. Bianca claims she was his first and last mark; she insists that he couldn’t say no to Queen Valborg, but that he made the right decision in the end.

Then there are the dwarves. They’ve been good friends to Bianca, and she feels she owes them for her safekeeping. She probably doesn’t listen to them, either. They’ve surely encouraged her to give love a chance. Except for the one with the terrible allergies, they’re all coupled up these days—two pairs within the group, one with Goldi, and, since you left, another with Muffet.

My point is that Bianca most likely resents having so many people to please in her life. And all that resentment is just misplaced passion, isn’t it?

She says she doesn’t want to get married, but what could she possibly know about marriage itself? Her father was constantly back and forth between Grimmland and who knows where. Short trips, long trips, trips when he was with Bianca’s mother, trips when he was with Valborg. Her stepmother was not exactly a paradigm of love and communication, either, except with that damned mirror. (If Bianca would only try to read the romance novels I give her, perhaps she’d have a bit more hope.)

Our futures are inevitable, Zell. And yet Bianca is so belligerent about the life she will one day lead. I’ve tried explaining to her that I could have sulked when I woke up, but instead I tried to accept what happened gracefully.

Bianca has her theories on whether the new Pages Figgy gave me were binding, but in truth, it doesn’t matter anymore. They’re complete now, and I’m living my life accordingly. Henry and I might not have been what the other expected when the celebrating was all finished, but I’m still trying to make it work, and Bianca should make an effort, too.

I don’t mean to sound as if I don’t appreciate what Fred did to save me—I wouldn’t be writing you this letter had he not tried to destroy my original Pages. It was the ultimate Romantic Gesture, and he paid the price with his exile.

I wish you all could have known Fred. If you had, you’d know that True Love
is
real. The first time we ever spoke, I was filled with elation, an energy—not unlike the way you can feel music through the floor. It was like my whole world was suddenly clearer. And I never wanted to return to the way I felt before.

Once you’ve been loved a certain way, it’s hard not to expect to feel the same again. Though now I suspect that love is a different sensation for everyone and every relationship.

So it seems for Henry and me. Here are the things I know we have in common so far:

 

Likes
:

Wine

Roast beef

 

Dislikes
:

Sharing a bed

Sharing a wardrobe

Versions of how we met

 

A relationship based on wine and roast beef isn’t much to go on. But it is
something
. The point is, Fred’s intentions were true, but we still lived lives apart. If Figgy’s Pages say Henry is my True Love, then so be it.

I have faith Bianca will come around. If I can just convince her to concentrate on her wedding—on William—perhaps she’ll see herself as I do: a princess worthy of a crown. When Figgy hands her that stack of golden, stamped Pages after her wedding, she’ll change her attitude.

I wish I could count on CeCi’s help, but she was no better after she completed her own Pages. Remember when Figgy handed her the seal of completion and CeCi threw it into the fireplace? I think she was so scared of starting over, she made her new life as close to her old life as possible, even keeping her stepsisters and that terrible Lucinda around.

This cooking obsession of hers isn’t any different. She’s returning to what’s comfortable, despite the fact that it’s not queenly by any stretch of the imagination. Edmund’s parents have been on their farewell tour, preparing to hand over shared rule of Grimmland to Edmund, William, and Henry, for what seems like aeons. When they find out they’re coming home to a daughter-in-law who’s traded her scepter for a slotted spoon, they’re likely to keel over from shock.

You and CeCi can do whatever you want, running hither and thither. But I’m setting a good example by embracing my destiny—it’s supposed to bring me exactly what I want and need. And I’m certain that it will, if I’m patient. It isn’t as if we don’t all have doubts. My love for Henry is a different kind of love than I had with Fred, but roast beef and wine are just the first step. Soon I think we’ll even try sleeping in the same room—well, you know, aside from our scheduled relations.

If I can try, so can Bianca.

Love,

Rory

A
Princess Considered

F
rom the Desk of Cecilia Cinder Charming

Crystal Palace

North Road, Grimmland

Dear Zell,

Thank you for the birthday present. I’ll find somewhere to display my new unicorn magnet—though I don’t have much metal in my room. Having something from your gift shop is certainly very exciting. I would have also liked a long letter detailing everything that’s been going on since you got to Oz, but I suppose your days are best left to the imagination.

For example, I imagine that you wake up in the morning and take a walk around the property, feeding the unicorns apples or cubes of sugar as you go. Then, you return to the kitchen, where the staff has prepared breakfast and the sun shines in on the table and highlights the steam from the oatmeal and the eggs. The kids tell you they love you before they leave for the house of the tutor (who must be the wife of your farrier or groom), and Jason gives you a long and passionate kiss before the two of you walk out the door to start your day, hand in hand.

You spend your time greeting your guests and telling them about your mission and your aspirations. Women bring you cake and tea and want to spend time with you because you’re so much fun to talk to. Jason shows the men around the property and they clap him on the back and congratulate him for a job well done. You gather again for dinner, laughing about the day. The moonlight sparkles as you count the stars from the window of the children’s bedroom. You drink a couple of glasses of strawberry wine. And at the end of the day Jason loves you doubly with his hands, his body, in order to see you with his mind, remembering his former blindness.

If any of that is incorrect, please feel free to elaborate.

Rory and Bianca, of course, came to the birthday dinner Edmund threw for me, but they gave me their gifts during a quiet moment in the garden. Rory gifted me the most beautiful apron that she commissioned from Rumple’s.

“For your next culinary adventure,” she said.

I tried hard not to cry, but it seemed so hopeless. The most beautiful apron, green with polka dots and a giant thick bow and ruffles—almost like a dress in itself—and no possibility of ever using it. “It’s so pretty” was all I could choke out. Rory’s face fell from expectation to puzzlement to that horrible, guilt-inducing concern. You know the look.

Before I could start genuine waterworks, Bianca stepped between us and shoved a big envelope into my hand. It was a welcome packet for a yearlong cooking course Outside at Le Cordon Bleu in West Hollywood—not far from where we took the soufflé class. A letter inside said that my schooling had met the admissions requirements, my tuition for the year had been paid, and there was one last test to take before my enrollment was complete. When I’m finished, I’ll have a diploma in the Culinary Arts.

I can’t believe it. I have no idea how I’ll get the last test completed or how I’ll get to and from the classes or how Bianca even managed the application or anything but, Zell, I’m so excited. I’ll figure it all out. With everyone’s help.

With Bianca’s help, at least. I’m not sure Rory is on board with the plan. (She didn’t say much, and her eyes got really big before she started gulping air like a beached carp.) We agreed to keep it a secret—well, excluding you—so don’t say anything to anyone until I figure out how to break the news.

It was good Rory’s apron was so extravagant. Edmund saw me putting it in my dresser after we retired to our chambers.

“What is that?” he asked, uncorking one last bottle of champagne.

“Oh, it’s just a gift from Rory.”

“Is it a dress? It’s very . . . green.”

“Not quite.” His face registered brief confusion.

“You could give me a fashion show,” he said, and winked.

I closed the drawer and turned to him. “Did you have a good time at the party?”

“Of course,” he said. “Did you? I was worried when you disappeared, but then I noticed Thing One and Thing Two were also missing.”

“Stop,” I said, laughing. “You can’t call them that.”

“Forgive me, your highness.” He looked at me intently, waiting for me to meet his eyes. But I was still so overwhelmed.

I gave him a quick smile. “I’m sorry I worried you. We had some, you know, secret girl stuff to attend to.”

“Of course. It’s silly. I know you aren’t skulking around or anything. I guess if I’m honest I just, well.
 . .
Never mind.”

“What? No. Tell me.”

He took a long sip of his champagne. “I don’t want to sound controlling. I’m not. We have friends whose relationships aren’t like ours. The fisherman’s wife is always fencing his worms because she wants him to take a day off. The shoemaker is always ordering gifts for Gretel from Jimmy Choo and passing them off as his own. The point is, other couples keep things from each other. And I don’t want that for us.”

“I don’t want that, either,” I said. I could feel my neck and ears flushing. My gifts were evidence of a crime I hadn’t yet committed, but most certainly meant to.

“I can make soufflé,” I blurted. “It’s hard to do.”

“Of course you can,” he said, putting his arm around me. “You could make a thousand impossible soufflés. But now let’s leave the difficult stuff to someone else.”

Zell, I let him kiss me then. I didn’t try to argue. We’re not speaking the same language right now. Perhaps when I can prove to him, to everyone, that this is more than a hobby to me, they’ll be much more amenable to the idea. Right?

To thank the girls for their gifts, I’m planning on cooking a secret luncheon next week. Do you think you could make it? I know things aren’t great with your mother-in-law, but at least consider it? We could drink strawberry wine and play Mad Libs for old times’ sake?

Love,

CeCi

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