Letters to Zell (5 page)

I
mportant Fucking Correspondence from Snow B. White

Onyx Manor

West Road, Grimmland

Z,

Well, I certainly topped you this year for birthday gift giving. A magnet? Seriously, Zell. I know it might take awhile to build up trade credits in a new town, but what’s going on out there? Your postcards are vague at best, and at worst, insulting. You’ve been a lot of things throughout our friendship, but you’ve never been cheap before.

I should explain about CeCi’s classes. When we were Outside, I asked Head of Soufflés exactly where someone might go to school to become a “real chef.” And she suggested this Cord on Blue joint. Solace won’t let me go Outside on my own, lest I don’t finish my stupid Pages, so I started exchanging letters via Pigeon Post with the Humans at the school. She still has to take a test to finalize her admission—they insist that it be done in person. And we still have to get her those crocodile shoes and some knives and things. Rory already bought her an apron. Oh, and she has that nice magnet you sent that will be, let me think, oh yes, totally fucking useless.

You should have seen CeCi’s face, though. She was so happy. She looked free. For a second there I was almost jealous instead of self-satisfied.

Don’t worry. It didn’t last long.

CeCi has baked soufflés daily ever since we got back. She pays someone in the kitchen to clear off for a couple of hours after breakfast—telling the head cook she doesn’t want anyone to see her eating scones.

For her secret thank-you luncheon, we ate cheese soufflé for a first course and chocolate soufflé for dessert. I’m so looking forward to her starting classes so that perhaps a vegetable might eventually join the mix. I admit, the best accompaniment to lunch would have been your sickeningly sweet face, but I guess not even CeCi’s birthday rates your presence these days. I hope you’re settling in nicely, because your mother-in-law seems to have someone’s ear at Fairy Council and they’re actually considering your banishment. Not Jason or the kids, just
you
.

Speaking of banishments, I got some good news today about the Huntsman. He’s been allowed probationary access into Grimmland. He can visit during daylight hours, as long as he doesn’t make trouble. If he doesn’t take any more hit contracts this year, he’ll be allowed full access again. I feel victory is near and justice will be accomplished. The dwarves say he was an asshole for taking the job in the first place but I say he still saved my life. Plain and simple. Give the dude a break.

You must be receiving letters from Rory, right? Do you think I gave her too many wedding duties? She’s only on table decorations and music, but she seems more intense than usual. Maybe it’s because Maro, the pea princess, has been hanging around over the past couple of weeks. As pea princesses go, I suppose she’s fine. If Rory didn’t loathe her so much, I might even see if she fits into that third bridesmaid dress I’ve got lying around. Unless you change your mind.

CHANGE YOUR MIND, YOU SELFISH COW.

B

Princess Briar R. Rose

Somnolent Tower Castle

South Road, Grimmland

Rapunzel,

You have to come back this instant. If you come back, then this Maro woman will leave because, well, there won’t be enough chairs. Or teacups, will there? Or cake slices. Or plates.

CeCi invited her to the soufflé luncheon. We’ve only known her a little while, and she hasn’t lived in Grimmland for more than a couple of months. How do we know she can be trusted? If the rest of CeCi’s court finds out about her cooking, there will be
hell
to pay. Did she tell you she hasn’t even told Edmund yet? This is all going to blow up in our faces. And no one will be able to say I didn’t warn them. No one ever listens to me, though.
Rory’s always overreacting, isn’t she?
they say. Piffle.

I just have this feeling. Maro told us that the brouhaha about the mattresses was malicious gossip fabricated by the
Tattler
. Also she wears a pair of irritating wooden shoes everywhere—
clop clop clop
. She sounds like a two-legged horse. I must sound out of sorts to you, and I’m not trying to be. I suppose I’m simply not ready for a new addition to our social group. I tried to be nice. I tried to ask good questions, but everyone got mad at me.

“Why aren’t you home with your husband?” I asked. Bianca took a big slug of wine and CeCi made a face like I had spit in the salad.

Maro grew flushed around the neck. “You know, we’re still having the bedrooms redone. I swear, it’s like they haven’t redecorated in centuries.”

“So you’ll go back when they’re finished?”

“I’m sure Albert will come fetch me just as soon as things are ready.” She picked up her fork.

“But surely your court can handle the repairs. Why isn’t he here with you? Won’t he want to have relations?”

Maro stammered. Bianca refilled my glass and said, “You’ll have to excuse our friend. Sometimes, she can’t hold her wine, but she’s entertaining as hell.” I gave Bianca my best stern glare, but she kept sniggering into her port.

“Aren’t you homesick?” I had to figure out why Maro was hedging.

“I suppose so,” she answered, a strange smile on her face. “In a manner of speaking. But I’ve never lived anywhere for long. I guess I’ve just forgotten how to be homesick.”

I probably should have felt sorry for her, but I really did want to know why she wasn’t home keeping her husband company. “But you are going back, right?”

“Rory! Give it a rest.” CeCi swatted me with her napkin.

Maro didn’t answer me. She clopped away to flirt with one of the guards, and helped herself to another soufflé.

I can’t explain why I don’t trust her, but something about her sets me on edge. It’s as if she’s expecting something or maybe avoiding something—that’s a curious way to behave if you have the option to go back home, lumpy bed or not. Henry and I are still working on the particulars of a perfect relationship, but I wouldn’t dream of going to live somewhere else for six months, even if I liked that place very much. And while I can’t believe that Maro would also throw away her perfect ending, Bianca lit right up at discovering another adventuring spirit.

Bianca will be getting plenty of practice flitting about with CeCi and her cooking school nonsense. For someone who barely has enough patience to order off a catering menu, it’s almost unbelievable that Bianca was able to apply herself to anything as undoubtedly complex as school admissions. I’m just waiting for this to fall through and become CeCi’s great disappointment. Even if the classes are legitimate, what happens when someone finds out where they’re going? What if Bianca is only using CeCi’s classes as an excuse to explore Outside? What if something happens to them? What if someone asks me what’s going on? Has everyone gone mad?

I’d love to write more, but my presence has been requested at the Swinging Vine. I will try to be polite to Maro, despite the fact she makes my skin crawl. I know you’d say to avoid her, but that means I’d have to avoid everyone. Please come back so things can be normal again.

Love,

Rory

F
rom the Desk of Cecilia Cinder Charming

Crystal Palace

North Road, Grimmland

Dear Zell,

If you had bet me a thousand golden goblets, I’d have never guessed that Rory had the capacity to pour a drink over anybody’s head. Maybe there’s more going on with her than I thought. Regardless, our Sleeping Beauty officially has it out for the new girl.

Maybe it’s just Rory’s way of missing you. Or she’s scared that I’m trying to replace you. Which is silly. What harm can possibly come of making new friends? When I saw Maro downtown at Gretel’s buying bread, she seemed so lonely. Or maybe tentative. Or indecisive. Who knows? But I asked her to the luncheon, and she came. Unlike others who will remain unnamed, she did not complain about my two-soufflé menu.

Maybe you’ll understand Maro a bit better if I describe her to you. She’s got a toothy smile and a deep laugh. Her hair is that chestnut type of brown that all of us envy, but none of us have—you and I too blond, Rory and Bianca too dark. There’s something mysterious about her that I can’t quite put my finger on, something interesting, even shadowy. But we’ve only just met and I suppose I shouldn’t rush to judgment. Even though she and Rory didn’t get along terribly well at the luncheon, I had no idea things would get even worse.

Maro’s most notable fault, I’d say, is that she’s a tad overly affectionate. She’s constantly clutching my arm or Bianca’s shoulder. She plants kisses on lords and ladies and winks madly at anyone who passes by. Last night, she even tried her cleavage on DJ when we were having drinks at the Swinging Vine. He shook his head and said, “Honey, you are barking up the wrong tree.” I imagine he and Rolf had a good laugh at that one when he got home—being hit on by the loudest pair of shoes in Grimmland.

Meanwhile, Rory was whispering loudly to me that women like that “can’t ever be trusted.” I asked her how she knew and she told me that all of her romance novels said so. I told her I’d take it under advisement, but I also told her to relax.

I thought maybe things would settle down afterward, but I should have known better. Maro had just finished her exchange with DJ when she sat back down and asked how long Rory had been awake.

“Five years,” Rory answered. I know she hates the topic, though I was still surprised when she drained her wineglass.

“Do you miss your friends from back then?” Maro gave a pitying smile.

“Of course. But I know most of them lived full lives.”

“What do you mean, most of them?”

“Well, some of them. I don’t like to talk about
 . . .
”

“Oh my dear, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I merely wanted to hear the story. The curse. The daring rescue. The intrigue!”

“Intrigue?” Rory’s mouth was hanging open a bit. Mine, too.

“The kiss, darling. The kiss! It’s the most romantic story of all time!”

Bianca snorted. “Of
all
time?” She folded her arms in on herself in that indignant pose she takes. “No one actually gets woken up by a kiss, you know. That’s all embellishment by the Humans.”

“Oh, it’s just a figure of speech,” Maro said, waving a lazy hand at Bianca, who by this time was scowling.

“Henry came into the castle as I was waking up. I was still pretty out of it. It’s not that big of a deal,” Rory mumbled.

“Heavens, I hope you don’t let him hear that.” Maro gave a husky laugh, drawing her hand to her collarbone in dismay.

“Whatever do you mean?” asked Rory.

“No man wants to hear how
unimpressive
he is.”

“I didn’t say he was unimpressive. I simply pointed out that I was already awake. That maybe it wasn’t quite the big production everyone makes it out to be.”

“What a quaint little thing you are,” said Maro, leaning back. Rory looked up and her eyes had changed from grey to bright blue—you know, like they do when she gets super pissed off—and in one smooth motion, she grabbed
my
wine and poured it over Maro’s head.

Maro was prying, sure. I should have seen the conflagration coming. But I didn’t.

Rory made for the door. Bianca got up to follow her, but first she stopped, got right in my face, and said, “You. This is your fault. Fix it.”

I guess I’ll have to keep them apart, at least until they call a truce. I never wanted that from my friendships—little cliques and alliances. Secrets. Secrets from friends, secrets from Edmund. I thought it might be easier to tell him about the classes once I’ve graduated, but now I’m not so sure. What do you think, Zell?

Thank you for writing that nice long letter. I’m sorry that we’ve all put so much pressure on you to write, but it’s because we love you, and we assume the worst when we don’t hear anything. I’m glad you’ve found a new tutor for the children and very sorry Dorothy isn’t working out in the gift shop. I’m sure you’ll be better off finding a new helper. She had no right to drink all your hot chocolate then say the preserve was “worse than Kansas”—whatever
that
means.

I’m sure Jason doesn’t have any feelings for her, either. But probably the worst thing you can do is assume guilt and push him away without telling him why. If you have any doubts, talk to him. Figure out why it feels that way in reality or in perception. Has he really changed? Have you? Or are you simply still smarting from her insults? Try to take a step back from things. It’s very hard for us to give you advice from so far away, but we support you and love you, no matter what.

Love,

CeCi

I
mportant Fucking Correspondence from Snow B. White

Onyx Manor

West Road, Grimmland

Z,

You might want to make a note of this confession, because it will likely never happen again: I think I was wrong.

At first I thought our new pal Maro was all free spirit and traveler extraordinaire, just like me. But there’s definitely something else up with her. She has no destination beyond Grimmland, and she isn’t particularly eager to get back on the road, either. She’s nosy. And those terrible clogs she wears—what is she thinking? I’m not sure I like having her around, but I made fun of Rory for not being nice to her and now I have to try not to be a fucking hypocrite.

I asked the dwarves if there’d been any scuttlebutt about Maro’s husband, Prince Albert, or any recent news out of Swan Lake. Then they asked how many months it had been since I read the
Tattler
. They did not care when I told them I had far more important literature to consume of late. Anyway, they said Swan Lake’s palace had been in disarray even before Maro’s arrival—a spate of fake princesses trying to win the hand of the prince. Maro proved her pedigree by finding that preposterous pea in her bed. Word is she’s been high maintenance ever since.

There has to be more to the story, but you can only trust dwarves to investigate rumors so far. It’s why they love both mining and the
Tattler
—once they get to the shiny part, they get to quit digging.

What I need is Swan Lake’s finest source of gossip. Lucky for me, she happens to have been my bunkmate at Mary’s Little Lambs Sleepaway Camp. Not only is Odette a duchess, she’s also Prince Albert’s cousin. She’ll be sure to fill in the blanks.

I don’t have any more time to waste on Maro because I have a fucking wedding to plan. William is annoyed that I’ve asked
all
of the dwarves to be in the wedding party. CeCi says she wishes she could cater the wedding—in disguise, of course. (I told her absolutely not, never, ever, no. At least not until she knows how to make more than soufflés.) And Rory’s been missing in action.

I suppose Rory can be forgiven for wanting to hide after that whole pouring wine over Maro’s head debacle. CeCi wants to believe they’re even, but I say Maro had it coming with all that “intriguing kiss” nonsense.

Perhaps the most maddening development of late is that I’ve been informed that whatever punishment I choose for Valborg, it will need to be carried out on my wedding night.

Yes, you read that correctly. The Fairy Council expects me to execute my stepmother on what is supposed to be the happiest night of my life. I guess I should stop being hyperbolic because there’s no way it would have been the happiest night of my life even without the meting out of random justice. But still, a wedding reception is supposed to be a goddamned party.

It seems like everyone else’s Pages were a lot easier to finish. All of you got married, the end. No crime and punishment following your nuptials. There was the accidental mauling of Darling and Sweetie at CeCi’s wedding, but that was because Figgy lost control of her stupid birds, right?

I think about Rory’s Pages a lot. I mean, how do we know which parts are real and which parts Figgy added in? What if all this means nothing and all this pageantry—pretending I care what the rest of Grimmland thinks—is just for show? So what if I get lost Outside? Or in the Realm? (Sorry about the smear, there was a big gust of wind through the window and it blew your letter everywhere.)

Anyway, I’ve proved several times over that I am invincible. Just ask Valborg. You could also ask her simpering mirror, but I already smashed it to pieces and sold the remains to DJ for his new disco floor.

I know all of you think I’m angry and bitter, and you’re right, I am angry and bitter. But not because she tried to kill me. I feel sorry for her. Can you imagine the world being so small that it fits into one pathetic mirror? She doesn’t have any idea that there’s a whole universe out there beyond her skin—the Realm, Outside, and everything beyond that hasn’t been dreamed up yet. All she could see was herself.

We’re all at risk of becoming imprisoned within our own mirrors. By our expectations of ourselves. We are vain or unkempt, bitches or sycophants, mothers or monsters, queens or servants.

I have no interest in pretending I’m better than anyone else. Which is why if I had my way, I’d ship Valborg’s ass to the Snow Queen’s North Pole Psych Ward and be done with this silly vengeance bullshit.

When I think about you leaving and CeCi gathering the courage to follow her dream, I’m angry and bitter that I can’t do what I want to do. That there’s a whole world that defines me and tells stories about me and I am almost completely ignorant of what that world contains.

I’m angry and bitter that I’ve never looked into a mirror and seen my
real
self staring back. Ugly, pretty, young, old, poisoned, cured—it’s all meaningless until I figure out who I am or maybe who I want to become. Right now, I look in a mirror and I don’t see anyone of any fucking consequence at all.

I’m angry with the part of myself that believes I owe William for saving me. Bitter because he was so agreeable to the compromise I’ve asked of him. I resent these Pages of ours, and I resent the Humans for writing them and Figgy for shepherding them into our lives. This isn’t fair to any of us. I’m not in love with William, but in order to have a semblance of the life I want, we both have to carry on with this sham. I finish my Pages and William gets his father’s crown. We both win.

William knows that I want to travel and he’s told me it’s okay. Not sticking around to be a proper queen to help him rule feels like cheating, though my guilt is self-imposed. He lets me come and go as I please. He plays a mean game of rummy, and he stocks my office with good bourbon. He’s never chosen his parents’ side over mine. He lets me keep my father’s quarters preserved for his return. He laughs at my jokes. He listens to my opinions about the potential annexation of his lands and people west of Grimmland. This is as good as things get, right?

Right?

Speaking of my father, I need to find out where he is. All my letters have been returned unopened. None of the birds can find him. I know he’s been gone awhile—probably got caught up in some small village’s bleeding-heart activism, or maybe he fell in love again. His last letter is dated the day I woke up. He must have just missed me; he probably thought I’d be asleep for a while like Rory. I can’t blame him for taking one of his long, pensive jaunts, like the one he was on when Valborg came unhinged. But I want—no, need—him to be at the wedding. It’s all a part of being the best Bianca I can be under the circumstances, see?

Have you heard anything about him in or around Oz?

William says to let it be. He thinks my father is to blame for Valborg. But my father wasn’t there—and couldn’t have guessed what she’d turn into. Empathy, in this case, is impossible for Will. His family is completely normal.

Good Grimm, your postcards are tacky. How come you can’t send me some real letters? I hear you wrote CeCi a long letter. Then again, you also went to her wedding.

B